Is this what you, indeed, wish?
The feel of some bold mystic chaos
Contained within the fire of kisses
Traveling along the boundaries
Where lived an identity
You lost long ago—
To feel that chaotic fire
Burn away the identity
You wear today—
Feel passionate softness
Twist within and around
Leaving bruises unseen
And you undone
In twisting mystic
Chaos of fire.
Who is to say
From where her power came?
Did it flow from her silken curls?
Or her painted red lips?
Her white skin that glows like the fullest of full moons on a cloudless night?
There’s no way to know
From where her power came
To break through stone.
Have I seen Heaven in her eyes? You ask.
Can anyone see heaven in the eyes of another
Is what I must ask.
I have seen love, the soft one,
Take a seat and
Settle comfortably
In the eyes of others.
I have seen hatred, the snake,
Uncoil and dance,
Spitting venom at everything and everyone,
From the eyes of others.
Too often, I have seen death, the thief,
Steal all the treasures from the eyes
Of those I loved,
Leaving them hollow and emptied out.
I have seen other things
In the eyes of others
Along these long years
But heaven—
I don’t really think so.
I may be too old to see such a wonder
Or too young yet to know it
When I see it.
So, to answer,
I would have to say, no.
No, I have not seen
Heaven in her eyes.
Today’s prompt: Write a poem that uses the words “weary”, “nails”, and “mind control”
I weary.
Weary of the white noise
Spitting out layers
Striated stone
Of itching mind control,
Of mica and gypsum
Rough, itchy flakes
Others carved out for me
To keep me in what they
Saw as my place.
My nails worn down, bloody raw
To relieve the itch from time to time
The itch that speaks the words
I know are not true
But still have the power
Of stone to crush the ribs
Of my soul with the weight
Of their damnable tonnage
That I am not enough of anything
Not smart enough
Not pretty enough
Not thin enough
Not good enough
For anything or anyone
Yes, I know—
None of it is true—
The stone skin
I’ve worn down
Over all these years,
The itch rarely there.
But sometimes—
Sometimes—
The itch returns—
Vicious, relentless
Until my nails,
Bloody and raw,
Leave me weary.
Yet still,
Still, I now create
My own place.
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.
Into fall’s hands
Dreams of summer scatter
Chilled to death.
Fall strides to winter,
Claiming death of all living
Dreams rolled inward— green.
Winter sulks away
Spring green rising from within
Our winter hearts.
Spring arouses summer
Dreams awaken from a soul,
Heated imaginings.
Into fall’s hands
Summer leaps with all her dreams,
Scattered leaves to air.
Eugi’s Weekly Prompt “Night meets Day” August 17, 2020
What a sight the years have been!
Skipped a few heartbeats
walking through the valley,
found nothing new.
I sailed an ocean
didn’t dance as I’d wanted too.
In the desert,
I played a little poker,
winning the game, some money,
but still didn’t know what to do.
Then I thought I’d found a dream,
waking from the nightmare,
I screamed to see
the sight beside me.
Now, I journey onward
to catch the sunlight
as night meets day,
greeting what new sights
I encounter along the way.
Tuesday Writing Prompt Challenge–August 4, 2020
Beneath the surface of the night
Flailing fitful, restless
A dream slept wrapped
In a syllabic, heavy blanket,
Waking drenched in a sweat
Of moon touched light.
Upon this awakening,
Her shining skin did give
Away no secret of her wings or flight
Beneath the surface of the night.
In this stillness,
You appeared,
Laughing, smiling—
A twirling blur
In a fresh dawn.
In this stillness,
I wanted
To move
Into the light of dawn
With you.
In the stillness,
I struggled,
And discovered
I could only watch
Your light filled swirls–
For I was the stillness.
Faceless, nameless
Are the multitudes
Who still exist
Within the air
Of a past colliding
Upon your present.
Unpleasant for you,
I know, disruption
To the course of your
Day to day
Good morning harmony,
The dripping sugar whiteness
Of your “girl next door” hood.
You are not faceless.
You are not nameless.
Your language drips privileged
White pearls of empty empathy.
Turn your television off with white pride,
The faceless and the nameless
Will not apologize for the noose
You feel tightening around
Your Good Morning Positivity
As faced and named change comes
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