Degrees of Darkness

It raised the blood pressure last time…appropriate again for today.

Awakened Words

Unfortunately, this is one of those pieces I feel that I should preface with a warning (but in no way an apology). I am unabashedly conservative in my political and social view and beliefs, and this piece reflects a great deal of that. Contrary to current media/political propaganda, that does not make me a racist. I believe the cause of Martin Luther King Jr was just and justified. Sadly, we have veered far from his path and dream. We celebrate the man, but I fear his ideas are dead.

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DEGREES OF DARKNESS

We no longer strive for the pursuit
of happiness, especially not for all men.
No, today we are concerned only
with our own agenda, a compromise
being defined as you agreeing to do things
my way.

“When we let freedom ring, when we let it ring
from every village and every hamlet…

Definitions of Right, Correct, True,

View original post 282 more words

False Impressions of Bigger and Better Places

I stopped to listen
to the song
of the morning breeze
in the trees.

It had sought me out
in the pre-dawn light,
carrying
the memories
I had thought to leave
trapped within
the small
places behind me.

This little road will
lead me
to big dreams
in places
where memories
and breezes
follow instructions.

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At dVerse, mr Miller, the birthday boy (or was yesterday
when he posted the prompt), asks for a story
in exactly 55 words. This is really just the beginning
of a story…I wonder what he will discover…

also posted with the g-man per Brian’s birthday wishes

I Cried Out

I cried out against
what I knew
to be false,
what I could
not believe.

I cried out for
what I needed
when drink
and drugs were no
longer enough.

I cried out in joy
when I knew
what was true,
and an end to life
was no longer feared.

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at Poets United Kim asks for a poem with a 
starting point of “I cried out”. I decided to go
for extremely short and simple with the most basic of 
word choice, and with those words repeated often.
So, yes, the rudimentary language is intentional.

They No Longer Sell Poetry at the Bookstore

They no longer sell poetry
at the bookstore.

There used to be a section between
the westerns and the stationary —
Frost, Angelou, Bukowski, not
much new — behind the novelty
and gift card racks,

but they no longer sell poetry
at the bookstore.

There were collections and magazines
once upon a time, not so long ago,
where one could find a poem,
behind Discovery and the
Archeology Times,

but they no longer sell poetry
at the bookstore.

She would read to me, and I to her —
she preferred Dickinson, Hughes
more to my taste — on spring
nights and fall days when book pages
felt like new grass and dry leaves.

They no longer sell poetry
at the bookstore.

Mask

I used to be able
to spot her
in a crowd,
her face a
beacon — different
from all the rest —
unique among the throng
of automatons
and posers.

I search the crowds still,
but she does not
stand out,
no longer open
to me, or anyone.
Her mask
is restored.

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This is in response to Margo’s image prompt, and a unique
photo it is. I cannot quite get this to do what I want it to, still
feels a bit overdone, not the unique take on the them I wanted.
The preponderance of ‘o’, however, is intentional.

Degrees

We dreamed in degrees
of desperation,
each thinking the other
should be persuaded
by our own particular vision
of happiness.

I asked her once
if it was her heart or her head
which caused her to stay,
or some tribute
to the ideals of love
and commitment.
It seemed a period of years
before she answered.

I stay because of vows uttered
and moments remembered.

I stay because children should
not suffer from a rash decision.

I stay because I refuse to believe
a life is nothing more than things
nestled into a corner of the floor.

I stay because I still cry when
your space at the table is empty
or your side of the bed is cold.

I stay because I long for the future
we planned, and I have never
longed for another to hold my hand.

I stay because I believe love that was
can be again, if we wish it to be.

We dreamed in degrees
of desperation.

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for the Sunday Whirl Wordle

Scars and White Dresses

She has escaped her scarlet shackles,
discovered the joy of light
and the right to wear
white dresses.
Most times
she feels as though she floats,
following newfound freedom
to the edge of dreams.
But the scars do not fade
from her wrists,
and what the mirror
shows is never a clear reflection
of who she is,
or is to become.

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for the image prompt
from The Mag
Shared at Poets United

photo by Elena Kalis

I Remember

Sometimes
I remember
before the world
became shades of grey.

I remember
she wore yellow
when days were warm,
the sun worshiping her glow.

Sometimes I remember
seeing her brilliant smile
behind the pure white veil
in the moment before we wed.

I remember every time
she wore red high heels,
beautiful, with no need for adornment,
seeking attention which was already rightfully hers.

I remember the last time
I was able to look into
the crystal depths of those blue eyes,
glistening, as she searched for reasons to stay.

Sometimes I remember before
the world became
shades of
grey.

.

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Notes: Yes, the theme and content are a bit trite. The prompt from Margo was ‘color’ (ok, so there was a lot more to it than that) and I decided to play with structure as well. To my knowledge this is not a ‘form’, just a guide I set for myself for this endeavor.

Sea Creature

I find her shoes
on the dunes —
discarded frivolities fusing
with the landscape —

then follow her footsteps
to the water
where the gulls dance
around her head —

screeching and snapping
at the bread she throws —
while gravity makes plans
in the seabird’s shadows.

She sends the remaining crumbs
into the waves
like an offering, as if she can sense
the sea’s need for sacrifice.

She has always been a creature
of the shore,
the taste of salt
in her words

and a thread of ocean breezes
in her breath.

 .

.

for the Sunday Whirl wordle

Night Watcher

There is something missing
between the cricket
songs and the croaks
of the frogs,

an emptiness

where once the night
was full. It was some time
before I recognized

the absence

before I understood
the differing
degrees

of silence.

I have been watching
the house for many
nights, the movement

of shadows

from room to room.
The lights no longer
stay on all night,

darkness

regains its dominion
a bit earlier
each evening. The

figures

behind the windows
are no longer restless
and I am able

to identify

the absent sounds…
there is no pulse
pounding in my ears,

no breath

to form whisper mists,
and cries no longer
reverberate from the house.

I begin to fade.