The Rock

                                                      

There lies before me

A great boulder

I stumble upon

Blemished  yet smooth

Primed and ready

For me to take the fall

This meandering obstacle

Bold and obtrusive

Lewdly it awaits

As I plunge and purge forth

Blinded by misdirected zeal and passion

Rebellious and undeserving

I placate

Appreciate the chill

Of the soft smooth surface

The cold against my cheek

I weep

And clasp the crevices

Pondering the purpose of this slab

In  my path

I waver

Succumbing to the hunger

And tears.

Remedy

The haunted mausoleum

Where prayers are numb

That's exactly what it reminds me of...

The damp dark-lit place

We traipse to every Wednesday night

Hobos and seekers alike

Grimace through the halls

This time

Tie dye clown colors

Splattered and wearing nary  a sheepish grin

Rather a desolate heart-sick cry

I drop her there

To share the secrets

Of a thousand walls

Where a thousand lives went before

If you listen carefully

You hear the voices

And see the doe eyes

Of wanton bodies

Shrieking before

Yearning for someone to give them a glance

Just a chance

As they continue to grapple with their world

Lips locked in secret silent solitude. 

Crippling Composition

Life is hard sometimes

It just is

When you get behind the glitz and glam

You realize it

Complicated and rambling

Pieces of a jigsaw puzzle

All mixed up and scattered

One corner trying to fit into another

A jumbled cardboard pathetic mess

Frayed edges and subdued colors

In a hue that doesn't make sense.

Aren't you glad that you are not the one

Who is called upon to make reason of the shades?

Tumbling and frantic

Sorting trying

Trying so desperately to put the portions

Back together

Transforming them into a formation

Of matter

Which matters.

On days like this I'm glad I'm not the

Head Chef

The Judge

That I don't foresee

A representation of the future

What I can do is tenderly sigh

Knowing a hand is at work

Not mine

Putting the formats into array

And sequence.

Orchestration production

And melodrama at its best.

Unknown

The elusive trees speak to me

Under the black ice.

Strictly forbidden

Do not enter.

Do not pass go.

I dare not venture

Out into the  evasive forest

The land of the desolate .

An ostrich speaks.

Buries his head in the fast fallen snow

Frozen

Unable to immerse

Drowning in its sorrow.

Pure helplessness

As she trots down slippery slopes

Not trudging

But slickly sleeting

And speeding

Into the snare

Human lust

And control.

Unable to regard

Or behold

The branch above

Ready to pounce

And slice through

Cutting the skin.

Dare not tread tomorrow.

Laundromat

                                                                                                            

Yellowed limestone cracked tile tinged with yesterday’s mildew.

Cramped sweaty waiting for monotony to begin.

The sound of coins crashing,

Agitation rotating out of control.

Throbbing and thrashing against the revolve.

Voyeur mind wandering tomorrow’s prospects.

A hint of seduction, the mind pants…breathless.

In an attempt to sit surreptitiously among the onlookers.

Nondescript nonverbal body craving for but a glimpse.

To envision prominent pinnacle amid the heights of attraction.

Sweet, sinister fraudulent conversation.

A gentle laugh, a flowing of the limbs,

As banter embraces the moment.

Snow Globe

Deception, Distortion

Conceptions alike

The Fun House Mirror

Glares at me

But I refuse

To fall into its perception.

A sphere of myths

The bitter gall

Is tasted in my mouth.

Feet planted firmly

I press forward

Unwilling to believe

To perceive.

If one could learn from the stallions...

Enfold life with innocence and hope

Unemcumbered

Refuse to throw the Cinderella Ball

Abandoned

And let it come tumbling

Down the stairs

The glass shards a paradox

Of delusive crystals.

I want to believe in the delicacy beyond

To preside once more

The quiet sprinkling

Of a soft shimmer

A whisper of harmonic refrains

Supple to the soul.

                                                

Cantina

Ahh the sweet smell of salsa!                             

A dark room of forlorn smiles.

Women lost in a world of confusion.

Embracing a celebration.

Yet  enamored by the glimpse of another.

A kind one reaching out.

To bridge the gap of a young lady.

A melodic gentlemen.

Sharing his heart if just for a moment. 

Hidden in a napkin the depths of her soul.

He shows interest in what will never be. 

She seduces.

Deducts without reasoning this road will not travel.

Sounds of Latino music fill the air.

Chatter of the present. Heartaches and hopes.

Subtle smooth flowing. Quiet din in the air.

Dark tables, hands touch.  Warm fingers.  Caress the soul.

Memories of another time, another place.

Such contrast. Such similarity. 

Held fondly.  Never spoken.  Never shared.

A number secluded in the past of the road less traveled.

Forever in the clasp of her hand.

Snuggies and X-Crossed Oranges

Attempting to pacify

With  Snuggies

And X-Crossed Oranges

Fluffer-  Nutters and Apricot Jam

The heart of gold which glistens

Finds no one really listens.

What does it matter?

How shall it matter?

Does it matter?

While he is ready to fly out

To sunny vale

Over hill and dale

Her heart gently weeps

Longing for the day, the morn, when it is just a morn

With brilliant sunrise and no surprise

No mad dash off to school

 And primping and pawing

Grimacing and yawing.

As she wipes her furrowed brow

And yells "Not now!'

Temples pounding.

She is reminded that there will come a day

When the walls are quiet

And the silent sound

Is deafening.

Conceivably she'll curl up in an

Ages -past snuggie.

And peel her orange

But before she pares

She'll look for the locus where "x" marks the spot

And find it no longer remains.

So alone in her kitchen

She'll take a scalpel and tenderly pierce the rind

Bringing healing to her pain.

TIGHTROPE

The connoisseur, the juggler                             

The madam and monsieur

Finest of strayed tightropes

Across the thermosphere

From one side to another

Only to make it part way

When the searing begins

The grasping and clasping

Holding on for dear life

The frays and the sways

Bouncing to and fro'

A few bruises

Cracked ribs

The dry tongue at the palette of the mouth

Attempting to find some bit of moisture

As it crashes

No trampoline in sight!

Cracked asphalt instead

Falling, Falling!

Nightmares increase

Screaming and shrieking out

For some sort of release!

A gentle dove hallucinatory

Gathers wholly from above

To soften the blow

Feather-like clouds

A Gasp

A Clasp

Come to a screeching halt

Head found soft upon the pillow

"Another Day,  Another Dollar"

Another Balancing Act!

The Author's Voice February 2011

I thought it fitting to include an imagery of snow...mounds and mounds of snow, since we in the mid-west have been pummeled lately.  As I have said before... winter brings about great creativity in writing.  Thanks to all of you who have chosen to follow.  When I first started this blog it was more or less a way of expressing  passion, and quite honestly the strange thoughts that seem to encompass at times. I never expected to have so many followers this soon, but I am delighted!  Poetry bloggers are devoted followers.  We glean so much wealth from one another.  In examining my writing I have observed that I write mostly lyrical prose.  You might see my styles change from time to time, as I attempt to stretch myself into new horizons.  I find that using imagery is helpful to interpret more meaning.  For each of you who have encouraged me on this writing journey, my fondest thanks.  My blog has become great therapy.  I cherish your comments and what each of you bring to the table. And for now I wish a tremendous winter thaw....

    

I often picture my grandpa's barn.

Although I have never seen him...

I imagine a field of magenta grain

On an eerie moonlit night.

Shards of glass reflecting the sky.

Sharp and piercing,

As if he were grimacing and mocking, looking upon.

Envisioning a red lit room
A madam's parlor hidden in the glow

And all the women he captured in the meadow.

Lurk about somewhere in the midst

Hidden  below.

If I listen carefully I hear their shrill cries

Beyond the bridge  

What happened in this barn I may never ponder.

But I'll cling on to the neon signs that linger.

 Posted for One Stop Poetry: Sunday

photo by:Sean McCormick you can see more of his work at 
One Stop Poetry

The Fountain

It drains and it drains...                                                                

And it flows and it flows...

The mouth imperceptibly protruding

Opening nowhere and yet everywhere.

The streams overflow

And splash and crash

Dropping ambitiously and generously on the next onlooker's skin.

Beads of droplets and mildew staining

What appears to be the unidentifiable layer

Not to be touched

Not to be dared

Epidermis and all.

What waters creak from this fountain?

Elusive and caring

The grays, the marbles, the silhouettes

Gaunt and disturbed

Shall be quenched

By the Everlasting Thirst.

HOPE

I speak as to the vulnerability of woman                     

A gentle embracing fragrance

Encapsulating the parts of mankind

And antiquity.

Wisdom finds itself among the captured, the hurt, the priceless.

Encircling universal

Her gentle touch

A whisper in the wind brings her to her knees,

And she finds herself among common people, the babies,  the toddlers, the forlorn.

Wind-swept and kept

She struggles to  maintain, to keep up the pace, to fight noises of the night

Which awaken.

If she could only learn to embrace the bellowing, the howling and speak

Find the voice within which calls her to these palaces and shanties.

The walls of gentle and crumbling brick

Yet a fortress withstands, withholds and welcomes

All who are willing.

To  take their place among the peoples

Realizing that she is not only woman, she is part of mankind

Which goes beyond gender

The rulings, the manifestos

Creeds of the ages

Each has heard the cries that concern.

Reaching out to touch those who no longer want to be touched.

But rather want to listen to the soft mellow beckoning of the wind

Embrace its folds and retreat into a surrender

Not to listen, to ignore, not ponder

There must be something more...

Hope Springs Life Eternal

Unbroken

She emerges from the tepid waters and corals

Soft sultry and sudden

Barefoot

Sun -swept

Kissed tears

Brought to her by an angry moon

A forgotten lullaby

Tired haggard and worn

Lines appearing

She looks to the sun to brighten

Forging a way to warmer hues

Palm trees swaying

by bronzed toes

The embrace of a midnight lover

Soft swanky wet kisses

Pressed lightly about

Fantasizing about another night

Bringing out quiet sensations

Titillating sunrises

Gyrating moons

She bends

And doesn't break

A bittersweet transparent  butterfly.