The Mantel Cracked

Ψ

A timber house built by a calloused hand

The numb hand that built the stone hearth

The foundation of both laid on uneven ground

By a hand too tempted  by haste to mind

Too few nails joining plank to beam

Nor enough mortar to bed stone

Too much need makes way for mindless haste

Always the less in building the less in standing

The hand no more careless than its mind

A mind lost in need unaware of spirit

Spiritless homestead where children dare be born

In a home that has need yet not time

No time for nurturing by the light of the hearth

Soulless fire giving no warmth yet stoking want

A fireplace lacking the ability to feed the souls

of the family starving within the uneven home

Leaving only ghosts who wanted for so much

That the Mantel cracked beneath the load

Ψ

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Ungreateful tied hands

Δ

How tranquil the painter upon the hill

Backdrop of Mountains overlooking ocean

Such gifts he is given

–

Standing in tall grass where tall trees once stood

I need to create but this canvass is not mine

These tools are forced on me by bigger people

The frame is cheap pine and weak joined

The canvass unevenly stretched with too little gesso

Two colors on a plastic pallet

One brush

What joy if there is no freedom

So I paint a cave within a Mountain cove

A place to hide

A place to hibernate

–

…and the painter is gone

Δ

Systolic Light

Θ

At rest ◊ No activity ◊ Asleep

Mundane

Conserving energy ◊ Memory off ◊ Disconnected

Empty

-The Flat Line between Beats-

Pulses of energy

Compelling movement

With a drum roll of heartbeats

Generating

Coursing visuals

Dictating pen

Leather bound Tablet

Creating

Hamilcar’s Javelin

Thrown into the void

Sparking upon impact

Illumination

Balance & Peace

Θ

Treeline

Θ

On the Path

the trail ends

no more steps

On the Mountain

−

Trekking up the Mountain

my mountain

The Path will eventually end

my path

The time comes

my time

To carve new steps

my steps

Or

End all progression

my end

Stand still treelike

my stillness

Cast a shadow down the Mountain

my shadow

Hiding the paths of the journey

my hiding

from the Sun

−

It’s the Treeline

It’s why so many Great Mountains

Are bare at the Summit

Θ

Dante’s Tours

◊

Welcome to Life

Where the lucky

Are hurt young

And the unfortunate

Die numb

Have a seat

It’ll take you through

I’ll start you as a child

Warm & new

You will

live

love

hurt

and die

Make people happy

Or ruin their lives

I promise you’ll like it

And the price is fair

Pay me anyway you like

For I haven’t a care

The rules can change

Though without notice

You can bet anything

That’ll teach you what hope is

◊

Plea before the Bench

◊

Ahhhhh…

Blank page

Before my eyes again

Challenger of my Soul

Is it you that guides me

Towards fate

Will you be my judge

In the end

Sarcasm    Dreams

Hate    Love

Apathy    Religion

Drool    Wisdom

Upon your skin

I testify

Of these things

I am guilty

Who I am

and what I’ve done

For good

And the bad

Whether you acquit me

Or condemn

I thank you

Though not for your verdict

As much as you presence

You dear page

Who bears my weight

When I cannot

◊

Stalked by Anger

◊

Climbing a mountain high

Loose stones fall

In the bright blinding Sun

The stones become hot

Dust and sharp fragments

Choke     Bruise     Distract

Uncertain of footing

I  wander from the path

To a most familiar predator

On this ground I am prey

My heart begins to race

As it crawls near

My eyes wrestle it’s silhouette

From behind splintered stone

A face so vermin like

With red matted hair

Like a chameleon

In it’s holocaustic terrain

A living sore

In a blasted volcanic world

Infinitesimal

But sensing my awareness

Our roles then reverse

It cannot strike fear

Into what it cannot surprise

And in the light of day

It’s smallness is laughable

I look it in the eye

Show that I’m not afraid

I’m not so lost

That I cannot find my path

Yet spitting acidic vitriol

That stains then burns

Attacking in it’s retreat

Scurrying back into hiding

I cup the wound and rinse it

In clear cool water

Only a momentary flinch

Leaving not even a mark

I have avoided it’s bite

And weathered the poison

Looking over my shoulder

I see back to my path

The creature and I

Will soon dance again

For it ever tracts me

Always in my shadow

◊

Rustling Autumn Leaves

◊

Woods     Forest     Deep

Moving fast quiet

Instinct to survive

Running through understory

Hidden from above

Alone fighting selection

Must be superior

Combat the environment

Self and nature

Claw     Bite     Flee

Day to day

Granted ever nothing

Nothing ever given

Get through today

Live for tomorrow

Eat     Seek     Breed

Not just inches

Take only yards

Never question why

Accept only how

◊

Writing

◊

A passion fueled by prey

An attempt at survival

Lurking midnight mists

Congeal into the shaggy form

Of a hungry mind

This hunting twilight beast

At first an unnerving presence

Then

A weighted force

Rending flesh

Bleeding ink

◊

Price of Pride

◊

Calling my bluff

That moment of fear

I use an adding machine

To tally the pain

I

Put on the robe

& Light the candle

Stand on the alter

& Spread the shroud

Insert the dagger

& Burn the Heart

My heart, my alter, me

Always

Always

◊

Cold Stone

◊

Walls need not close in

When they block all doors

Defending a fortress

Or haunting a tomb

Lightless and alone

◊

Staircase of Gauntlets

◊

Set the expression

Raise the lance

Cross the line of burning fuses

Strife

The cost of Will

Dominated by none

◊

What’s in my bookbag, Meme.

Hey Y’all. Hawk tagged me with the reading meme so here it is…

Rules:

1. Pick up the nearest book of at least 123 pages.
2. Open the book to page 123.
3. Find the fifth sentence.
4. Post the next three sentences.
5. Tag five people.

The book – Collected Poems of Robert Service. Closest? I had to walk upstairs to get it. It was, however, on the top of the stack of books on the coffee table. Good enough? I hope so. Ok then page 123, let’s see here. A poem named “The Man from Eldorado”. Alright then sentences six through eight, ah, here goes…

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

They rattle over roof and wall; they scatter, roll and spread;

The dust is like a shower of golden rain.

The guests a moment stand aghast, then grovel on the floor;

They fight, and snarl, and claw, like beasts of prey;

And then, as everybody grabbed and everybody swore,

The man from Eldorado slipped away.

V

He’s the man from Eldorado, and they found him stiff and dead,

Half covered by the freezing ooze and dirt.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Unfortunately the poetry does not transfer well when one catches it mid stream. The meter and rhyme are completely lost. At least I can read it from beginning to end. Which I recommend be done with all of Roberts works.

I’m not tagging anyone as usual since, as usual, everyone’s already been tagged. However, if you come across this and have not been tagged yet; you are now!

Where I am

At a place

The place of effort

Effort for the family

The family of many hands

Many hands that pound the stone

The stone that crumbles to dust

Dust mixed with water

The water to make mortar

Mortar that fills the spaces

The spaces between the bricks

Bricks that become the wall

The wall of the house

House of the family

The family

That makes a home

The Scorpions Sting

A man

Who never acknowledges insults

That they may fade

Powerless

Yet before leaving

They sting him

With venom that burns

Leaving always a scar

The Soul can not mend

His reaction always aggressive

But he is civilized

He can not say a discouraging word

So his pride he must swallow

Again

Again

Until intoxicated

With doubt

I am Undone

I am empty

My spirit is hibernating

I have stopped responding

No color

No black

No white

Obscured shades of grey

The Stone foundation cracks

Then turns to sand

The tower falters

I watch blankly

At the impending fall

I feel no remorse

I feel nothing

 

My flower has dried and fallen

Unfertilized seeds

Are taken by the wind

The stalk turns brown

Then to dust

My life ebbs back into the bulb

Underground

Still and lifeless

Depression

Pouring

Pouring rain

Rain on the streets

The streets of my mind

My mind drained of its Soul

Its Soul that never sleeps

Never sleeps in the dark

The dark that shrouds the life

The life that stalks wisdom

Stalks wisdom

Like Prey

Praying I might feed the hunger

The hunger of fear

Fear that pours on me

Pours on me like rain

The Kitchen

An antique is
Old
UselessAnd showy
Serving no purpose
That is my aunt’s kitchen

Cooking here is minimal
But style is at a maximum
Old oak floors
And a tin ceiling hung with fans

Antique glass on each cupboard
Displays urns of hand dried
Noodles and herbs
Like a mausoleum

All of which clashes with the
Stainless steel
Digital
LED display
Of the most modern
Double oven

Framed in worm bored antique wood paneling

We are visiting, my wife and I
I am talking with my aunt
My wife goes to the kitchen
Looking for something to drink

She finds the fridge in a recessed corner
It is an old fridge
My aunt thinks it’s ugly
She hides it

My wife opens it
She does not see drinks
She does not see food
Only condiments
Ketchup can make anything taste good

What once was food is now
A governmental experiment
Wrapped in cellophane
Green, red, & brown
Frigid, toxic rainbow

Ten minutes later
My wife hands me my coat
Her stern eyes glare into mine
She says
“It’s time to go”

 

MISS HARLEY QUINN’S
Take on Her Kitchen
________________________

An Antique is
Old
Lovely
And full of memories
This is my kitchen

Cooking here is a constant
Style a vain hope
New sticky tab tile flooring
And an old ceiling with flourescent lighting.

A 23rd coat of paint on each cupboard
Keeping safe hand picked herbs
Like a magician’s hat

All of which comes together with
witch dolls on high
cats on counters
candles that flicker

If you were to visit, your wife and you
You’d have no room to gather or stand

If your wife went to the ever so small kitchen
Looking for something to drink

She coudn’t help but find the fridge
I think it serves its purpose
And it can’t hide

If your wife opened it
She would see drinks
She would see food
And condiments
Feta and truffle oil make everything grand

The food thats there,
made with love and care
Is kept in lead free containers just waiting to be enjoyed

Yummy, savory, a culinary rainbow.

10 minutes later
Your wife hands you her coat and says,
“Please hang this up…we’re staying to sup.”

This is my kitchen. 🙂