Parched

My throat tastes sour and I can’t breathe.

My heart beats at the expense of my sanity.

What can I do but grit my teeth,

And blame myself for vanity?

 

Yet, even in self-deprecation, it seems

Cruel to neglect truest affections. Never before,

Never will be one more worthy that I beteems.

So I searched for the note, the very end, at my very core.

 

These puny thoughts plague words and mind,

‘Til the tillers tilled and crushed more than kind,

To set parched earth free from drought,

To grow anew a stubborn sprout.

 

I will live.

Walks of Life

There are all types of heels,

each with their own song.

Some hurried, some hollowed;

some wandered, some echoed;

some weak, felled greek

mythisized.

So, we walked and strutted

the stage of life, like Macbeth,

full of fury and sounds, inverted.

Each thud of heels full of wrath

for sounds make no imprints in earth

but merely words and remembrance.

Hidden Words

Home is the place with wings, a land

of careless snacking, dancing to go

meet beloved. Still on the edge of the garden path

eased the fog, which veiled windows. Out

upon the horizon unperceived, a scoff

nicked at the disk of light. “Where to?”

Knives of sunlight clashed above the questioner.

“No human should enter these grounds, no brig

or wheel should penetrate

what He had made with his own hands.” But,

no one saw beyond the Book. In lieu,

do mark, in lieu, of truths not written,

organs of virtues, vessels so meek,

never to speak when the world lean

to an antichrist, but knelt like the prophet who

faced the burning bush. It was just so low

of the world to close her ears, to own

remembrances but use them not. Truth

granted but rusting, intellect rotten. Voodoo

evaluated as science, science but scam;

to be or not to be, can we continue to not see?

**********

Read vertically down both sides: those were the three prompts that I was given for this poem.

The Leaning Power of Pity

Don’t you dare to lean on me,

For my bones are dry.

Don’t you dare to cry a sea,

For my marrows are wry.

 

You ask one who’s trapped in sand

To run your world, while she’s drowning in hers.

“Come on, let’s make a fairyland,”

Said you who she wants to curse

 

With speech in honey and milk.

To entice with a politician’s promises,

My tongue my ancestors’ silk;

But what, then, are the purposes?

 

Please learn from the role

That priced glistening coal

With centuries of wait: a mere symbol

of true love so civil.

 

So then shouldn’t the amour

symbolized worth millenniums, if not a whole lot more?

Color Blind

She said that she saw no colors.

Then, how do you explain this?

Red, crimson, scarlet,

Burgundy if it’s in the past.

He said that he was colorblind.

Then how do you explain this?

Blue, dark, dark blue.

The stereotypical color of sorrows

Was the color of the lips

That screamed for breath.

For justice.

 

I want to know that I am made of colors

The red and blues and all around.

A collective rainbow

Hanging in a grey, grey world.