Contemplating the Overhead

(Originally published in Sometimes, 2016)

Who has never stared at a ceiling,
stark and unobtrusive, high above.
Waiting on the examination table,
A pattern of plaster, geometric or concentric
or randomness in tile squares…
in the eye unique to the beholder:
Faces and road maps, decorative design..
Dozing off while waiting for
examination of unseen mysteries,
matters of distracted concern
existing anonymously within
a rounded belly, something enlarged,
a broken bone peeking shyly out
to see air and light… foreign and out-of-place.
To contemplate anomalies without purpose,
pictures not there—right before our eyes.
Improbable, impossible creatures,
staring down on the same…unknown,
unrecognized, without meaning…
open for inspection under the sheet
or the silly inadequate gown.
The very distraction of these glyphs
on the ceiling have reason after all—
to occupy and entertain
a mind with nothing else to do
but wait and wonder, as patterns emerge
a mundane excursion into the
feeling that this may be— The Truth After All…

© Sometimes, 2016

the dance of the miscreants, a fairy-tale?

… and all of the miscreants danced in a ring
singing and clapping and everything.

Chicken Little handed out cups with holes in the bottoms…
and urged everyone to please help themselves.

Uncle Paul smirked and grinned, and dreamed
when he slept, of clever tricks and double crosses.

Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum, sent out engraved linen notes
that read: “Be here or else—but mind what you say.”

The Ice Queen giggled and tried to look cool,
as she whispered to the boss “you’re starting to melt.”

The King beamed and preened to adoring crowds
who cheered as he told them: “You all are invisible to me!”

The Witch of the Beltway cackled with glee:
“Listen to me!   What do I say?  What do I mean?”

…and the Tall Man looked down on everyone
until he tripped and came crashing down…

Topsy Turvey turned and spun… telling tales and amazing everyone.
“Ask me no questions and I’ll tell you no lies.”

Mr. Dowdy Pudding frumped and preened,
beady eyes glistening with malice and mildew.

It’s all a cruel joke intended to wound—impossible tricks every day:
the Media chatters and makes up titillating tales.

The Wise Women lecture and try to make sense
while the Old White Men tell them “sit down and shut up.”

The Lawyers, in turn get their say…don’t let facts in the way!
Believe nothing you hear—nor even what you say!

…and all of the miscreants danced in a ring
singing and clapping and everything.

©Sometimes, 2017

 

clouds and memories, a poem

jet trails2

Draw me gently to your chest
my heart will linger there;
across the ages, along time’s trails,
the memories ever return.

Wait for me!—oh, wait for me!
the plaintive echo pleads.
When least expected, awakening
to memories in words of a poem.

Oh tell me—where do they dwell?
Among the dreams and reveries
apart from the wrack of reality
forever a blend of torture and joy.

©Sometimes, 2017

to die in satin…reposted entry from 2016

This poem I wrote last year seems an appropriate companion with one I published this morning.  I love Wordles, and MLMM always is one of my favorite sites.   Thanks again MLMM!

This is a Wordle for Special Edition “Touch” MindLoveMisery’sMenagerie, August 29, 2016 Challenge.   https://mindlovemiserysmenagerie.wordpress.com/2016/08/29/wordle-special-addition-touch-august-29th-2016/#respond
This is not my usual fare, but here is the short vignette that I wrote using many, if not all, of the Wordle words given for the challenge.

to die in Satin…

Feverish now, thrashing among sodden sheets
grown bristly and coarse, soaked with salty tears
in a tangible horror of torturous linen…
no smoothing touch of pumice could relieve,
to sharply barbed cloth…once satiny to the touch…
The dying man’s angular body wracked with agony,
viscous sweat turning waxy his once swarthy skin
as rigidity overcame and replaced malleability.
“Oh!  Let me die!” he entreated those who
could do nothing else.

©Sometimes, 2016

a penny’s worth of death, a poem MindLoveMisery’s Wordle # 166

 

Here is my Wordle, using the dozen words provided in the  MindLoveMisery’s  excerise published June 17, 2015.

 

a penny worth of death

A gun, dark and dreadful,
cold steel caressing the unwilling hand
seductive music of silence and pain…
among bloody ravages of the plague
as dancing creatures
defy the promise of the Tarot foretelling the kiss
that comes forth—
levitating, tentatively echoing
the sparking retort of the pistol’s release
of a penny’s worth of death.

©Sometimes, 2017

Alone…by poet Samartha Ingle, re-blogged from her site

Today’s re-blog is this charming and meaningful work by poet Samartha Ingle. Thanks, Samartha.

Samartha Ingle

In love, at peace. 
Is it wrong to want alone. 
To not miss and not be missed. 
To want nothing and no one more.

Liar people say, liar maybe.

Refusing to acknowledge
this internal commotion
leads to dry eyes,
as dry as the ocean.

Liar you say, liar maybe.

At times it gets lonely,
at times of peace.
My heart for this,
my soul for this.

Liar they say, liar maybe.

Childhood heart didn’t
crave it as much.
Pushed in it still, 
circumstances and such.

Liar again ? liar maybe.

In love with the word,
at peace with the world.
Alone, though never lonely.

Liar ! liar indeed.

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The Pen…by poet Charles Yonkings

The Pen

There is a bang
as the gavel
strikes the bench.
My mind unravels
from the sentence
that is imposed
Just another case closed
and life as I know it ends…
Ten years thrice to
serve in the pen.

But then
I pick up my pen
and start to live again.
With each stroke of  ink
I transcend
my transgressions,
release
my repressions.
And for the first time
I am truly free
because of the pen.

©Charles Yonkings,2016

A Parallax of Thoughts, re-blogged from poet Amit Rahman.

Amit Rahman has published this thoughtful and pensive poem. His excellent blog has a new header picture…and interesting theme.  I like it a lot. Thanks for the re-blog, Amit!

Poems

O Butterfly, flap not your wings in Africa!
Each time you do a violent storm rips me apart,
though my love is not like the madness of oil’s price,
moved up and down by the pride of Caligula
and nor am I the Emperor, O silent Sky!
    

I was not born a thousand years ago, neither
would I live to see a thousand Springs come and go.
I wonder, had Nero known he would soon be dead,
would he still be playing on! Perhaps now we shall know
from the man with a caterpillar on his head!
   

But the Sky remains mostly as silent as God
and everywhere the mob drowns all innocence.
Despite the loud thunders, raindrops fall on the sea.
I smell the desert wind then a storm rips through me!

.


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Extradition…by poet Charles Yonkings

Extradition

Click go the cuffs
clamped on wrists,
rubbed raw
from the irons’
cold embrace.
Legs shackled,
chained at the ankles,
Crammed
in a cargo van
Filled
with fellow fugitives
on a journey
across country
to fulfill fate’s wishes
and the desire of destiny.

©Charles Yonkings, 2016

Illusions…

Politicians
the greatest magicians
Grandmasters in linguistics.
Perform tricknowledge techniques
create laws perceived
so many ways.

A chess game played with precision.
The goal check mate
corner the king.
divide the family structure
by any means.
Entrap entrepreneurs
eager to eat
trying to reach
Maslow’s hierarchy of needs.

Throwing stones at the penitentiary.
Filing for evidentiary
hearings.
The only thing suppressed
the ring
of freedom.

They claim equality
for all men.
In actuality they meant
just them.
At the time of writing
A country divided
built on the backs of men.
Owned
by the authors
steadily filling their coffers.
Ingraining an industry
thriving for centuries
in the minds of the masses.
Without it our nation crashes.

Flashes
of blue and red
shined by the white
placing stars in a box
jammed tight.
Click the lock,
toss the key.

Land of the free
enterprise
Right before your eyes,
Freedom’s
reflection
flashes
…just an illusion.

©Charles Yonkings, 2016

Gall-and-Wormwood: MindLoveMisery’s Wordle#143.

Here’s a Wordle that I’ve been working on.   I like these prompt-forms so much that I write them down in my notebook and work on them when so inclined.    Here’s one I worked on for a long time but haven’t gotten it published on my blog.     The twelve words given are: apple, frigid, pain,  gall-and-wormwood (deep resentment,) dive, cinch, halfway, grime, wind, vintage, pause, and Palinoia ( compulsive repetition of an act until it is performed perfectly.)

Vintage memories pause halfway
on the stalled turntable of
Palinoia’s imaginary grime…
brought on through “gall and wormwood”
that eats my craw and forces me
to dive into the frigid apple wine
that dulls the pain and
quiets the howl of the wind.

(©Sometimes, 2017)

I like to use the Wordle words for poems, although any literary form is acceptable.  Wordles are great fun, and anyone is welcome to join in.    Yves Morrow, the owner of the blog always welcomes contributors to his various and daily prompts…or any visitors, there is some really excellent material found here.     https://mindlovemiserysmenagerie.wordpress.com/

There was a greenhouse…

There was a greenhouse across the road
yesterday…
today it is gone
devoured by a hungry back-hoe
and maybe a bulldozer

There was a greenhouse across the road
for years,
its always been there
in my recollection
and for long, long years past

There was a greenhouse across the road
which provided a home
for flowers without number
lighted, and heated
to foster life and procreation

There was a greenhouse across the road
that just last autumn
was bustling and singing
with joyful voices and brilliant colors
as plants moved on to new gardens

There is no longer a greenhouse across the road
the metal and glass and plastic
are gone away, and perhaps
soon will be forgotten
except for a few sad reminders.

© Sometimes, 2017

Death is late…Re-blogged from writer George Agak’s site, Sliver of Darkness.

I am very touched by this excellent poem by George Agak.      His work is very graphic, and grabs ahold of the reader and doesn’t let go.       It is an accomplishment to achieve such a deeply emotional work of writing, and as you folks know, I am not subject to being moved by hyperbole….so I appreciate what I may call beauty-in-horror.      It is a sad fact that this kind of terrible scenario exists in our modern world.       Thanks for letting me re-blog, George!

 

Sliver of Darkness

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I will write a letter and toss it in the wind
Or strip your hammock and toss in the river
I might be dead when they reach you
Nothing has changed
Yet nothing has remained the same
The gods have been vexed
All this time they’ve held rain

Grass still grows
Watered by endless flow of blood
The valley has changed its appeal
The shades we once rested under
Now home rotting humans
And vultures feast
The freedom fighters have fought the system
Then rebelled against their prior motives
They kill anything in human gait

But still….
The government lives
Not counting the ones lost
They fly outside to drink and dine
Because this nation is rotten
Their appetite might wane

When they took you, bro,
I couldn’t fight them
That’s cowardice I know
But death isn’t for the brave either

Bro, this nation is rich
You could have seen…

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breathing in…and out

[Here is a poem that I think my readers will like.   Very appropriate to Spring, I think.]

breathing in,
oxygen I consume
which loving plants exude
breathing out,
carbon dioxide sent
for loving plants to use

and so we dance
to the delight
of the sun giving life
from all of its radiant rays
we give and we take
each and every day

the purpose of our existence
is reliance and assistance
to and from all that is around us
in this beauty that surrounds us
we are not alone
but all one
parts of the total sum

and if we wish to remain
from our harmful actions we must refrain
contemplate and reflect
all of the effects
and their cause
not one immune to natural law

so please take heed
using only what u need
leaving very little waste
mindful of every step you take
and the foot prints left in their wake

 

©Max’sMaxims, (Sometimes, 2017)