Behind the gawking throng
Behind the skirts and shirts
And pocket books
Behind the cameras, neckties
Behind the finger pointers
Behind the railing, fence
Behind the iron bars
Behind the safari hats
Behind the long whiskers
Behind the resigned eyes
There the wild thing dies
20200127 https://dversepoets.com/2020/01/27/quadrille-96-wild-monday/
Already?
*sigh*
Ok, let’s go…
I am cast adrift from myself
Like looking at something with
Crossing eyes. the way
The image doubles, splits and slides apart.
The dock line slips into dark water
There is no returning to this mooring
B-oats
Without
R-oars
Cast:
Amaryllis
Harbinger
(Scene 1)
somewhat warmth
twilight lips sleep (under)
deep gravel sky
grapefruit scones-(clouds)
bedside cogitation:
darkness,
touch.
blood-percussion.
fervour!
20200108
based on the prompt at Poets and Storytellers United
this moment is every other moment,
every hemming and hawing and indecision.
But it is not between what is right and wrong,
though it’s ok if you think that (for now),
its between real and illusion,
between chocolate geld and real gold coin,
between who i want to be and who i actually am.
Is this what She meant by ‘action’?
20200104
oh dear
my lord
it seems
i’ve burnt
the soup.
i’ll eat
it anyway
and ill choke on that chicken
because thats what i do
but its ok, that road
leads there too
if noone will break me open
i’ll find a way to do it myself
but not that excusy way i used to do
beating myseLf up, that didn’t cut me
loose, only let me continue on…
these tears too are torn
each one is for you, my lord
the only thing that keeps
me from falling, is that fear
20191214
sundown at 4:25.
burnt pecan pie.
leftover turkey,
no stuffing, no gravy.
snowed all day, didn’t stick .
we are fat and round,
on couch, in down,
hot cocoa and butterscotch schnapps,
sweat pants and fuzzy socks.
waving spirit in pine
branches and christmas lights
20191202
for the prompt at dVerse
When I came screaming into the world, like so many of us, from the shock of it all, and they cut the cord connecting me to her, and bundled me off to a plastic bin with the others, little did I know how far they would go, how complete that separation would be, nor that one time she saw me, peering out from that hair, pouring such love over me, would have to last for forty seven years.
When I was king, and the usurper came and stole my throne, the strange conclusion that I had failed again, that I wasn’t good enough, insufficient, leaked it’s way into every facet of my young life. That’s when friends faded, surely driven away by this erroneous worthlessness.
The old wound not yet fully healed
There’s more to be endured
Before gratitude is revealed
29191125
https://dversepoets.com/2019/11/25/haibun-monday-11-24-19-gratitude/
