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 |   "Scattered leaved with poetic imprints." My new collection of poetry. |
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P.(tree)Log ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** Well, it's now mid- 2019 and this is still the only book I use to house part of my new poetry. I began using it years ago due to a lack of storage space in my over-700 item WDC portfolio. I really need to do some spring, summer, fall and winter cleaning. There are still lots of static items which have never received any mention by other members here. But that's part of the problem of being a writer ( musician, artist, actor ... ). I do not know how to network. Thanks for discovering this link. Please leave a comment. Bookmark it, please.... This is a writing site and not FarceBrook where it's so easy just to press the button "LIKE." (( And I am not a fan of the fact that WDC has added it. )) |
| Wind pushes at everything, tests limits, breaks fragility. Its wailing/screech of tires that night. The forceful sway of bridge cables, snapping like kindling. Freakish falling. Dreams from childhood horror movies, mother wrote our bloodcurdling scenarios and never paid her actors. Her perps taught sado-maso perversion. The whip mark were not special effects. They left solid stripes on my back, lower, private places. No one touches me there – to speak truth is another whip. Trees bleed sap when gusts veer beyond violent. They grow new branches from stumps. I still have nine fingers. From my darkness, I conjured only one storm. My mind was the eye of it. As her car filled with water, she screamed. I made her hear only my voice. Nightmare [2018.29.10...a] Author's note. Although I was a battered child, I never thought about revenge. I don't have that kind of conscious mind. But last night, deliberately trying to come up with very dark prose, this is what my muse came up with. Rest assured, I have ten fingers. |
| Japanese fans tap, a close up of tears shed on national broadcast black was strictly forbidden sixteen eulogies torn from the raw canvas of rouged goblets overflowing with sentiments portrayed at the end of so many operas every color represented splashing rainbows and brassy kaleidoscopes national theatres lent costumes besting grand couturier red carpets poets did not heckle, masked as Greek choruses, their declaiming simultaneous, each with his verse dealt a universal harmonization of life this final celebration coronated with gardens of white blossoms a tour de force of a thousand greenhouses, pollination with tweezers to bear this everlasting perfection musicians played brocaded melodies of minor intervals as acrobats and ballerinas leapt behind the pall bearers unified in turquoise, the color of her eyes when the lights were just so her lips pursed in a fate-defying "I have loved you all in the momentous eternity of silence caressing each of my words, drowned out, muted, overwhelmed by discordant tremolos, yes, I shall love you all in this last breath beyond my death …" Funeral rites for the death of an artist [2017.10.9...a] After the piano piece of the same name by William Alwyn ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** If you liked this poem, please vote for it here: https://thebluenib.com/push-cart-nominations-2018/ |
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