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Before morning, she wakes, adrift still in half-remembered dreams, dirtied by ghost footprints upon the waking to muddy tread marks ever present, no matter the hours spent in scrubbing— the marks indelible— tattoos of mud. Leave her to the simple tasks of morning, to her daily reckoning, preparations of covers and cases required, all the hiding away, layering as if for winter, this bandaging of tender spots.
shattered on the floor my favorite coffee mug nothing big, not much of a thing, just my favorite coffee mug-- sunshine yellow, with coffee beans, and a coffee spoon printed inside at the top along with a line from my favorite poem, “I have measured out my life in coffee spoons” yes, trite, you might say, emblazoned upon a coffee mug but still, yes, I loved the mug, love the poem. and there it was— shattered upon the floor there she stood, apologizing—ad nauseam— saying she’d buy another to replace it. But it was not to be found. Of course, the store didn’t have them anymore. The mug was the first broken thing. The first of a few, if it wasn’t liked, didn’t fit into the ideal of what could be forged of me if pinched in the grip of tongs and held in the fire long enough to be broken down to a molten, malleable state, pounded upon the anvil, shaped, dipped in water to sizzle cool enough to start the process over again— for easy fracture. Many things ended up broken, shelved, stored in closets— pictureless frames and frameless pictures, parts of me hidden away, never to be seen sitting on shelves in black closets— until I emerged chipped but no worse for wear unbroken into the light.
When the devils dwelling
within humanity’s heart
show themselves
through the horrors
of animals beaten, tortured
starved, or treated
with the willful disregard
of neglect–
I do rage,
wishing, at the very least,
for a razor sharpened
renegade tongue,
with which I could do damage–
wreak havoc,
slice and dice with it,
and after I’m done—
take all my slicing
and all my dicing
into arms strong enough
to carry the weight
of cruelty bled out,
drained of all its bloody
need to hurt, ignorant
of the suffering it has caused,
and toss it all into a funeral pyre
built to destroy all these
blood drained devils dwelling
within humanity’s heart.
Finally, finally leaving us to treat
ourselves,
other creatures,
our world
as if we truly do
have the souls
God has given us.
But it would take more, much more
than a razor sharpened tongue
to cut all the devils out.
so I turn my hands
to help, comfort,
aid as I can—
small drops,
yes, very small drops
to wash the darkness
of all the devils out.
When trying to respond to Eugenia’s prompt this week, this poem, which I posted a couple of years ago kept coming into my head, and no matter how I tried, it would not go away. In this reposting, it is my hope that it serves some purpose. Perhaps, someone will gather something from it.
A rabbit stilled,
Motionless, as if frozen
In the summer grass
Only her nose twitched, flared
The scent of wrongness–
A touch upon the air,
And she knew
Only flight carried safety
Flight, the right choice to make—
If she could only still move.
But she could stand only statue still
And standing so, the trap sprung
Steel teeth clamping down,
Slicing through skin,
Chewing through chunks of muscle
As she struggled,
Daring not to scream
As screams would bring the predators.
This she knew too well.
The trap now biting into bone,
Her struggles stopped.
Her panting calmed.
Her head rested upon the grass.
One eye looked to a cloudless sky.
She prayed for strength to chew
Through bone.
Accidently linked to Sundaymuse Please go to https://aikalandros.com/2021/08/02/the-vines-of-a-tiny-truth/
Staring deeper into the center of the pool,
The wisdom of a street wise Athena
Forgotten, ignored, stripped away,
She stood readied for the flow of molten metal
To form customized links of chain, binding forever
Spirit and soul into a trophy of destruction.
Thus, she stared even deeper,
Praying for escape,
As molten metal seared her wrists,
Her ankles, her soul,
Chaining her forever to the stone,
Making of her a possession, a trophy of destruction,
Displayed for an ego never sated.
Sit among the willows,
drifting in ghostly silence,
each wrapped comforted
by misery’s blanket.
Except I am no longer,
listening to words
carefully scripted,
tumbling into deceit’s
delicious dishes
easily prepared
by your thin lips mouthing words
filled with ghost meaning.
Regurgitated regrets
bitter in the soul and heart–
I can tell you that.
A thing you would not
ever know, catalyst of misery,
your starring role.
Except–
tell-tale signs of age
now crackle through songs of your
sweet, deceitful voice,
makes harder to catch
victims snared in misery
of life trials made.
Stop floating among
the willows, thinking yourself
Calypso casting
spells of delicious
deceit, when you’ve aged into
Macbeth’s witch drifting
in the ghostly fog of ego.
Lucidity picks at the chains wrapped round a soul
Anchored to the ground of fears bought whole
In the marketplace while traipsing through dreams
Resplendent with beauty and flights of fanciful imaginings
That harsh noisy words and bruising blows etched,
Tattooed lucid fears.
The impact of broken glass shards–
A mistake with need to drip blood.
Make a presence known of parts
Marred and greetings sent
For what they would take,
Staking once again the claim
To snatch away, drain
Blood from a soul
Needed to adorn
Her ego’s bleached crown,
A haystack of needles
Pricking the fingertips,
A crown of thorns in reverse,
She claims its softness for you.
This is the lesson of you,
Oh, the things you do teach–
Wearing your blue mantle
Lined in blackness
With your crooked fingers
Tipped in painted red do you reach
Ripping out hearts
Adding to a collection
You keep in a box.
Until the day of the dead,
When you light your fake fires
And scented candles,
Spread your blanket
For the time to admire
All hearts in the box of your collection,
Chant your incantations and prayers
To La Muerte for protection
From the evil you spread
And La Llorona for aid
Searching for the newest victim
From whom your red tipped claws long to rip a heart.
My scars flames–
The sides of my back,
pock marked brown
drying dark
if not daily oiled in
the red, orange, white
of flames,
trailing once welted scars,
faded, now barely.
if even seen–
Feathered flames
enabling flight,
if I should like,
or if I so prefer,
burning back past paths
behind so I may fly
to places I wish,
keeping promises
to my soul.
My scars flame–
Only I see
and only I know
the power contained
in my flaming scars.
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