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An Inconvenient Parenting

Grappling hook enters—pulling,

Shredding thin, spread apart, contusion like-life, swollen, misapplied, scientific decay upon a bristling plot of never-land

 

Hope as drapery, decanters of double sec

Flying, sheets high, winds low, still capable of developing cogent rebuttals while facing the collusions of an undistinguished temperament and therein an under

Appreciated calamity is born from wounds untended

 

Soapy dishrag gets that odor when left out too long

And the stains won’t remove themselves and it is understood, that even as the smile purges Australian from above the slurring tongue, the cigarette dangles, still burning ash to lip…lip to linoleum

 

The screams from the pram apparently are much too inconvenient—an observation from behind the door curtain—

Thusly, the beginnings of speech are louder than the masquerades themselves—County services will render verdict

Soon, one would hope, that is, if the funding still applies.

 

***the other day I was out for a walk and I just kept seeing some terrible examples of parenting.  And while the images and description in this piece are not the exact things seen while on that walk, the observation that there are far too many unfit parents out there stuck with me.  And it also made me reflect upon just how fortunate I had it with, in my opinion, outstanding parents, and how I so wish these children and all those out there who don’t or didn’t have it as lucky as I did, would’ve had at least some semblance of proper care growing up.****

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Within A Field Of Dream

I need a dictionary of symbols

To understand just a layer of what

You reveal

 

It’s been so long, so very long

Since I tasted anything beyond water…

But with each gasp, of every breath you breathe to me,

I remember, I remember well,

Just how addictive sweetness can be…

And I fall asleep the victim,

To the timelessness such spells weave

 

When peering into your eyes,

Deep within that pond of cool

I wander aimlessly,

As those waves of blue transcend

All In life I’ve ever chose to endow…

And in this pool, all is right

Where I find myself praying,

To moon dust scattered by your lantern’s light…

Illuminating such a state,

One I’m quite sure I’ll never leave,

Where the mead’s a-ever flowing

And you’re forever etched to each my every beat

 

I’ve never been someone that’s good at games,

I couldn’t ever grasp the rules of simplicity

Nor had the patience for complex schemes,

But, if not for ignorance,

If that’s truly the play I’ve made,

I never would’ve had the chance to feel,

That up until now, my life’s been incomplete

 

Where all is right, perfection tethers to the eyes

Displaying incoherent visions

To any iris harbored safely to the port

 

The grass is grass. It smell’s as grass does,

It bristles as you walk and greens beneath the sun.

It is, as it is, but only when, I’m here alone with you,

In this field of dream, in such a space so present yet removed,

Not even time and its glass of hours,

Can pretend to try and scar this mood

 

Is A Spark-Plug Too Timid To Ever Be Tamed?

Sorrow is felt for the unmasked and

desolate like the winter that clings to

the hope of a late summer

 

Where the thread strings bare, lines

expose divulged infinities—protracted

endowments of curious fruit and bloated

realms within fragile casings

 

Persistence of knowledge, and it’s diligently uniformed

regalia, concentrate upon details and facts alone—prorating

discipline, like a tenderized justification born of tedious decrees =

 

Correct posture. A beckoning of the invertebrate—to

slither strong—amongst shattered glass and upon leaves

bled bare by the new moon’s rain, all while eclipsing shade

 

Solstice bourgeons vermillion sequestered from the untethered scars of a forgotten sacrament—it has yet to taste the tonsil’s groan; it whispers amongst the coagulation—only to bathe in the light of dreams

 

A focus group will someday encounter a mind it can

not dissect—for the knife will refuse to desecrate such

beautiful craftsmanship.

 

End?

Abstraction Of Infatuation (Paralytic)

The wrinkled tarmac dreams in satin.

It’s perfunctory locale serves as ammunition—

Motivation for scaling the throngs of peril—

Otherwise known as time.

 

Adrift upon wreathes of sand—

The dried eyes of tears stain the sundries

Breaking fast

 

Abridged patterns tread the veiled scape—

Bequeathing absolution while bludgeoning all

Indicators of who I am

 

Turnstile apothecary

Devising thirsting schemes

Blue, green, Lavender and Red

An arc of whispered runes

Outline the weathered face

You’ve often doted daily upon

 

Contrivances, stillborn in the comforting frame

That is, and has always been, you and you the same

 

I don’t know what you’re thinking,

Yet I’m thinking the same thing

 

When you’re near

And I am here,

I can’t help,

But be subdued

By the sludge within, coursing through

In which, all visions become similes

For my every sight of you

 

All thoughts are pliable,

Flexing for the call,

All movement is tense

Until you release me from it all

What Is Perceived As Failure May Simply Be The Seeds Of Prosperity Taking Root

Upon arrival we are blessed in tokens. Time commences, as frequently as a pausing gale. Engaging and transformative, dreams upend the tumultuous dishonors bestowed, like never-ending blankets placing their wretched warmth, upon, over and unto the flesh of the lost

 

Kindred spirits direct their energies out and into an atmosphere teeming with trials and tribulations. It is difficult. It is meant to be.  Keeping true to one’s beliefs, is the type of angst that is well alive, yet unknown by those wrapped in silk.

 

The offer of promise undoubtedly will appear like hope trapped beneath a flooding ballast, when some effigy wisps about, freeing encouragement to be understood by the ears of the forgotten, providing a message that stirs and swirls in gentle yet rapturous patterns of enigmatic wandering.

 

This epoch internal, if given over to, certainly shall reveal, that one pure moment of inspiration. And Within, here, truth most certainly breeds epiphany.

 

 

All things dead are once again alive, but sated we become, by interventions misunderstood.  With a newfound arc of possibility comes a stinging from life’s lash of apprehension.

 

And encased within each scar lives a gathering of the spectacular. A future recognition administered with sensations crafted by the sincerity of the divine.

 

Non-Fiction Journalist?

 

Storm-chaser

Bludgeoned by debris.

Karma or ironic disharmony

 

Will the weather change, will the winds die down,

Will the scourge repent, after the waves surround

Will the writer be spared, if only to tell others the tale?

Will the flood send you swimming, into the belly of a whale?

 

Ghost-hunter

Haunted to a fright

By the specters disbelieved within his sights

 

Will the supernatural have its way?

Can the hours stop simply because time is frayed?

Will the ghosts and demons spare your tears?

Can this ever end well; will this conclude as many others fear?

 

Non-Fiction Journalist

To what lengths will you go, to bring life to those words that would much rather remain unexposed?

 

Stories hunted for, stories claimed, in the name of future fame, looking for something, searching for gold, yet never realizing, that it’s often in the alchemy, that we become both villain and victim as other’s thumb the prose

Stillness Found Amongst The Carnage That Always Gives Freely

I am still. I am calm. I am saturated in blood.

It is my own.

 

I cross my legs, each interlocking at the other’s knee.  I beg for guidance. I cry to be set free. I feel the chains releasing, as nightmares convert to dream.

 

I set my sights upon the horizons deep within. I mouth the words I’ve just learned. It is a mantra for a higher calling, a truer reflection of the self inside.

 

The repetition transports me into another time and place. This new embodiment is devoid of space. It cares not for the failures of the flesh.  It demands nothing, nothing at all.

 

I am not who I’ve always been. Peace has quieted the strange voice-overs of the mind. I feel stronger and relieved.  Human constraints are folded over, irrelevant and cold.  Silence forgives what the skeleton emotes.

 

The body no longer guides the mind. I close my eyes, remaining open to all the meditation gives. I am solid. I am hollow.  I am sated. Yet I am as empty as the well. This is not a negative. This is the ultimate in availability. I am open to experience. I am receptive to it all.

 

I believe. I reflect. Time is invisible. Skin is temporary. Scars mean nothing to the soul. I am whole. I’ve found closure. I’ve discovered what I once believed. I’ve uncovered the freedom buried beneath the bone. This…this is all I’ve come to know and own.

 

As first formed this Fossilized Flexibility where ossein dares not grow.