Today’s prompt comes from Joshua Gray.
Here’s Joshua’s prompt: Write a poem that scares you. It could be a scary movie or ghost story poem. It could be a poem about a secret in your past. It could be a poem about your worst fear. It just needs to bring up a scary/fearful/uncomfortable emotion as you write.
Robert’s attempt at a scary poem:
“Attack of the Critics”
They descended upon the restaurants first
critiquing each soup and dessert. Waiters
ran for cover before they bum-rushed all
the theaters. From Shakespeare to Miller,
directors quaked with fear. And then, they
turned their attention to books, movies,
even television shows. Nothing was safe.
The critics became mothers, husbands,
and teachers. The critics criticized other
critics. Eventually, everything became
a critique of a critique of a critique.
*****
Thanks to Joshua for the prompt. Click here to learn more about him.
If you’d like to share a prompt, send me an e-mail at robert.brewer@fwmedia.com with the subject line: November Prompt. There are still slots available.
As far as the commenting, I realize many people are having trouble getting their comments to post the first (or twentieth) time. I apologize for this problem, and our tech team is aware of it. However, I think we’ve always had commenting problems during challenges–even on other blog platforms. So yeah, I’m extremely sorry if you’re having problems. Even if you can’t comment during the month, you are allowed to submit a chapbook manuscript for that part of the challenge (just in case you’re wondering).
*****
Follow me on Twitter @robertleebrewer
*****
…with the Publish Your Poetry kit. This kit includes the 2013 Poet’s Market, How Do I Publish My Poetry pdf, and Poetry – Formatting & Submitting Your Manuscript pdf.
The SIDS Tango
by Juanita Lewison-Snyder
For weeks now
she has sat in the dark keeping watch,
fearing yet another to be taken away
before parenthood has a chance to vine
and grow petals for good this time –
that dangerous age between birth and a year.
Ten perfect fingers
ten perfect toes
a tiny cherubic face matched only by
a precious mop of golden curls.
However, this time
she is ready for the gauntlet
down the Valley of Death
with round-the-clock nurses
armed with the latest technology,
twin power grandmothers, and most especially
an anxiety-ridden stay-at-home-husband
ready to fall on his sword if need be.
House blessings and Majick aside,
she leaves nothing to chance.
You must understand
that lives touched by Sudden Infant Death Syndrome
are hollow and haunted at best.
Years later she can still remember
the suckle and smell of each one,
as well as the echoes each passing left.
Pain and Guilt, Loss and Grief
all have to embrace it,
process it, then like Moses
set the basket among the river reeds
and just let go.
But not today –
today she must armor up for the gauntlet.
© 2012 by Juanita Lewison-Snyder
scary moments
last week
I watched Poltergeist on Halloween
that classic scary movie
from the 80s
with the pre-paranormal-esque
somewhat believable
story line
about houses built
on top of the graves
of long lost relatives
who returned to haunt the present
the shady real estate brokers
and the revenge of the underdog
a throwback of memories
considering the recession
houses in foreclosure
families in disarray
estate sales
and somehow trendsetters
manage to make downsizing
to apartment living
chic and cool again
scary movies
morphing into real life
make zombies and serial killers
look like kindergarten
c) Kellea Tibbs and march thirty one, 2012. All Rights Reserved. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of original march thirty one material without express and written permission from the author and/or owner is strictly prohibited.
I love poems that tell a story….this one with just the right amount of fear and intrepidation. Kudos, well done!
And the chain links clinking on their “leashes”, not leases. = (
Missing
Flash lights like hungry eyes searching
Licking every inch of ground,
Sticks swaying through the fields,
Probing at each foot fall
Dogs panting, nose to the ground
Boots swishing through the tall grass,
And the chain links clinking on their leases
Accompany the sound of tense breathing
With a deafening jingling,
They shout his name,
Chests squeezing tighter
Each time there’s no answer
He’s only three,
And they’ve already found
His mother.
Wow, this is haunting. It’s great, sad topic, but so vivid.
http://wordrustling.wordpress.com/2012/11/06/day-three-scary-a-haiku/
try three
okay try two still trying to pen a dream but each time I tried I got a robo call so this came out instead:
Election Day Blues
Every evening blinking
Lights on the answering machine.
Each
Call shilling points of view.
Tonight 14.
I shudder and hit delete.
Only time wins in bone election runes.
Night after night call after call.
Daring to hope this call will take me
Away only to hear
Yet another shrill spitter saying elect me.
Buy me, buy this lie.
Lie building on lie
Until you hide from
Even more politics, and they
Say Halloween is scary?
This is great. And I was starting to feel the same way about the robo calls on my machine especially from the candidate that I didn’t plan to vote for. So glad it’s all over. LOL
Unattended.
That’s what the newspaper will read.
It’s not enough that the tears just
find themselves drifting down her cheeks.
Unattended.
Her movements aren’t hers anymore.
Her breaths are just as shallow
as the grave she has to dig.
It was a sunny day.
Zoo.
Talk about unattended.
He just wanted to see the dogs closer.
Unattended.
She sits in her rocking chair,
staring out the window
where the sill is just as wide
as the railing.
He’d sat there before.
He’d sat there hundreds of times before
while she read books
upon books.
He laughed more then.
Unattended.
He fell from the railing.
Plain and simple.
There’s no way to dress it up all
pretty and bright.
No one to catch him.
No one to hold him.
No one to give him wings.
Unattended.
She sits.
She rocks.
“Chained Throne” (Kyrielle poem)
Fear’s unrelenting grip stifles
Each step forward into unknown
Loss, failure, rejection and pain
Life held captive on a chained throne
Resisting potential, waiting
Scared hope fades, a song without tone
Longing to dance on the trapeze
Life held captive on a chained throne
Youd Original Face
What if it is horrible? What
if, when you look, without
thinking of good or evil,
when you picture who you
were before your parents
were even born, before they
laid their damages on your
chest like stones upon a door,
you find that you were already
a monster? What will you do
if the face staring back at you
is already slick with anger
and twisted, so you cannot
even blame them for your
broken ribs?
A COMMON THREAD?
She has no fear
Speaking her truths to those in pain
Reaching inward for words to help, not harm
She has no need to
Play the naked game to find
Courage to speak before a crowd
She delegates with ease
Even to the abrasive
She embraces the parenthetical
Sees nuances in all
Loves unconditionally
But trembles at best
Refuses at worst
To walk into room of strangers
To play the socialization game
And reverts to third person to share this truth….
Never Alone
In this realm
Of unnatural darkness,
Caution is demanded.
I know I am not alone.
I hear footsteps,
Perhaps a spectral silhouette
Wandering
In search of retribution
For the sins of the past,
Unseen voices
Swirling around me
In guttural whispers,
The frigid breath
Of undetected demons
Chilling my bones.
I see eyes glowing
In the pitch black,
Always watching me,
A solitary soul
Caught in evil’s sight.
WILL I SEE YOU
(c) – G. Smith
————————————
Will I see you,
On that one fine morn,
When we all fly away,
When Gabriel blows his horn?
Will I see you,
When they count the heavenly host?
That’s the one thing in this old world,
That truly scares me the most.
Will I see you,
When I walk those golden streets?
Will I see you?
It will make my joy complete.
Will I see you,
As we gather ’round the throne?
What scares me the most is that
You’ll be left alone.
Did I do all should?
Did I do enough?
Did I do all I could,
To show His grace and His love?
Will I see you,
When we meet Him in the air?
Will I see you?
That’s my hope and my prayer.
Will I see you?
It’s not for me to say,
And that’s what scares me most
Almost every single day.
Gladiator
Twelve days before
we went to Italy, my father died
at a restaurant.
He’d felt good that day.
We thought the procedure
to free up a heart valve
from the scar tissue jamming it,
had been a perfect success.
Blood was flowing
where needed, rich,
and his heart had remained
in rhythm. He’d lost
that sickly white pallor
of anemia. He was pink.
He went to the register.
He pulled out his wallet.
He fell flat out onto to the floor. Three nurses,
who were eating there too, ran up
to help. An ambulance was called.
But he was taken too quickly.
We all spoke at the funeral.
He’d been
a soldier, a priest;
a generous warrior
of faith and reason.
I read a poem,
that I’d read to him only
a short week before,
as he lay in a hospital bed.
It was about
how life
can become a prayer.
I told the crowd
of family and friends
how he’d inspired me
with his love
of discovery; how his eyes
would light up
and his voice would betray
true delight
when he talked of the genius
of Van Gogh;
or the things we could learn
from isolated clumps
of aborigines;
or how it was that
Einstein
could balance the clock-
work of everything
on the frailest edges of thought.
But there was more: He knew
that most of us do
whatever we do. Because we feel
we have to. We are
who we are. We act as we act.
We fear what we fear. We hate
what we hate. And yes,
we love
who and what we love;
but all within self-imposed
boundaries.
Then there are those
whose lives are beacons
beyond the borders of self. My father
was a man like that.
So we went to Italy anyway,
I swore I would do
something in his honor:
I gave coins to some beggars; I lit
a candle one morning in a church:
Santa Maria degli Angeli;
I said a prayer from the top
of the dome on St. Peter’s.
But when I stood on the deck
of the Colosseum,
and pondered the legions
of gladiators and Christians,
cut down by sword,
mauled by tigers,
drug to their deaths
by chariot,
I knew that this arena
was one of piercing symmetry
- nearly redeemed
by the beauty of its rings
and arches, rising
from a bedrock of death -
but more by its fight to become
a greater symbol of spirit.
It did not seem strange,
no, not in the least,
to say goodbye to him here.
This is a lovely tribute.
fear
when scramble
comes up against wrath
an eternal swelling, a shore
charming the depths
of tumultuous tangles
searching for the key
of upbeat in the sea of rotten
before reason flees
enabling insane a toehold
swallow the fear
A Nigthmare
I lie awake at night
Alone, frightened
Every sound magnified in my mind
Why did I watch that movie?
Dogs barking in the distance
Growling, yelping
Who is out there lurking in the darkness
Looking for another life to end?
Unknown shadows outside my window
Looming, stalking
Tapping on the glass behind the curtain
Is the latch on the window locked?
Every minute seems like hours
Crawling, stalling
As if time had no reason to move
Will this breath be my last?
I know that somewhere deep in me
A Poet just might hide in thee
But a poem a day though frightens me
Deadlines create such animosity
Between the writer and poet whom hide in me
Ten pages alone for this P. A. D three
It frightens the bee-gibe’s right out of me
Now time to edit and cut this and that
And create another work of art
But prose of Mellifluous my poems are not
What Scares Me
Not werewolves or vampires,
ghosts or shambling mummies.
or even Frankenstein’s monster.
What scares me is that more people seem
to believe we’ll have a zombie apocalypse
then believe in global warming.
If you watched the superstorm forming
on all that TV weather radar
and especially, if you lived through it,
how could you not be scared?
A zombie can be taken out with a shot
to the head. But how can we take down
this other monster, very real,
getting more ferocious by the day?
Who’s Afraid of Dying
I died once.
Blood pressure 0 over 0.
It was pleasant.
A velvet curtain
envelopes you
and closes worry
pain and fear.
Dying is easy.
What really scares
me is living.
Big Brother
“I’m your big brother”, he boasted
marveling at the tight clasp of diminutive
fist squeezing his single finger.
I’ll always protect you”, his pledge,
whispered into tiny ear, and year after year
that promise unbroken.
Fearless in the face of nightmares,
monsters in the dark, playground bullies,
false friends, heartbreaks, illnesses, lost love.
Persisting today, tired eyes telegraphing courage,
sparking strength, seeking to ease the fear
that this day might be his last.
On a Cooling November Evening
Friday evening I walked towards my crimson door,
key flanked between my sleepy index finger
and thumb. I was anxious to feel my household’s
welcome with intermingling silence and Luke’s
woof. I would bathe away deadlines that pressed
against my temple, shoulders and neck. Rrrrng.
Papi’s number appeared on my cell phone. As
usual, Mami’s voice on the other end. “Hola”
“Are you still at the office, hija?” “No, Mami,
I’m about to walk inside the house.”
“Your father.”
“He’s been having chest pains again.”
Office politics scattered like thieves
whose getaway vehicle is the same dark
night that falls upon good people
afraid of the road they cannot see.
Wow, this was a hard prompt. My poem is terribly raw, but I wanted to get it posted. Needs a ton of work, sorry.
Song of the Sorrowing Stroke
My father sat down at his job.
He felt the stroke in his brain
and he knew he’d need help
to stand up again. He called out
to his line mate, he called ‘Joe,’
but his lips and tongue failed.
Joe heard my father sing
like Bing Crosby: “Buh, buh, buh -”
and he laughed, because his buddy
often joked around or sang. “Hey, Johnny,
get up and sing your ass over here,”
Joe called. “It ain’t break time yet.”
He turned back to his work. “Slacker.”
And many precious minutes ran by before
anyone saw the trouble Johnny was in.
For seven years my father crooned
the song of the sorrowing stroke.
He fought to live with joy:
he limped and laughed and loved
but the song was all the voice he had.
With each fallen dream,
I am scared to try again,
Scared to find the pain;
My heart is full of scars,
How to reach for the stars?
Each time I fail to fly,
I fail a dream in her eyes,
yet I don’t pay the price;
as far as they now seem,
how long flies this dream?
how far does hope gleam?
(I know I’m late, but didn’t want to make it never)
Teachers
That one would waste time
with issues so trivial
such as straps on a top
baffles my mind
That one would see
a child’s innocent hug
as something so wrong
gives no comfort to me
That one would be trusted
to guide my child’s future
when her own is in doubt
makes me a bit disgusted
Some are good I agree
they nurture and cherish
they’re loving and warm
Some are scary
so cold and distant
removed from emotions
Guide them
love them
teach them
that is your job.
[14th posting attempt]
It’s bad enough
Not recognizing the words spoken by inanimate objects
Signs everywhere, forms, printed stuff
I see them where most people don’t
They pay attention to what they know
Batteries, toothpaste, and the bottoms of coffee mugs
I can live with people knowing, they all do
I can’t hide the revealed
I can’t stuff my cat back in his bag
What bothers me though, what I avoid
Why I stay away from people who want to help me
Is whenever I try to say the words
When I try to make my mouth work like those letters
When I try so very hard to make myself look like anyone else
I sound like a fool, a retard, a loser
so many beautiful poems. I’ll do my best and try and comment below each, whenever not possible, I’ll visit blogs. Now, a bit late (as usual in the weekend with me) here is my poem:
***
What is that coldness I feel?
Is it the frost outside?
Or the empty empire of anger,
tapping bony fingers
to get access and reap
what is left inside?
***
Danny
In the first video,
Danny’s track suit was disheveled
dirty and has face was beaten.
Despite the bruiser and the black eye
he was still the gawky charming
guy I knew from college.
His pregnant wife was
watching the unscreened last
video, in which they made him say
“I am a Jew” before they slit his throat.
Later, the authorities who recovered his
body said the knife had scraped his backbone.
It scares me that they
could kill a man who had an
impish crooked smile,
long fingers for his violin,
a man who loved the corners
of humanity, curious and unafraid -
the kind of man it seems likely
that my son will become.
This is so scaring. Normally I switch to another channel when television confronts me with this kind of reality – but here I stayed with your poem and read it a couple times and not only do you succeed in following the lead – you also manage to take me back to the days of Daniel Pearl.
Thank you Ina!
I still miss him. He was a good friend.
Harem Scarem
On those mornings when I have a bit of
trouble with my hair, and I am fussing
and complaining and am completely un-
happy, those are the mornings when my big
paluka of a husband will stroll to
the bathroom mirror, slap his (bald) head, and
shriek, “It’s Gone! All gone!!”
It had not
taken form
and remained
a threat
without outline
in thin light
between night
and dawn.
Some sensed
it, an off scent
in the air
an odd buzz
in the near
silence
and their efforts
to reason
with their pounding
hearts were
driving them
mad. It was
not easy
as once
it had been
and something
undeniable
was coming
slowly
closer.
How Fear Functions at My House
Oto-laryn-gol-ogist
Cripes can hardly spell it
Thumb through Yellow Pages filled with doodles
Before resorting to Google
Dr. Ogden…Dr. Nash…Dr. Isabel…
Here’s one I know rather well.
Hello, I’d like an appoint—
Oh, those answering machines, nose outta joint
I’d leave a message, but there wasn’t any beep
at the end of the greeting, no, not a peep
Now my husband stands in front of me, red faced
What’s he lost this time or misplaced?
His mouth moves, his lips waggle
I suspect he’s trying to haggle
What? What? Speak louder, I can’t hear you
A near-by otolaryngologist? I’ve no clue
Hanging from it’s silvery thread
It softly sways above my head
Slowly dropping from it’s web
It fills my body full of dread.
Little spider, you scare me so
I’m sure that you don’t mean to though
I hope that you won’t be my foe
But do implore that you should go
I know you’re only catching flies
I’ve seen this with my own two eyes
But surely you must realize
That you and are not allies
Friends I know we’ll never be
It creates too much anxiety
So you be you, and I’ll be me
Just go away and set me free
Zombie Raccoons
Driving home after midnight, I see them.
Rising from storm sewers, blue eyes blazing,
They shamble down back alleys and prowl curbsides,
Overwhelming garbage cans and feasting on rubbish.
Beware the attack of the Zombie Raccoons.
Not sure I got this exactly, but I tried… http://hopefuljo.wordpress.com/2012/11/03/365-creativity-project-day-299/
Whispers
Asleep, you hold my heart, my life in every breath you breathe.
The sounds of darkness outside that window keep me from sleep.
When will you ever see the real me?
Awake, you push me away, my hopes my dreams out of reach.
The emptiness echoes through this lonely house.
Deep inside, the part of me you don’t know cries.
Once, your gentle whispers were mistaken for love.
A passion that faded with the sparkle in your eye.
All I wanted was you, all you wanted was something else.
Yesterday, there was bliss in my ignorance.
The bitter truth, staring me down in that mirror today.
Whispers for some else, softly, gently trailing in the distance.
Just a bit of fun with this personal phobia.
Instability
They wobbles and sway;
Thought others swear they stay
Right in their place
And never do an about face,
But I always believe
Something you conceive
As safe may be lulling
One vulnerable to falling
Into a false sense of security,
Given no physical surety,
When balance issues distort
And dizziness does cavort
To make me shaky and fearful or
Trepidatious and tearful.
Ladders, stairs and bleachers are banes
When issues of height do refrain.
(My goal this month is to use all song or film titles as titles/inspiration … Call it my “challenge inside the challenge”)
“Hazy shade of winter”
He makes them with his hands.
He shapes them and shames them,
drizzles them with water that cleaves
to their boneless frames.
He makes them watch.
Watch as he builds them up
and knocks them down.
Watch as he forms them
where the shadow meets the sun.
Come noontime tomorrow
they will be gone. Nobody knows.
But they have known
the workings of his hands.
A great bit of inspiration, Khara. I did that a few years ago for the November Challenge using Beatles song titles. I ‘m still finishing the catalog with the albums as chapters. Good work, Professor!
Choice No More
These next steps,
Adolescence at my back,
Set the course for my future,
But looking further,
No more than bare eyes allow,
There is a path,
Deterministic,
Already worn
With the footfalls and dreams-
To heavy a burden
for the journey ahead-
Of the many before me,
Who gave in too early,
And the ashes of those
Who never gave in at all.
What of choice lies ahead
When the end comes,
Swiftly or slowly,
With the same regrets,
And without hope.
Show Time
I always wanted to watch
the shows with my siblings.
Rod would take us
to another dimension.
Boris promised a
Thriller each week.
Alfred said,
“Good evening,”
and his attempt to frighten
went off with out a hitch.
When the shows were over,
I was glad I shared a room
with my sister.
YOU DON’T SCARE ME…MUCH!
The Grim Reaper is in the rear view
as this year speeds toward another end.
And if Nostradamus’ words are true,
disaster awaits around the bend.
I don’t obsess over Madame Fates’ touch,
I laugh awkwardly and say “You don’t scare me…much!”
And when I hear, “You don’t scare me…much”
I think I’m missing the whole view.
My knees knock – my hands quake and a touch
of sweat comes weeping through. It never ends,
my machismo melts and I feel like I have the “bends”.
Decompression will not do, suck it up and burst on through.
I won’t say nothing fazes me; I can get spooked it’s true,
there’s not a lot that scares me…much,
but I have noticed certain trends.
A penthouse with a vertigo view?
A swarm of birds that never ends?
A cadaver with an ice cold touch
all have their ways to stir my nerves (especially the ice cold touch).
I suppose we all have our foibles, so true
and my nervousness might meet its end.
But that’s not the thing that scares me…much,
when I face my fears and bring them into view,
their hold o’er me will break, not bend.
So I’ll be hell bent
…on deflecting Freddie Kreuger’s touch,
… veer my eye from a treacherous view,
Macabre tales that are not true
certainly don’t scare me…much,
but I’ll hold my breath right to the end.
So listen, heed my story friend,
and send your worries ‘round the bend.
Do not let things to scare you… much,
Handle life with a caring touch.
Trust in your reality; it’s true.
And keep those terrors out of view.
For in the final view, at the very end,
if you bend this statement to make it true
you’ll never fear the reaper’s touch… much!
SCARY REALITY
(a shadorma)
“I’m afraid,”
she whispers into
the darkness–
that deep pit
of depression that has sucked
far too many years.
2012-11-03
P. Wanken
OH. So simple and so clear.
This is my demon…
Stage Fright
(Cascade)
My body betrays me, I forget the words.
I’m booed and bottled off the stage.
My 9-to-5 is all that’s left.
I tell myself: You’re a darn good poet!
Once up on stage, wouldn’t you know it?
My body betrays me, I forget the words.
I bow my head in utter defeat.
Rotten tomatoes land at my feet.
I’m booed and bottled off the stage.
My courage armor now wearing thin.
The stench of failure slowly creeps in.
My 9-to-5 is all that’s left.
Revised…
Stage Fright
(Cascade)
My body betrays me, I forget the words.
I’m booed and bottled off the stage.
My 9-to-5 is all that’s left.
I tell myself: You’re a darn good poet!
Once up on stage, wouldn’t you know it?
My body betrays me, I forget the words.
I bow my head in utter defeat.
Rotten tomatoes land at my feet.
I’m booed and bottled off the stage.
My courage armor now wearing thin.
The stench of failure slowly seeps in.
My 9-to-5 is all that’s left.
For some reason, I had trouble with this one. Ugh.
Yours are all so scary! Good work, everyone!
http://whatnotshop.blogspot.com/2012/11/old-school.html
Old School
Scary thing was the teacher
wore a tight bun every day and had
the class chomp octopus, charged one
girl with planting tacks on her chair
while the guilty party snickered
in the back of the room.
Scary thing was the flowery fragrance
she doused herself with before entering
room and rules of foreign language,
scary she held a stick in her hand
and wasn’t afraid to use it
on hands of the half-grown.
Scariest of all was when pupils
were freed from her clutches
at the end of the year, not one
could recall what they had been
taught, scary teacher’s ways forever
imprinted in their heads instead.
What is it pulls folk
toward the things that are scary,
haunted, daft, gory?
Poetic Asides November Challenge – Day 3
Write a poem that scares you
Issues of Control
How much of your life
can you truly control?
There are no pills
to swallow,
no needles
filled with sera,
no psychiatrists
with all the answers
no cures
for every disease.
Try to slow my race car
mind, take the speed
down, so that I will not
smack into
unseen maladies,
thought catastrophes
that may or may not
wait down roads
of sabotage.
At times the terrors
taunt me, making me unable
to enjoy now, revel
in those pleasantries
I can control.
What scares me is watching her “In the Eye”
http://writingonthesun.wordpress.com/2012/11/03/in-the-eye/
Chiller
One day, I will solidify like butter;
it will be, at last, too late to change.
I will be kept in a refrigerated room,
behind glass. Tour groups will come
to look at me; I will be an example of
poor diet, inactivity. The wages of sin.
Children who beg for corn dogs will be
asked, Do you want to be like the
Butter Lady? No one will know that
my ears still work, and my brain,
which will strain through creamy
sludge to instruct rigid limbs
to punch, kick, smash the glass,
let the warm, kind air come in.
HAHAHAA!! love this.
Thank you! I’m a few months shy of 40 and recently started a new exercise regimen because there were times when I visualized that my blood was taking on the consistency of butter. So this poem has that one very tiny grain of truth.
Sesquipedalophobia
Heck, there is nothing scarier;
yeah, nothing makes me warier
than finding words which are too long.
Dear Lexicon – they don’t belong!
‘Unintelligibility’
I don’t get it. Hostility!
‘Though wordies glance at me sidelong,
Dear Lexicon – they don’t belong!
‘Verisimilitudinous’
A word to throw beneath the bus!
Syllabics should not string along.
Dear Lexicon – they don’t belong!
‘Pluridifferentiated’
is a term that should be hated,
feared and well, it’s just categorematically wrong!
Dear Lexicon – they don’t belong!
###
LOL. This is awesome.
Lost
These dark days called living,
forlorn inside a vascular
apocalypse.
These dark days of splintered words
battered, torn thoughts and ripped limbs
left for dead.
These dark days are no stroke of luck –
None such.
These dark days there’s no caress –
Not much.
No, not this one, this stroke strikes
your senses numb.
Light lacks brightness -
Touch has lost its feel, and you’re
locked-in here forever,
deep in echoes of pitched silence.
Lost inside your head.
“Neighborhood watch”
So far it’s always been a cat
when I snap shaken from deep dream
rasping the question, “What was that?”
and the motion detector’s beam
has triggered the lights at the gate.
At the last ring of the gate chime
I sigh, “Damn cats,” and tuck back in
looking for the onramp to dream,
but it’s hijacked. This is Richmond
with its distant pops of report,
echoes of gun punctuation
after the whistle of night freight.
Town statistics have struck again.
Next day the email tree lights up.
What is it going to be this time?
We’re on a good black. We’re all right,
but damn city cats stir the nights.
Day 3: Fear
“Misunderstanding”
The sky darkens, hot rain falls
It’s dark out, but there’s nowhere to hide
Oceans boil and forests burn
Noxious air permeates
Rotting flesh poisons
It’s too late for a sinner’s prayer
The master clock has ticked its last tock
The heavens split and we fall to the ground
I thought I wouldn’t be here, to hear that trumpet sound
A Rush of Blood
A sound in the night …
you awake
your heart is pounding
you listen
barely breathing
you wait
A sound in the night…
Did a door just close?
to hear
you cock your head
your heart
picks up the tempo
you watch
Did a door just close?
Footsteps are coming closer.
oh my God
you are going to die
eyes close
eyes pop back open
covers clutched
Footsteps are coming closer.
A sound in the night,
footsteps coming closer…
a door closes.
Yikes! Got me going with the scary feelings! Nice work.
Because she had dreamed
that she’d die in a car crash,
she always wore a seatbelt,
long before it was the law,
in the ’65 Plymouth wagon,
her mother at the wheel,
driving the back roads
of the Connecticut seaside town
where there weren’t sidewalks
or bicyclists, just smooth pavement
between the trees.
One year, she taught herself French
and read Sartre and wrote
poems by hand in pencil;
and that summer they drove to Maine,
a long trip up the turnpike,
stopping once for ice cream
before the road narrowed
at the ocean’s edge,
with turns and ledges
which caused her to close her eyes,
imagining the fall,
loosening the belt,
the water rising over.
Scary! You really got me too, i was getting lulled into the story of her life and then all the sudden–ACK!
Wow! Love this one!!
FEAR
Butterflies in my stomach, shakiness in my knees
Heart pounding in my chest, my fists in a tight squeeze
A cottonmouth flooding with words that seem to freeze
Adrenaline rushing through my veins and arteries
Fear of losing control, fear of impending doom
Fear of heights, fear of spaces with no wiggle room
Fear of white coats and medicine I must consume
Fear of death, fear of being buried in a tomb
Panic during the day light, terrors in the night
I must not flee but stand up to my fears and fight
If I combat fears, win the war against my fright
I know that once again my life will be all right
What Time Takes
I’ve already seen some fears realized—
loss of memory, of self,
disease robbing a body of futures, of peace, of joy,
the ends of lines, the absence of home,
possibility jerked away like a bauble,
love frittered away like spare change.
I know already searching and not finding,
loneliness that has a body of its own,
grinding pain that nothing relieves,
sleeplessness so numbing that death is appealing,
betrayal, heart-hurt, intentional meanness,
the devastation left in the wake of cruelty.
I don’t fear your death or my own—
that too is inevitable and heart-breaking.
Storms, floods, mudslides, fires, long falls,
crashes, cancers, bites, stings, and maulings
jar my mind, knowing they exist in the world.
I don’t want them, but I don’t fear them.
Crazy violent people have great scare potential,
the ones who won’t respond to pie and coffee
or conversations or kindness, who look at me
and see another victim or number.
Such a one can hurt me and I know it.
I don’t think about it.
But more and more, I’m afraid of time,
that its passage will erode my being—
my courage, conviction, love, faith and hope,
that time will pass unused and unnoticed,
no meaning made, no joy revealed,
no words discovered to describe it.
I care no more for heaven or hell
than for place names on some ancient map,
but more and more, I fear wasting life,
that one day I’ll realize I am ungrateful
for even the worst things that are mine,
that time has taken everything but
living in vain.
Your last stanza is incredible. It’s even beautiful. Thank you.
This is a powerful poem to me, Jane. Wow…
UNGROUNDED
and I’m trying to touch the ground but I can’t
touch the ground and there’s a space I cannot
breach it’s just air but I can’t quite seem to reach
and I’m afraid to go out of the house will I just
f l o a t a w a y with only sky overhead
you were my gravity
hmm. i see the posting gremlin has messed with my spacing. f l o a t i n g a w a y was more widely spread.
(Prompt:write of something Fearful. Man’s Inhumanity to Man? Brandon and Conner, age 2 and 4, died because of this. Their “would-be rescuer” was interviewed today. He stated he was not properly dressed to go out in the storm that night!)
“A Ballad for Brandon and Conner”
The raging wind had damned her home that night.
She must take steps to save her children, too.
She quickly gathers up her boys with fright
and stumbles out her door; what can she do?
A dang’rous drive; she seeks a shelter strong
but then, headlong, the car falls in a ditch.
She clings to branch of fallen tree ‘ere long
and clings to children then, the wind would pitch!
She bangs upon his door and cries with fear!
The wind has eaten up her darling boys.
She cries for him inside who will not hear;
this hardened heart of man who gives no joy.
How could I help, said he, “I had no shoes.
She was to blame; it was her choice to choose!”
Great. i’ve just finished reading all the poems, and now i have several more fears in my brain….
I feel you
They really never told you.
You never knew when you were young.
That this day when you grow up is the day when little by little the angel in you diminishes and so the demon in you emerges.
They never told you the mistakes you will make you will never be able to erase
It’s permanent. It’s done and no eraser will make it undone.
They never told you, the smile; how often you draw it is how often you will win.
You learn about the screams. You learn about the tears.
This is how you will get mommy’s hug.
This how you will get your stuff.
I know. I know. At first, it was a bluff.
Then it gets tough.
You learn to scream alone. You learn to tone it down and the tears will remain only your own.
How awful you will feel? You are the victim of self.
The more gloom and doom, that’s the clarity of life.
That’s what you think. That’s what they said. That’s what they keep saying.
“Welcome to the real world”, a greeting you will get.
They never taught about the laugh, the half arched smile on your face; how powerful it is.
They never taught us how to make the whole world a different round.
Until it’s late, then we start to learn and sometimes we don’t even learn how to turn it around.
How to make the angel in us emerges and the demon diminishes?
They never taught us.
WATER WINGS.
I’d like to think I’m merely practical and that
it’s wise to wear a Flotation Device when
in a boat that is sitting on a large body
of water that wants to pull me
down grab me with its
slimy fingers and
Y A N K me
to the
b
o
t
t
o
m
Day 3
Prompt: Scared emotions
Conclusion
I breathe my last.
Time ends.
I have not done all I could.
I have not used up my gifts.
I have not given all myself
to Him and to people.
I have not fought my best the good fight,
not finished the race.
I will kneel, ashamed, before Him.
This scares me,
but does it scare me enough
to incite change?
Oh boy, this is a familiar thought to me. Sigh. Well said.
These poems are haunting. I feel challenged to come up with my own sacredness.
*scaredness–was this Freudian? Lol.
Hmmmmm………
thin mist
counting the hours
until dawn
Collateral Damages
Objectives unilateral
with damages collateral.
This scares me. Where’s our voice, our soul?
Reduced to numbers. No control.
What scares me is a shortage of
compassion, caring, kindness, love.
Rhetorical? Then what’s our role?
Reduced to numbers. No control.
I lie awake in bed at night.
Too many things now give me fright.
The kids, the house, a long lost goal.
Reduced to numbers. No control.
The talking heads, the polls, the news
just seem to obfuscate, confuse.
We tumble down some endless hole.
Reduced to numbers. No control.
###
Back Seat
Jump into the back seat.
You’re going for a ride.
Trust in us to take you anywhere.
Don’t buckle up, no need,
now, there’s no place to hide.
Don’t look to close, no watching, please don’t stare.
Riding in the back seat
with no driver at the wheel,
I wonder where this car is gonna go.
Hanging on to nothing
as they beg, borrow and steal,
shut up, sit back, relax, enjoy the show.
By Michael Grove
Event Horizon
I’ll call it what it is: a tomb
where no sun rises, six feet below
the wind and weeds, boxed
in the weight of earth
and still alive enough to cry.
Two days down and what I’d do
to taste your light,
to paint your surface again
like a French impressionist, to
sense anything but dirt
and all the roots wrapped
around the reaper’s stale breath.
What I’d do to claw through
the tomb’s pine,
to deep-breathe a promise
of another blue sky,
or even a cloud of remorse.
Rick, that is very frightening, indeed and I never think of such possibility, just for pure fright!
Nightmare
There is an unknowable
darkness that I met long
ago, and it keeps me
imprisoned. I reached,
desperately reached
for that brink of sanity.
Maybe I wanted it too
much. In a place where
light eases away on a
hopeless whisper, on
hundreds of legs that rasp
like serpentine scales
across the space where
my thoughts flicker and
blank out, silenced . . .
at least I know this terror,
its contours, the feel
of it around me. If,
somehow, I find a way
out, find the freedom that
the rest of me longs for,
will I be able to feel again?
Covered Up
The notion of a conspiracy
conceived, implemented and
covered up by a government
of the people, by the people,
and against the people
is a very scary proposition.
It is frightening to witness
the transition from
a constitutional republic
to a socialist dictatorship.
We will not discuss the manner
in which we gather intelligence.
By Michael Grove
A Dream
It always starts with me and my Chevy,
On the freeway, doing the speed limit
Her radio’s playing that song I love,
Puffy clouds float in baby-blue sky,
And, I’m singing at the top of my lungs.
I feel my Chevy start up the ramp,
You know, that bridge that connects
The 210 to the 118 near Sylmar;
That one-fourth of a four-leaf clover bridge,
And, I’m thinking about what to fix for dinner.
I wait for the centrifugal force that lets me know
Me and my Chevy are making that curve, but
Suddenly, without impact, we’ve gone through
The guardrail and we’re airborne, flying,
And I can’t get my breath.
I scream without sound as me and my Chevy
Feel the pull of gravity, thinking
I didn’t know this transition bridge was so high,
And, what will my kids do without me,
And, I wake up crying.
Watch out for:
http://whimsygizmo.wordpress.com/2012/11/03/the-real-boogiemen/
Fear (Day 3 – Scary)
Slow
heavy
footsteps thud
only to fade
as I turn, then flow
to echo in each still
stark and silent alleyway,
until dawn’s rosy glow creeps to
disperse, release my fear of darkest
night and the unreal footsteps of strangers
Afraid
A black cat sleeps at my head
I could grout a cobblestone road with broken mirrors
and I could ruin a hundred stews with my spilled salt
lottery tickets laugh off their silver when they see me,
and bald, have the impudence to say win, win. Win. I hope
to use up my days’ bad luck under the sun. Because
when night comes and the moon only contends with
the reflected headlights of cars to light your sleeping
I watch you, afraid this long rest between two deeply
sleeping breaths will continue into eternity and I want
to tie you here with silver chains and lock them link
and link and link with jade charms, blessed fetishes,
prayers, and love. And if, unlucky as I am, and Death
comes equipped with bolt cutters, I will bet my own life,
on his choice of card or coin to keep you one more night.
Finale
Then say a prayer for what has gone before
The swiftest eagle flown to rest behind the clouds
The patient vulture, his stomach finally filled
The proud peacock, rustling his feathers as he
Spreads his fan – the colors fade, the feathers
Slip away, he takes refuge in the trees.
This we have seen, the last of the last generation
Nature has smiled upon, has blessed with abundance
We have watched the stars grow dim, the ground bare
And sterile, the trees fall in the forest, the animals
Return to the dust from whence they came.
As all created things must follow. Say a prayer,
Then for everything that might have been.
Scary Silence
Whispering silence
filled the bare air
loosing you
the loss was so clear
Scared to the bone
your voice no longer there
no teaching ways
to guide the nights
filled stare
Stories once told
exchanged forward and back
the days of laughter gone now
the void the massive crack
Scary is the moment
knowing your presence is not
there anymore
no wondering
where you would explore
As the wind catches the breeze
pushes back the door
wondering is it you
that is moving it away
So as stars fill the night sky
i look for you up there
the brightest one of all
hope your having a ball
standing proud and tall
Innocent Conspiracy
They scream and laugh
and scream again
Inside my head
I feel the pain
Won’t they stop
for just a day
Control them please
but let them play
Far too many
All in one place
Twenty-five children
Screaming in my face.
I like this – only I keep wondering why these children do that. Sort of what’s the scary part? Thanks for sharing.
The Scariest Dreams
The scariest dreams –
The ones that come
In tear-drenched sleep
And in a clammy
Terror keep
My churning mind
When I awake,
The ones where
Sanity’s at stake
As I scramble,
Desperate to rewrite
The ending full
Of unholy fright,
The ones that cling
Throughout the day
Though I do strive
To shake them away –
The scariest dreams,
By all that is true,
Are always the ones
Where I lose you.
Love again
Every time you go away
I fear it is the final time
This fly sheet flapping in the gale
Every time you go away
I curse at constancy
And call commitment cowardice
Every time you go away
I want you to be happy
But twist upon uncertainty
Every time you go away
Our hands leak light like empty sieves
And maybe this is how true love is born
DARKNESS (Cascade)
The world is rolling in noise.
Bodies flying like balls in bingo cage.
All is quiet, but for cries of pain.
The screech of tires, horns blaring,
Hard impact, shouting, sharp turn.
The world is rolling in noise.
Comrades standing, looking for cause.
Gravel crunching under tires, tremble, falling
bodies flying like balls in bingo cage.
Rolling, chaos, noise, jolt, darkness.
Bodies intertwined, fighting.
All is quiet, but for cries of pain.
“It Could be any Window”
The cheerful scarecrow
in my front yard
startles me
as I look out of the window.
This out of place figure,
resplendent in fall colors,
pulls my breath
from my body
and causes my vision to swim
as I imagine
the terrors which
(may)
(please, no)
await my daughter.
I turn from the window
and pick her up,
protecting her,
while I still can.
Word Salad:
http://whimsygizmo.wordpress.com/2012/11/03/loss-for-words/
Fear
Snakes don’t scare me,
nor spiders
(if I see them first)
not thunder or lightning
(if I’m safe and dry
inside watching
from the windows).
I’m not afraid
of monsters
under the bed
or burglars
in the closet
(although I always
look before I crawl
into the bed).
But late at night
as you breathe softly
beside me, imagination
hovers over my head
on the pillow, whispering
What if. . . .
and my blood runs cold.
Love the last stanza!
Chasm
Perched on the
Brink
Of darkness,
Blackness – or is it red?
Total absence of light -
Of clarity of
Hope of…
Impermeable, palpable,
Audible
The sounds of chaos
Surging in a flood.
When at great height -
That knot of terror
In the pit of your
Self.
What if you
Fall
or fail to convince
Even yourself
Especially yourself
That you are able
At least as much
As the darkness
That lies within.
And oh the terror
If you are not.
Ellen Knight
I enjoyed the irregularity of the form here! It just really seemed to suit the poem.
FLYING HOME
Search-pack stowed, dog at my feet
in the Cessna – but the pilot can’t get the engine
started. He asks for a jump. Oil spatters
against windscreen. And
we’re off, circling over desert sand and smoke-trees,
maneuvering higher – backside of the Sierra
staring at us. That tricky granite face
with its eddy-winds that can hold a plane down
like a cork caught in water. My hands
clenched on Roxy’s leash, This dog who can read
my mind sleeps calmly, as if plane crash
were part of the game. The pilot
aims us straight at a high ridge – rock
just meters away – then banks, gains altitude, don’t
ask me how. We zigzag up the peaks, over
the crest, headed for our shadow.
This is great descriptive language – really took me there – really well done
Agree. Great visuals.
Will They?
By: Meena Rose
I look back upon
Where I have been and
Whence I have come;
A journey of a lifetime.
A nagging unspoken
Pervasive fear is
Deeply entrenched upon
My psyche.
When I die, will they
Remember me or will
My imprints upon this
Life evaporate into ether?
When I die, will there
Be a marker to note
My passage upon this
Celestial ship?
Death and I have courted
Each other as far back
As I can remember;
Quite the chivalrous display.
Through pain and tears;
Through sheer stubbornness;
I hang on – my work not yet done;
To leave an indelible mark
Upon the semi-permanence of
Human recollection racing
Against the draining sands of
Time.
AROUND EVERY CORNER
The unknown is feared.
And we step on eggshells wondering
when the first of many shoe will drop.
You stop to catch a breath or two,
and you continue on your way -
curious or furious that your fear
consumes. Our collective dooms
are assured. But we pray for a cure.
My mission is my focus, for
no “Hocus-Pocus” can change the hand
that I’ll eventually lose. I can choose to
curl up, be fetal and remain fatal -
or I can decide to not hide and face life
and the fight it offers, filling my coffers
with a richness never expected.
All fears are rejected in its stead.
So I keep this thought in my head
and hope my hands and translate
what has been the debate within.
Mission after commission after remission,
keeps giving me the chance to dance unfettered
and expressive, an excessive splay
of verbal vitality, and a mentality to fear no evil.
Dark valleys be damned. He has my back.
‘I can choose to curl up, be fetal and remain fatal- ‘
wow!
Love this! Absolutely beautiful. Should it perhaps say “when the first of many shoes will will drop” in the third line (as opposed to “shoe”)?
i know this dance well, unfortunately i’ve not quite hit the last few lines yet!
Stuck in Fear
He’s big and bold.
His calf muscles bulge
as he climbs the mountain.
He looks back
with kind eyes
melding into mine.
His strong arm stretches
as he reaches for my hand.
I shrink back.
I stay where I’m at.
Grounded.
Oh, well done! You end this perfectly.
What if the what ifs came true?
http://whimsygizmo.wordpress.com/2012/11/03/earth-shattering/
SOME OR ALL FEARS
Life is a crap shoot.
“You rolls your dice,
you takes your chances.”
Not everything will appease you.
If it scares you, it will not please you.
Gory scenes are meant to haunt you.
Skin tight jeans are meant to flaunt you.
Sexy dreams are meant to taunt you,
but they can’t really hurt you.
So seven-come-eleven, aim for heaven,
but don’t be afraid to raise a little hell!
My goodness but there’s some really dark stuff here today.
It could be falling from the roof while cleaning out the gutters,
Or, maybe standing naked at a window without shutters.
A life without a soul mate? Yeah, that has a certain sting.
The spectacle of headline news is not a pleasant thing.
A freight train running off the tracks, a corporate raided pension,
But, no, the things that scare me most are things I dare not mention.
A Little Education
he fell into a molecule,
a miniscule
school of small mindedness
I’m happy to see this here!
took long enough to get it posted. Grrrrr….
“Wrecked”
Fear, running me
touching me
With cold hands
Twisting my heart
And tearing my soul.
Hiding underneath
It’s hooded glare
an approaching train
suddenly appearing
the resounding crash inevitable.
“Permit”
His curly hair cascades halfway
down his back and
a troll-face grin
is smeared across
his stubbly face.
My butt cheeks are severely scrunched.
I watch my teen
relish the wheel
in his hands.
The time is now.
Too soon by my estimation.
He howls as he
accelerates.
Nails in my leg.
Terrifying…
OH i have so been there!!
lol
THE UNSEEN
She stands before the counter
frantically searching the eyes of the attendant.
Pantomiming her needs without success.
In tears, she turns to those in line behind her,
hoping to find some help.
Seeing none, she slowly disappears.
He holds his hat, rolling the brim
as the officer looks over his papers
with stern authority.
Handing them back, the officer
shoes the man away, as if he were
an errant dog, wandering into the neighbors yard.
The child clings to the edge of the playground
as if it were the skirt of she who bore her.
The other children play with screams and squeals,
oblivious of the tiny being in the corner.
She watches with eyes that mirror
the joy just beyond her reach.
The title for this poem should be “UNSEEN, UNHEARD, DISMISSED.
This poem is for those who struggle in a world where language holds the power.
Yes, I agree. There is much more behind these words.
Painful. “She watches with eyes that mirror / the joy just beyond her reach.” Wow.
i love the lines “the child clings to the edge of the playground as if it were the skirt of she who bore her” So great! And your full title makes sense regarding the language part, but initially i could even just feel how fear itself might even be holding the little girl back. i’m a fearful one.
Yet dwells the fear…
I’m
not
afraid
of living
alone and I know
that someday one of us will go
before the other, but when that test revealed a mass
it chilled me to the bone. And though
we are safe this time,
in my core
yet dwells
the
fear.
i can feel this one as i read it.
You will reach for me
But you
Will not find me
You will call for me
But
I will not hear
I am your Muse
And in my mouth
I seal every
Winsome thought
And every
Perfect
Word
Outside the birds are…. um, they’re…oh, what is it that birds do !?
LOL! love the contrast.
I feel your body next to mine
It is cold
I reach to turn on a lamp
But there is no light
I strike a match
It will not flare
The darkness closes in
A suffocating wall
I press my face to your cheek
But I cannot feel you
Or see you
We are cold
I hear my children crying
Somewhere
Out there
In the darkest dark
Alone
They tell us there will never be
Another morning
And the sun
Has died…
This one is sooooooo good it’s scary !!!!
chilling!
That there is
physical discomfort
in the thinking
of
fingernail
after
fingernail
being slowly peeled back
like the skin off
an orange,
red flakes held
dripping
and leisurely
in front
of a bound face –
is it better to be gagged
or to hear yourself screaming?
That there is
physical discomfort
in thinking
of you
in pain,
anguished
and
screaming,
my graphic
helplessness
a quadriplegic struggling
in the face of
your grimacing,
irretrievable
loss -
is it better to be gagged
or to hear yourself screaming?
That there is
physical discomfort
in the knowing
that you don’t,
will not and cannot
care
unless it’s to profit
from my
pain,
each of your loyal surrogates
claiming
they were really
only
doing their
jobs,
and you with no family
to torture,
no kin to threaten
in order to
subdue
your inexhaustible
tolerance
for absolute
suffering -
these ragged nails
gone from
climbing
the walls you’ve
built
and I wake to find
it was all
in my mind
and I am strapped
down
unable to move
my beloved tied down
beside me –
always and ever,
again and again,
I look lovingly
into your eyes -
is it better to be gagged
or to hear yourself screaming?
Utter terror. My worst nightmare!
Unimaginable fear. And then I read it again and find the terror. Powerful.
So much here. Well done!
GAAAHHHHH i can’t read this again! i can feel my nails and the fear and panic and–well done!
Found Wanting…
The banquet is ready
Earth is consumed with a cry
‘Behold, He cometh’
The Bridegroom shatters the sky
Fire and wind
Is hurled, unfurled
Ah, yes! This is it…
…the end of the world
Those washed in His blood
Rise to meet Him in the air
Oh my God, oh my God
Why didn’t I prepare?
Up on the hill
The ark of safety sits but
Its grace has ended
And the door is shut
All we can hear
Is the toll of a bell
And wailing and weeping
As the gates open to
Hell
*shivers* I love the second stanza!!
I have no words to do this justice. I’ll simply add my AMEN.
UNSPOKEN TERROR
So frightening that I don’t want to think about it,
let alone write a poem.
What is it? Do I have to tell you?
Oh well, in for a pound.
I think I am losing my mind.
I do the stupidest things,
talk utter rubbish -
I can cope with that, just,
by having a laugh.
But what of the next stage,
when I don’t know what I’ve said,
who I’ve insulted,
what damage I’ve done,
when it’s no longer funny?
There, I’ve given you my greatest fear:
what can you do to help?
There is utter terror in that thought, because I know MANY in that next stage. Thank-you for being brave enough to give voice to your fear. I’m mid forties and sometimes I wonder if I’m losing my mind…seriously.
um i could say we already talked about this, but that would be inappropriate. from your poetry and comments i’d say you’re doing ok/ nothin to worry about yet
wait til you read my fears -
Up concluding a trip to the ER under just such circumstances, the doc assured me that as long as I can still have concerns about such things, I have nothing to fear…
At the beginning of what was a diagnosis of fibromyalgia, i had a psych evaluation because i’d been having frightening episodes with my memory. At the conclusion, the psychiatrist declared, “well, you don’t have early onset Alzheimers!” to which i replied, “”i didn’t even know i should have been worried about that…” Our brains are susceptible to so many things that can scare us and mimic the Big Scary diagnosis. i feel ya.
Forgetfulness is not at all necessarily a stage of anything more
than mere passing age
blips in the sorting page after page
Forgetfulness is not at all necessarily a stage of anything more
When you forget what you’ve forgotten as you walk through the door
The sign that is worrisome, worrisome a bit more is when you forget
What the door you walked through is for!
Not to worry – enjoy those little mental ‘vacation spots’
And now I take off “that other hat” and return to being a would be poet…
Comforting. Thank you PKP
Pearl, no doubt you forget a lot of things having all those potential poems of yours on your mind. This is great.
Well penned, and one of my fears as well.
A terrible thought, indeed, Viv!
GREATEST FEAR
Dreams awaken me, recurring ones,
where I run, but go nowhere. Feet
mud-stuck leaden, heart pumping
wildly, I turn toward you.
Engulfed now in the dark silence of night’s
deepest hours, terror subsides, sucked
out like the calm before a tsunami’s
ebb. Moments pass before it sweeps back.
Filling every crevasse of my being
from toes to head. Overwhelming
common sense, reason,
clear thought as I reach for you
and feel no
breath.
No up and down rhythmic
movement
of your belly.
Have I once more slipped to
dreamland – or have you…
My skin prickled as I read this. Great writing. Superb ending.
oooh deliciously spooky!
THE DAILY NEWS
This voice telling me again and
again
that some day
someone
up in Heaven
will
separate the sheep from the goats
as if we need to separate sheep from goats
and as if anybody is worse
than you or
even better.
here here!
This is lovely
Good poem! So glad Jesus is better, died in our wretched place!
SPOT ON, ANDREA! Love this!
Thank you JWLaviguer, ina, cumberlandcarol and Marie Elena. In fact I was a bit afraid that this poem could steer up comments that I couldn’t handle – and here I sit, happy. Thanks for your encouragement.
I write this in one comment because this website asks me to slow down whenever I like to post a comment, so I know that this comment might take a lot of attempts to submit.
Andrea, what a poingnant poem.
Stage Fright Locusts
They’re here.
The locusts…They’ve come.
In number…
To devastate, destroy, devour each bone.
Until I’m miserably desolate, isolated alone
Meticulously wicked from the inside out
Until there is no stability remaining
Or strength left for me to stand
There is no shield, there is no helping hand
Wait, there is an announcement
All confidence has now been consumed
Your boldness has withered, depleted
All hope transformed to doom
For I’ve been eaten, beaten, defeated
And digested in an instance
Those bastards show no mercy
They feed off an inch of anxiety
Working quickly to cut you asunder
Leaving you to rot in the dust publicly
Dancing, while your integrity they plunder
HAH! i love this concept!