Reckless

Breathless in charcoal grayness,
your eyes closed, do you recognize
my caramelized sugar kiss,or my scent
emanating from seared skin,
flesh that burns for your effusive eyes,
a fever that resonates insidiously?
I am incomparable to most strangers,
can't you see, you absurd, myopic
fool, especially in matters that concern
even a whisper of you, a vision
I have memorized wholly,
the curves of your languid lips,
the traces of agonizing lines grown
from harrowing lessons to ravishing
rewards, the raw vulnerability
you display when you are timorous
of disparaging shadows?

Give me a crystalline sign, anything.
Inch closer to my judicious eyes
or copiously fade away; you choose.
If I vanished, trees forming fences,
canopies of branches banishing
the feverish sun, taking me captive,
would you take heed when I vociferously
proclaim your name? Your muted,
baritone voice, unique and succinct,
could echo for a thousand summers
if you even dared to summon
my scattered ghost, but perilous
doubts haunt my tethered soul.

You, the ultimate aberration I fear;
I embrace your pathetic presence
even in cobalt darkness, I derive
what is tangible by what I perceive,
how I interpret the present,
how it contours my auspicious future,
allowing erstwhile wounds to melt
like a stick of butter in a greasy,
blistering pan. Yet, you recklessly
steamroll over liquid emotions
like a crop-duster spraying fields
of corn full of toxic pesticide,
making them inconceivable to consume
without concern. Indifference
is your Achilles' heel, your merciless flaw, .
your blind-spot, Jupiter's red eye glaring
at your baffled facade.


The time is now to proceed, displace
these languid hurts that cause entrapment,
like a housefly pressed against the wall
by stubborn, sticky fingers by a playground bully.
You can not know me, truly comprehend
what is at stake. Your dismissive eye speaks
volumes, so I slip through satin fingers,
and fly to distant lands. Now, I avoid
your tainted, defiled love, by choosing
to sidestep your unconscious ambush,
and venture toward the milky, misty
future...without you.

Faithful

Feverish heat slyly covets
incandescent skin, as midnight
plague envelops languorous,
brittle bones, and the faithful
disintegrate to merciless mulch.

^ This was a challenge to write a poem in only twenty words!

Carve

The winding road map and rigorous crevices
of our ever-changing facades are lined
like an atlas, carving rickety roads
we must journey, like the topography
of the great Rockies of Wyoming,
how succulent river beds organically
slice a meticulous path, a pure beginning
that leads to a delta of smooth self-acceptance,
much like every wrinkle we earn:
and the tears that flow into emerald gullets
where misty memories are seared and buried,
changing us irrevocably...these are lessons
learned, internalized, coveted.

I encompass the satiny snow caps
atop the Grand Tetons, and I solemnly revere
and simultaneously collate our salty scalps
to those shimmering, glistening mountain tops...
it is congruous, and our parched parities
have not dissipated...worldly wisdom
occurs often in discordant design,
ones which we heartily desire,
just like the clay-red ridges,
the way they sculpt a niche,
a specific path that is consistent.

We are conjoined with maternal nature,
and she with us. It is inevitable,
if you open cynical eyes,
reflect upon this grave planet,
how the enveloping grass
transforms into milky mulch,
a mannered metamorphosis,
to compare how our singular bodies
decay and turn into whole earth.
It is the precise process reversed,
and hallowed death becomes rebirth.


* This was completely out of my comfort zone. I had to really dig to get this to pop, and I am not sure it was successful. but it is what it is at this moment in time.

Letter To A Clown

Dear Mister Duplicity,

Your smile is great, grating,
feigning sincerity, authentic
only in delusional conceit,
proud of your voracious
prowess. Your supreme
convictions appear electric,
vital. On the salty surface
you give the impression
that you salvage dilemmas,
with the stealth of a stallion,
but in reality, you abandon
desiccated river beds, and parched
spirits, depleting all of honorable
humanity. Your perverse perspective
presumes you are daringly adept
in offering contributions
to this dormant world,
even innovative, or inspirational
ones, implying that dowry
ought to be exhibited
at your precious altar,
debated by even remote
cynics. Even untainted shamans
shake their apprehensive
heads collectively.

Bless your brazen heart:
colorless, gratuitous, apathetic.
I record your lethal obsessions,
but there are too many traits
to consider. You are consumed
with your fanatical ego,
you narcissistic clown.
At a whim you arbitrarily
obliterate sacred trust,
devouring withering, weary
worlds in your path without struggle.
Instead you satiate your hedonistic
appetite, taking pleasure
in your repulsive reflection,
while I yearn for peaceful
valleys, cool, gentle nights
and bright, luminous days
where I can soothingly relax
my anxious brain.

So please, do not fret
over my pallid perspective.
I've got your precious number,
and I will keep in cheery contact
the moment Saturn kisses Venus,
or pinkish pigs fly golden kites.
Until that occasion surfaces,
let me just testify for record’s sake,
that my eyes will trickle
titillating tears of misery
in your infamous honor.
Now cry me a river.

With gratitude and a migraine,

The Sardonic Poet

This Time (Rewrite)

This time, you say. This time things
are different, because I have evolved,
you repeat, to my fickle ears
and piercing eyes. Fool me once,
shame on me. Fool me twice?
I won’t go back there this time.

This time, you repeat, I’ve grown.
I’ve read. I’ve prayed. I’ve taken.
I’ve given. I’m living. I’m prepared.
This time, I ponder. Sigh. I get it.

Get it? Is it plausible? For our precedent
was like flying on a boisterous magic carpet.
We had not a soul to cling to ensure
our safety, and it was crucial to trust
that it lands in heather valleys,
or dry river beds. That was last time.

I’ve read. I’ve prayed. I’ve heard.
I’ve taken, I’ve taken. I’ve taken.
Those last utterances are what trigger
the thunderous alarms raging
in the velvety fog of my mind.
It is essential to concentrate
on every syllable testified by valiant
lips before becoming seduced
by your (snake) charming ways.
I won’t go back there this time.

No, this time, I’m the one who ensures
that this pristine knowledge
does not slip under fragmented
floorboards. I recoil like a tabby
just beyond your soul’s access.
I retreat so that I am capable
of pouncing, if imperative,
at the blink of a cow’s eye.

This time. No, this is the last time.
I heed what you have regurgitated,
and scrutinize those translucent eyes
streaming icy pools of water
down glossy cheeks disguised
as insufferable crocodile tears.

Please forgive me, you declare
earnestly, and I truly believe you,
but you cannot accept providence,
and what has been whispered exposes
the entire story, not in the way
that you think, but in what is actual.

This time. This time is the last time.
Not next time, just this time, the last time,
time to end things all together.
I won’t go back there this time.

One

Dissolving into eternal light,
you provide me a beacon,
as tangerine sun meets lemon moon,
radiating warmth, casting a spell,
sharing, beckoning, fully connecting.

We two become one, the Siamese twins,
appreciating each other in the molecular,
sharing cranberry secrets, something intrinsic,
intuitive, unspoken, pulsating,
attesting, conjoined, one.

Stuck Trying (Rewrite)

I didn’t invite you to my kaleidoscope world,
but you entered through the front door,
black-eyed Susans in one hand,
with crystal champagne under your arm.
What was I destined to assume?

Change, you said, is a state of perseverance,
a solid maturity, a judicious investment
in grassy meadows and tomato sunsets.

An investment, you said.

You’ve changed. Yes, I have to agree.
At your finest: kind, warm, endearing.
Then you turn your caramel cheek
and I am suddenly trapped like a fly
against the wall, held down by stubborn
fingers, as you snarl, allude to sour trickery
and crimson lies disguised as ginger truths.
All untrue. I begin to scrutinize amidst
fragmented lines to expose the essence
of just one clear, crimson conclusion. Just one.
Is it foolish to canoe over raging waters
full of angry snakes and stingrays?

No, no, no. Yes.

In the end, I am stuck trying. Stuck. Trying.
I plod through sinking mud, plummeting
slowly. I am hopelessly stuck. Trying.
Trying to emancipate myself, purge
the brain of pretentious excuses
and condescending fantasies
of your life satiated. I may be the character
purely present, or some other tender
trainee could assume my maladroit position.
So I descend into treacherous quicksand
withering faster than a faded daisy
carelessly tossed in a dazzling vase
deplete of nourishing water.

Therapy (Thr revised edition)

Sitting there in your sleek, black suit
you appear so serious, eyes transfixed
on the garbage pouring from my lips,
venomous secrets that had been lying dormant.

I give a sideways glance,
then scrutinize your mystic gaze,
as blue tears begin to well.
My cheeks burn as I taste
bitter salt and flush:

embarrassment,
humiliation
shame.

The cat is out of the bag; a river
beset with blackened ravines and hostile
truths come spilling, surging,
like a boisterous hurricane,
squashing malevolent self-loathing
and pitiful cries in silent anguish.
Words magically become phrases,
and develop into acrid accusations.
I feel somehow buoyant,
shedding at least ten pounds
of mental deadwood
and sewage. Turning to confront
your unwavering look,
I am suddenly floating
in a silky, tranquil sea:

is that vibrant concern?
Do you sincerely care?
Are you even listening?

I’m muttering gibberish again.
Scarlet truths seek an outlet,
stuffing the room with complex
adjectives. Thank God
there is no derisive mirror;
I must appear an unruly mess:

self-conscious,
exhausted,
nervous.

I return to your stare, as a delicate
smile emanates from the ice queen.
You are affected. You comprehend
what was previously covert.
It isn't my imagination playing
lamenting tricks. Brisk fantasies
take flight, fleeing my mind
like rats from a slow, sinking barge.

“He hurt me.
He hurt me.”
I testify without perjury.
“He hurt me.”

Black Widow

Silver spooned and silver tongued,
with icy, jade eyes, winking at you
in a sunshower’s glare, he was a visceral
threat. He acquired collections,
and hearts, without a weary worry:
crisp investments, salty sentiments,
thunderous dreams. Any withering
fool could see through sinewy pretense.

Unconventional,
inspirational,
unpredictable,
impervious.

He’s a cyclone needing to be lassoed,
barreling through the wilderness
without a care or a bother
to all that he consumes,
like a baby bouncing his way
over scattered toys.

He was fostered to be the spoiled
dashing, charismatic, malevolent
gentleman he had become.
He had a churlish allure,
a je ne sais quoi, a pearly presence,
much like those Tibetan charmers
that tantalize insidious snakes.
It happens, and you are powerless to control
it. You just need to learn to dive, hurl
away, from oncoming locomotives.

He did not intend to be cruel;
it was just the lack of care he possessed,
a surly, pathological byproduct.
Everything simply had been handed
to him so effortlessly. He had become
the ultimate consumer, a sleek cat lapping
silken cream from a pristine, porcelain bowl.

But, he had yet to make acquaintance
with that devilish, cunning woman,
the one with the charcoal hair, and cerulean
eyes , the one with the alabaster
skin that he would imprudently
covet, the one that would trump his ace
transform him, to the point
where he would sacrifice
his sober security and unflappable
swagger that had transported
him from Shreveport to Stockholm
to Shanghai, and then back to San Francisco,
and cast it aside like a indiscreet joker.
He would exhaust all his (mis)fortune.
Shockingly, he would readily welcome
the shrewd risks it would necessitate
to acquire the black widow spinning
in her pedantically, woven web, waiting
for the horsefly that had lost his way.

Making Music

Words are just a basic way
of telling you about my constitution,
but it is in my eyes that reveal
a (com)passionate story.

Some people say I am an old
soul, but in reality, I just see
the sullen, and consecrated truths.
I'm no saint, nor prophet, just a man.

I hear how one person can say
“I love you” in a raccoon’s eye,
but then see the betrayal
in his actions: the late night
presentations, the unsavory statement
from Citibank, the uneaten
slice of his favorite pie.
I am a master in keeping secrets.

Eyes wide open means looking
at a challenging day, acknowledging
its weariness, witnessing
a fellow friend’s pain,
or even you own, if you are paying
close attention to the details.
I say nothing, but I see it all.

It doesn’t take much to speculate
or even assess the situation
for what it really is,
if you neglect to hide
in charcoal shadows,
and avoid showering moonbeams.
Liberation doesn't mean freedom.

I am who I am. I sing my own psalms,
and I face clever realities.
In return I am rewarded
with constant truths
and sacred authenticity.
I’m not perfect. I am just one
of you, and I see your struggle
as my own, and I relate
resoundingly, cry your tears,
and cry my own. It’s an anthem,
a celebration, a battle, a lullaby.

Days Long Past

Words are just that,
and in the end,
what we contribute,
what we remember,
are often lost in translation,
and our misty need
for gratitude, for appreciation,
is just as sleepless as the rain,
which will pour sanctified tears
when all is said and done.

Endurance

The day sought solace
in misty rain showers
and gentle fog. Still,
the poppy persevered.

mysterious skin

time: 2:37 a.m.
mood: irritable
place: my bedroom

the velvety darkness hides much
like a whisper of a ghost
in complete shadow

the pulse of the blade
against the nape of my neck
causes a sensation
tingling and titillating
as if somehow my desire
for this abomination
was acceptable

don’t scream or move
no one cares, and no one
will hear you anyway

ironically I open my mouth
to vomit out words of filth
but nothing comes forth

I wrestle in the sheets and duvet
trying to fend of the beast
but I cannot see what is directly
behind me I can only feel sharp
coolness against my jugular
so much so that I almost
welcome the weary outcome

suddenly I am flying out of distorted
other-worlds and spinning
in opposite directions

I see the ocean’s surface and water
fills my lungs as I take one final
lunge to distorted victory

and then I am plunging out of dreams
within dreams of dreams and I cry
please help me but I am now awake

what had just happened
was it a nightmare or just a ghost
that chose to invade the comfort

and safety of my silky slumber
I don’t have the answer
I just know that for now I am free
from this intrusion as I gather
up the soaked sheets and wetness
of the blood stained pillow cases
and rub the soreness around my neck

Unscene

It didn’t matter if I was present
to witness as the yelling escalated
to monstrous proportions, followed
by the sharp sudden slap,

and the mad dash to the bathroom
where she locked the door. I hear
the sobbing followed by his plea,
“I’m sorry babe. Please forgive me.”

I want to scream, defend her honor,
but I am fearful of being unmasked,
or at the very least, disgusted
for my allowing such an event to occur.

But this was status quo, like the yearly
migration of elegant sandhill cranes
that fly above our house in flocks
that sound like they too are crying.

Survival of the fittest sometimes means
remaining unseen, unheard, hidden,
and I freeze, crouched just behind
the sofa where it is safe to breathe.

Sorry

Sorry


When you called, your dusky voice
hesitating. Waiting for the clock
to strike one, I felt astonished.
Your abandonment from my life
was a relief, not some searing scar,
and suddenly you’re back, like a thrusting
thorn, a reminder that ghosts
do leave shadows.

I’m sorry, you stated peevishly.
I was expecting the word, And?,
But I remain constantly cautious,
afraid that I will somehow release
that demonic dragon, the one that crashes
through willowy walls, and shatters
pane glass windows, the shards
cutting me in the jugular.

Your lack of introspection
was not so much surprising,
as an abomination, because you never take
care of the futile feelings you slash
along the way. I have picked
myself up since you left,
glued all the pieces together
to make a whole, the hollowness
that remained now filled
with months of salty therapy
and bitter tears.

And, I affirm.
And what, you reply.
You’re sorry, and?
There I paused.
Nothing had really changed.

I am back to building cement walls
with prickly gates, and a musky moat,
to keep you at bay as I fly
to the moon, or possibly any puzzling
place you will not inhabit.
Allowing you back in only provides
anxious nights and breathless days,
and while I accept your apology,
you just are not worth the risk.

Escape (revised)

Escape


She faked it. It was the only way
out. As he rolled on top of her smelling
of stale tobacco and cheap bourbon,
she secretly plotted his death.
A rare poison perhaps?
What about a radioactive particle
of some sort?


Her soft moans came more rapidly
than before, until she panted, cooed,
sweat rolling down her cheeks.
Or were they angry, salty tears? Only she
knew the answer to this impossible question.


After he left for his job that day, grabbing
green, canvas suitcases from the closet shelf,
she packed as much clothes and mementos
as she dared. No need for murder.
The 5:40 plane would fly her to freedom,
cutting the plush clouds with razor sharp
wings. Could he find her? Chase her around
the mulberry bush, hoping not to get tagged?
Even gossamer truths don't speak.


Control was his even in her quietest of moments,
even in distorted dreams. Somehow,
he had invaded her soul to the point
that she did not recognize herself
in a melting mirror. Did she deserve a tyrant
who would nullify her hope, trust, and love?
It was simple; she had emotionally
collapsed, to the precious point
that she fantasized about her own death.
In fact, she had almost embraced it.
Even alive, she would be among the walking
wounded. Was it possible, just possible,
that any man would ever regain her trust
again, someone that could love, cherish,
and respect her?


But that was to be part of the a life lesson,
and new frontiers were now to be forged
by her, happily so, courage born in jasmine
fields and clover skies. And she cherished
the revelation.

Let Me Tell You Who I Am

This is one of the first poems I ever wrote. Not strong, but it gave me the bug!


Let Me Tell You Who I Really Am


Compassionate and headstrong,
I can spit nails at you with a quick glance.

But, I soften at a gentle voice, a touch.
Responsive I am, ever listening.

I venture into unforeseen jungles,
take risks that involve juggling and tightropes.

Lightening strikes with electricity,
but my veins are filled with tenderness.

My talent to engage and understand
often overwhelm me. Trust me on this.

If I shut down, it's not that I don't care.
Empathy comes in many different forms.

Other times, I just choose to let go,
fall off the ladder into cool, blue-green water,

swimming from sharks, sea lions, and sting rays.
Follow me, and I will in turn hold on to your wings.

We shall fly off cliffs and soar through blustery clouds;
together we shall move mountains, and conquer injustices,

face callous cruelties as one united front.
I will show you how I can overcome obstacles

with alabaster promises, the keeper of secrets,
the innocent whose trust you can depend.

Let me tell you who I am. Let me show you who I am,
for those who do not comprehend, give up, or turn away.



****Disclaimer: This is the first poem I ever wrote in April, 2007****

Deliciousness

His right eyebrow arches
slightly, subtly. His sapphire
eyes twinkle, always smiling,
and he whispers sensuously:

"It smells of deliciousness."

I don’t really follow,
understanding nothing,
but I beam anyway.
There’s a covert secret
there only I pause and wonder
if I missed the joke,
or if I am just a bit clueless,
or possibly both. Sigh!

Because all I can see
are how white his teeth
are, and how smooth his skin:
translucent, alabaster,
no flaws whatsoever.

His warm demeanor:
flirting, calling, caressing,
letting me in, and it’s possible,
just possible, that I was so captivated
that I missed nearly everything
he had cooed into my ear:

"It smells of deliciousness.”

I would think about that one
For hours to come, creating
my own meaning
for irresponsible ears.

Heart Shaped World

Heart Shaped World

In my heart shaped world
where willow trees and lavender,
whisk away unwanted predators,
where the liquid sky meets the salty sea,

where flying to freedom is possible,
necessary, and where all past hurts
are buried under shattered glass,
I paused to contemplate.

Is it possible, just possible.
to sleep in silken clover,
to propel into a victorious life
without needing to create

a parallel universe? Or would
ice floes carry me out to sea,
drifting aimlessly, forever lost
amongst dense fog and dreary

realities? Is it feasible
to fulfill stifled promises,
and unrealized potential
by living in the now,

or would I fall off
the Earth’s razor sharp edge,
sinking into grimy gargoyles’ glares,
and angry giants’ wrath?

The answer is:
that there is no answer,
and whatever I need to do

to survive,
to thrive,
to stay alive,

that is the true test of persevering
despite false starts,
and it is best not to dwell,

not to stay stuck,
on what could have been,
and begin to trust what can be.

That’s the purest test of endurance,
following my own path,
wherever that may take me,

to dare to take chances,
allowing myself to fall, let go,
and then pick myself up again.

I smell the lilac tree,
push off, feel the tension
of the air, and fly, fly away.

Impatiens

Impatiens

The miracle of a birth,
a baby born to an unassuming
mother. Pink petals
of impatiens
flutter by in celebration.

Planes

Planes


I would stand by the large enormous window watching
as the steel birds would steer unto a smooth runway,
and then slowly, the propeller would hum and sing,
and the engine would roar, and the plane floated
across the somber cement, before diving
into the sky, piercing the air, to lands elsewhere -
Seattle, Mexico City, Tokyo, Honolulu -
places I had never seen before. I would imagine
I was in the cockpit guiding the dragon
through the billowing clouds, tremulous rain,
turbulence, until we reached our final altitude,
and coasted over the rainbow.

I would close my eyes, open them, and look
up at my father, his enormous hand enveloping
mine. Even at five years old, I loved the art
of flying, how I could push up off the ground,
spread my arms, feel the tension in the air
as I flew up, up, up above forests, streets,
cul-de-sacs, and strip malls, until all I could see
were patches of green and brown, or the tips
of great mountain tops, flying to worlds
unknown, but places I would recognize as home
once I slowly landed safely and touched ground.

To this day, I dream of flying across great waters
and large masses of land, sometimes in centuries
long ago, sometimes in futuristic worlds
where others can fly as well. I know for certain
that I have flown in past lives. It is innate,
something intrinsic. And so I fly, fly, fly feeling
free as those airplanes I witnessed
as a mere child. Free. Free at last.

Time

This time, you say. This time things are different,
because I have changed, you say, to my fickle ears
and darting eyes. Fool me once, shame on me.
Fool me twice, why I won’t go back there this time.
This time, you repeat, I’ve grown. I’ve read. I’ve prayed.
I’ve taken. I’ve given. I’m living. I’m prepared.
This time. Sigh. I get it.



Get it, I think. Does he? For the last time was like flying
on a wild magic carpet. You have nothing
to actually grasp on to ensure your safety, and you trust
that it lands in heather valleys or dry river beds.
But that was last time. I won’t go back there this time.
I’ve read. I’ve prayed. I’ve heard.
I’ve taken, I’ve taken. I’ve taken.
Those last words are what trigger the silent alarms
raging in velvety fog. I have to listen
to every single word before becoming seduced
by your (snake) charming ways.



I won’t go back there this time. No, this time,
I’m the one who gets it. I pull cautiously back,
like a cat just beyond arm’s reach. I pull back
so that I am far enough from you to possibly pounce,
or pull entirely back at the blink of an eye.



This time. No last time. This is the last time.
I’m listening while you are talking, and I’m seeing clearly
into your translucent eyes filled with icy pools
of water disguised as crocodile tears. You are sorry -
you say. And I believe you, but you cannot help yourself.
And your words tell the whole story, not in the way
that you think. This time. This time is the last time.
Not next time, Just this time, last time, time to end things
all together. This time.

Summer

Summer

Blistering heat
Humidity sparing no one
Stealing breath
And the air conditioner
Hums my tune
As I sit in front of it
Air spraying cool sunshine
On overexposed pores
The sweat now dissipating
And my brother scowls
Because I am absorbing
Pure delicious coolness
While he sits and sputters
"Move out of the way!"
"We all need to cool off!"
So I step aside
Looking outdoors
Noticing the hyacinth
They don't seem particularly flustered
By unbearable salty heat
In fact
They radiate
Smiling at me
Flirting
Purring
Beckoning me to join them
But I am too smart
To listen to the coo
Of some flattering flower
I stay inside
Lying behind the couch
Just under the slice
Of frosty Heaven
And I hope
That tomorrow
Brings wealthy thunderstorms
Glowering their disapproval
Of that monstrous citrus sun
That has dominated days on end
Making itself felt
Known
Forgiving nothing
But I yearn
For now
The rain will pour
Weeping in sheer delight
While we meager mortals
Thrill
Rejoice
In a cool day
Just one cool day

Beating the Devil

Beating the Devil


As I lay down in feathered sheets, and mossy pillows,
I stay awake and stare, just stare out the window,
watching the blistering moon count the sapphire stars,
and as Jupiter winks at Mars, I's aware I'm still alive.
The heart stlil beats -- pa dump., pa dump -- an my arms
and festering legs respond as I wiggle
both my fingers and toes.

I wasn't supposed to be here you see, that sly virus
having raided innocent T4 cells who were supposed
to respond in kind, but instead dies maliciously
by the ravaging illness. Six months later, the doctors
had told me, and I had nodded in return, stunned
into silence, watching the woolen world melt
away into sunless days and starless nights, as silken
soil was poured upon my sullen carcass, unmoving,
unmoving. I fade into reality, as the polite physician
tells me about nutrition, the value of vitamins
and minerals which will extend my tremulous life
an additional two month perhaps. I wonder,
maybe I should take up smoking.

There is not sure, still no cure, but twenty-four
yearning years later, I am still here. I won;t kid
you by saying that the journey was completely worth
brittle moments and bitter tantrums, but parts
of this path have been exceptionally beautiful,
and painful. I came about diabolical disease
to my parents so afraid of raging rejection.
The truth is, it made us all closer, and stronger,
yet strangely vulnerable. Dad, now gone, was the first
to be indoctrined, followed by my weeping mother
who called me as I remained solid, informing
her that the new cocktail of medicine would change
Western medicine. She stopped crying, I felt relieved.

The gift I was granted, that I earned, was to be here.
be present, and remain grateful, even in maddening
moments. I try for periods of time, and sometimes succeed.
I'm alive, I'm still here. Therapy allows me to remove
my buried nemeses layer by layer by layer. It's not the luscious
life I had planned, but it is the life that opened up for me,
and the journey is the journey, a jungle amidst solid concrete,
a way to dismantle unsavory misconceptions, to heal,
to take stock, to take my place in this crazy world,
that offers no solace or promises.

And now I stand, to take my rightful place in this grand world.
I am alone, always alone, but I stand amidst other
who are also alone, following pomegranate paths
towards a fruitful future.

Michael's Musings, Poetry, and Prose!: Lakeside

Lakeside Amusement Park

Lakeside

Lakeside



Summer vacation, blistering summer spray of sun over tanned skin, spreading stifling heat in an unairconditioned car, windows down, feeling the scorching breeze. It's not so relaxing sitting in the back seat when your legs have touched the steaming Corinthian leather that had been baking in the fiery sun. It was one of those smoldering, humid summer days! Ad we were o a adventure.

My best friend Rick and I were being escorted to Lakeside Amusement Park, the park that boasted that they had the world's tallest roller coaster. Really? Like when? 1947? It didn't appear to be so monstrous until after I had been securely fastened into our seats, and the cart began to move slowly up that treacherous hill. Who was laughing now? When we reached the top, I closed my eyes, threw my hands up in the air, and screamed as loud as I could. And I could scream loud! Rick screamed too, as we whooshed down one hill and began our ascent of the second hill, and repeat the whole ride again.

Afterwards, we saw two little old ladies with their blue starched hair bristling and tsk-tsking us for our dirty knees, as we ordered cotton candy, a tribute to their hairstyles. The sugar melted before I even had our first bite. After all, it is pure sugar, and now my hands were sticky to match my the knees.

We then climb aboard the ferris wheel, my least favorite, and the scariest ride, as there appears to be little to no support, and the seat just rocks, rocks, rocks, creaking, and threatening to spill us over the top so that we plunge to our certain deaths. It never happens though, and my fear is just pure adrenaline borrowed from an afternoon of joy. He begins the rocking motion until I beg him to stop. I feel weaker in his presence, my being two inches shorter. Rick and I celebrate our birthdays at Lakeside. We both were born in summer months, and the park is open until ten o' clock, with the lights illuminating the rides, and lightning bugs filling the steep warm air.

Summer. It's summer, the best time for best friends to hang out, to celebrate their tenth birthdays, eat foot long hot dogs with chili, talk about girls, how gross I think they are, how beautiful Rick now finds them. I secretly remain silent. It's a time to reminisce, a time to visit, a time to revisit.

Liberation

This is an earlier piece of work that I found in a pile of old papers that somehow I like. It is an old poem of mine, and my writing style has changed, but I thought I would resurrect it from the vaults.

Liberation


It required more
Than cerulean hopes
Custard dreams
And cranberry promises
Both bitter and sour
Spoiling the now
Ultimately unsatisfying,
More deserving

So when the door slammed
Shut
A liberation of the masses
Evolved in empty prison cells
And a swarm of swallows
Singing "No more!"
And proudly
I opened my eyes
Now misted in consecrated truths


By, Michael Wayne Holland
©2008-2009

I Am

I Am


As I lay down in feathered sheets and mossy pillows,
I lie awake and stare, just stare out the window watching
the blistering moon count sapphire stars, and as Jupiter
winks at Mars, I am aware that I'm still alive. The heart
beats -- pa dump, pa dump -- and my arms and festering
legs respond as I wiggle my fingers and toes.

I wasn't supposed to be here, the sly virus having raided
innocent T4 cells, who were supposed to respond in kind,
but instead died maliciously by the raging sickness within.
Six months, the doctors had said, and I had nodded, stunned
into silence, watching the woolen world melt away
into sunless days and starless nights, as silken soil
was poured upon my sullen carcass, unmoving, unmoving.
I fade into reality as the polite physician tells me about nutrition,
the value of vitamins and minerals that would extend
my tremulous life for a short while. Maybe I should take
up smoking, I think unflinching.

There is no cure, still no cure, but twenty-four yearning
years later, I am still here. I won't kid you by saying
the journey was completely worth the brittle moments
and bitter tantrums, but parts of it have been beautiful.
I came out about this viligent virus to my parents,
my palpable fear overwhelming me, so afraid of raging
rejection. The truth is, in the end, we became closer.
Dad, now gone, was the first to be told the news, followed
by my weeping mother who called me as I remained solid,
informing her that the new cocktail would change
Western medicine. She stopped crying. Relief flooded me.

The gift I was granted, that I earned, was the be here,
be present, and to remain grateful. I try this for moments
of time, and sometimes succeed. When I do, I feel proud.
I'm alive; I'm here. A special thanks to my therapist,
who helps dismantle the nonsense layer by layer by layer.
It's not the luscious life I had planned, but it is the life
that unfolded like a budding daffodil in Spring,
and the journey is the journey, a jungle amidst solid concrete,
a way to unravel unsavory misconceptions, to heal,
to take my rightful place among the living.

I am alone, always alone, but I stand amongst others
who also feel alone, not lonely, following their pomegranate
paths, to a ripe, fruitful future. I am. I am. I am.

Meeting Debbie Shelton

Meeting Debbie Shelton

She was like a lovely monarch, floating from flower to flower. That's how she remains in my memory to this day. My first and only meeting with her was when I was seven years old. My neighbor, Whitney Webb's family was having a barbecue in her honor -- Debbie Shelton. Her banner read Miss Virginia USA, while she sweetly talked about patriotism, the Vietnam war, and women's rights, as she nibbled on some peach cobbler, while wearing a bubblegum pink halter and bell bottomed jeans. This memory, this faded memory, is somewhat foggy, but her face is stuck indelibly in my memory bank.

I was quite shy as I watched her dazzle her guests. Of course, it wasn't technically her party, but she was the hostess for sure, and besides, no one minded while being in the presence of royalty. She had raven black hair down to her waist, and sky blue eyes, almost like marble, and a long, regal neck, and on a table set up in her honor was the tiara she was presented with when she won her title. I know I was young, but I still wondered what a rhinestone crown had to do with the war. But she was graceful and gracious, impeccably mannered, and her smile was warm and inviting., not like Cynthia Shoemaker at school who pinched my arm at every opportunity.

Whitney finally introduced me to Debbie, and I was literally starstruck. I felt faint. If I had known what smelling salts were, I would have asked for them. I seriously needed to splash my face with icy, cold water. After Whitney officially introduced us -- "and this is my cousin, Debbie Shelton, Miss Virginia" -- Debbie turned to me and said:

"Why aren;t you the cutest and sweetest little boy". My face flushed scarlet.

And then she picked me up and sat me on her lap. I remember feeling embarrassed, I mean, I was seven years old, but I was also the shortest boy in my class next to Arnold Plymale, who somehow looked and sounded like he was destined to be a dentist -- thick black glasses, shiny big teeth, and shocking red hair. I was small enough to be confused with a kindergartener.

"How old are you?" Debbie cooed.

"Seven...um...er...your majesty."

Debbie laughed really hard at that remark, and my face went from scarlet to plum.

"What's your favorite subject in school?"

"Geography,"I replied, "and I can name all the states and state capitals in alphabetical order," I said suddenly feeling humiliated at my awkward remark, and lack of social skills, even for a seven year old.

"How adorable," Debbie said. "Can you name them for me right now?" Oh crap, I thought after being placed on the spot. I looked over at Whitney who smirked at me. "Show off," she mouthed at me. My face took on an odd blue hue as I felt like a trapped rat backed into a corner by dozens of cats.

"Montgomery, Alabama. Juneau, Alaska..." I began, and as I continued, Debbie would clap, and pretty soon, the rest of the guests were clapping too. Whitney looked like a pent up prisoner with a shiv in her hand. My face turned an atrocious green.

Afterward, Debbie kissed me on the cheek, and after being coaxed by her relatives and guests, she put on that tiara and looked every bit like a beauty queen at a car show. She waved for her guests. It's a day I will never forget, and no one has ever remained so beautiful in my mind's eyes

Debbie went on to win Miss USA that year, the second time in succession for the state of Virginia, and she seemed destined to win Miss Universe, until she was robbed of the title by Miss Puerto Rico, who looked like a sheep herder's daughter with a poodle's haircut. The winner would go on to oblivion as far as the public knew, while Debbie ended up securing a role as Mandy in the television series "Dallas".

I will always wonder if she remembers that shy awkward boy who was so memorized by her warmth and beauty. Certainly many men over the course of her years were as mesmerized as I had been. But, the barbecue caused me to watch her on television at Miss Universe that year, where tears streamed down my cheeks as she was announced first runner-up. I rubbed mt eyes and looked at my mother. "It isn't fair," I said. "It just isn't fair."

"Oh hush honeybun," my mother replied. "Yes, she was the fairest of them all, by FAR, but she is going to do just fine, She be just fine. Wait. You'll see I'm right."

And while people ,ay not know she played the body double in the film "Body Double", or that she was working on the highest rated television show of its era, one thing my mother was right about. Debbie had done just fine. Just fine. And she had only herself to credit.

Rainbow

This is my response to I'd Pick More Daisies


Rainbows



If I had to live my life over, I would live with fewer regrets,
respond to others with more grace and forgiveness,
and manage to forgive myself for just being human.

If I had to live my life over, I would travel more to misty lands,
absorb creamy cultures, and observe the commonality
in us all. I would eat new things, try on and wear new
adventures, and listen and learn from newly made friends.

I'd allow others in more than I do now, live authentically
more frequently, and whisper sweet secrets in return.
I'd stop and smell the roses, watch a spider spin her web,
walk barefoot on the beach as often as possible,
not like I do now. I'd kiss more babies, read more of the classics,
even modern, and understand the backlight of human experiences.

If I had to live my life over, I'd know sooner what I learned
later, and express my gratitude for skinning my knees
and bruising my ego, even when it really hurt. I'd enjoy
the present, what is, not what was, or even what will be,
as we are constantly changing, evolving.

If I had to live my life over, I would allow myself to become
a sponge, absorb the lessons life has taught. I would handle
the big misfortunes, and I would worry less about the things
I cannot change.

I'd treat my body with more respect, walk taller,
become more confident in my very own essence
in this moment, this very moment. I'd pet more dogs,
hug more trees, listen to the crashing waves,
comprehending its canter and language, as I watched
the tide rob sand from the shore.

If I had to live my life over, I'd be a better friend, a better
listener, and a better partner. I'd love unconditionally.
I'd count more stars in the sky, know more constellations
and ride the tail of a comet and let it take me wherever
it intended to go.

I'd soar over fields of tulips, rest in beds of heather.
I'd hug others more. I'd plant more seeds and sit back
and watch things grow, and smile at a world full of miracles.
I'd chase more rainbows.

Speak To Me

Speak To Me

I hear what you say peripherally as you smile, touch
my arm, blush, and it's not so much what you say
as it is the nature of the flirt. I find myself nodding
at you, you with the mocha eyes, and jet black hair,
you with the effervescent charm, the kind smile,
whispering raspberry kisses.

I think of our first date, how knee knocking nervous
I was, how the conversation felt forced, my inner critic
seeking to nullify this connection. I remember
you asking if I was as nervous as you were, and I relaxed,
and melted a little as our minds melded, stopping
time for just a fraction. I can smell your toffee whispers
from that night, and I accidentally leaned against
the inside gate, ringing apartments 10 and 12 by mistake,
how my neighbor called out “who's ringing the bell”,
as we both hid in shadow and giggled, full of warmth,
full of connection.

So here we are again, and you are talking, and the words
don't matter, but they do, but they don't. You are
the ultimate poem. Your words have a rhythm in time
and space that speak to all parts of me, from within
and out.

Speak to me. Keep talking and cooing, Speak to me.
I will smile and hopefully you will melt, as our arms
brush against each other, and I will shiver
ever so slightly. Speak to me. Speak to me.
Speak only to me.

Disintegration

Disintegration


Liquid whispers turn into shimmering shouts on a dime,
leaving me thoroughly bewildered and afraid.
My heart pounds thunderously threatening to bolt
from my body on to a sticky train track as it assumes
its fate: defeated, flattened, damaged.
I ought to offer you thanks for uncovering things
now rather than later, but the pain is
palpable, viable, present,and it threatens my growth.
The throat has a liquid lump, and my belly expands
like pulled taffy, engorging, leaving me to fight for a breath
that will maintain sustenance. And the sweet tears
find me at my loneliest, at night in charcoal darkness,
underneath stifling sheets that tentatively
offer solace, comfort. I apologize for mistakes
not made,and you apologize in a moment
of pulverized clarity.

“Apology accepted”, I find myself saying.

Why is that I feel farther from you than Neptune’s breath
or Mercury’s fickle ways? Accepting what is in brilliant sunlight
or fragile shadows leaves invisible scars and a frayed ego,
things that can be repaired in time, but never forgotten.
It is in my nature to ask why. Why? I desire closure
that will not come, the closure required to move on, but rigid reality
plays her trump card, and I resign that I’ve been played yet again.

The truth stares at me, smiling her wicked smile, '
and still I wonder: what now? What now?
Only I can answer, and still I ask: what now?

Drowning

Drowning

He wept, sliding, down, down, down
where only an angel could touch
his bleeding heart, grabbing
the percocet and valium,
pouring gin into his glass.

He popped all the pills, all of them,
ingesting all of the medicine,
sobering him somewhat,
just enough to know he had pushed
the envelope too far stamping
the letter himself: unmailed.

He prayed to God one last time:
"Don't abandon me Jesus."
Laying down his weary head,
waiting for his final sleep,
warm dreams of a better place,
swallowing him whole.

(C) Michael W. Holland, 2011

Let's Go!

Let's Go

Whisk me away; let's escape
to a tangerine paradise disguised,
as two hearts pound, pound, pound,
no reticence, no hesitation,
just returning to transparent whispers
from liquid lovers who will go the mile.

Head towards me not sail
away into personal mystery
and forlorn fog, but join me
at this island of two.
Take the journey. Wash away fear.
There is no right or wrong,

just salty expressions,
and chocolate kisses that emerge,
become one, allowing the symbiosis
to collide, making me whole,
making you whole, making us,
us as we were meant to be.

Speak To Me

I hear what you say peripherally
as you smile, touch my arm, blush,
and it is not so much what you say,
as it is the nature of the flirt,
the yin and yang. I find myself nodding
at you with the mocha eyes,and jet black hair,
you with the effervescent charm,
the kind smile, and cherry lips.

I think of our first date,
how knee knocking nervous I was,
how I forced the conversation,
the tight smile, my inner critic seeking
to nullify this connection. I remember
you asking: "Are you as nervous as I am?"
and I relaxed, and melted a little
as our minds melded, stopping time
for just a fraction. I can still taste
your raspberry kisses from that night
as I accidentally leaned against the inside
door, ringing apartments 102 and 103 by mistake,
how my neighbor shouted out - "Who's ringing
the bell at this hour?" - as we both hid
on the shadows and giggled, full of warmth
and connection.

So here we are once again, and you are talking,
and the words don't matter, but they do,
but they don't. You are the ultimate poem.
Your banter has a rhythm in time and space
that speak to all parts of me, from within,
and out.

Speak to me. Keep talking. Speak to me please.
I will smile and you will nod, my arm
will brush against yours, and I will shiver
ever so slightly.

Speak to me. Speak to me. Speak only to me.

(C) 2011

M is for Mother

M is for Mother

She sits quietly, staring diligently at the television,
as she watches Shelley slap Paul for sleeping with Deidre,
or smiling when Ken blackmails Joyce after he discovers
the DNA test results that prove that Samuel is Raven's real father.
She watches this serial every day, every day, whether the leaves
outside are turning plum or tangerine, or if the snow cascades
off bristling tree branches.

Every morning she has half a cantaloupe with a small yogurt,
coffee black, as she sits on the bar stool by the kitchen counter,
talking small deliberate bites, always leaving about one third
of the fruit uneaten. She sits in darkness, whether it is sunny
outside, or whether the moon hangs gingerly in the midnight sky.
Such is her world.

At nine-thirty every night, she settles into bed, listening
to Mike Huckabee, or and old rerun of The Virginian
on the television, or she calls her friend Helen
to check in, say goodnight, before repeating the same routing
again tomorrow, finding comfort in these rituals.

Occasionally, she will go with Duane to the grocery store
as he hustles to grab two percent milk and tv dinners
to place into the cart. He will then drive her home laughing
at her witty observations, how people talk to their pets
as if they were children or how children outfool
slick, strict parents. She is always spot on, even if she cannot
actually see.

Sometimes she will sit in silence listening to the whir
of the washing machine, or to the clink, clink, clink
of the ice maker, waiting until 5 p.m., when her neighbor
Susie will come to rap on her door bellowing,
“Where's my drink”, to which she will reply
“I thought you'd never come.” They will laugh and talk
about emerging taxes, the state of the nation's economy,
how her husband left her far too soon, or how her friends,
one by one, are passing on, leaving her to face the new day
alone, or how grateful she is for having watched
the world change in the past century, or how lucky
she is to have the love of her granddaughters who call twice
a week, making her laugh and smile.

She sees, but she doesn't see, and somehow, in some way,
she accepts what is, and does not question why not, or allows
to feel sorry for herself. She can accept this because the world
is going to change anyway, and all she can do is hang on for the ride.
Just hold on. Just hold on tight. All she can do is hold on.

Demon Dreams

Demon Dreams

The midnight sun hangs, teasingly,
whispering: “you're not asleep, but you can't wake up.”
My eyes are shut, but I can see endless nights
and blistering days. Outside, all is bright, so bright:
raspberry sun against a chocolate sky, the grass chartreuse
while giant butterflies, electric, pink and blue fly
in circles.

It all seems like nonsense, only I know where I am, and I plead
to wake up, but seemingly can't, and silent screams
only make the jade devil dance. He is lying
beside me, eyes closed, seeing, mouth closed, snickering,
threatening to move at a magnetic moment, seize the victory.
For now he just waits, waits.

I cry, but no tears flow, and I scream “No” in my heave head
as I feel him on top of me once again. Of God no.
Not again. I push back, but there are too many rocks
in my path. I shudder, quietly, accept defeat,
I feel my heart burn tears into my sizzling skin.
Resist. Resist, But my thoughts are no longer my own
and I reply. No. Just relinquish, and all I will have to bear
is your scar. Resist. Resist. Relinquish.

The dark devil smiles. He remains asleep, but he is always present,
always amongst us all. Were we so foolish as to think
he could be destroyed? He is the chip on our shoulders,
the sarcastic response to a liquid lover, the silence
we carry when we watch as the world around us hurts,
or when we are passively respond, indifferent.
Yes you. You too. You too. No one leaves unscathed.

Somewhere between this sleep, between this awakening,
I hear you breathing, that custard breath that used to rest
beside me, feeling warmth on my neck,
but no one;s there. No one's there.

I resist once more, pull towards the light, out of this nightmare,
towards wakening, awakening, but there I am alone
trapped, trapped in this dream of icicle merry-go-rounds
spinning. Spinning. Spinning.

Listless

Groan
Morning again
Alarm clamors, then screams
Time to hit the snooze
Snore for another nine minutes
Until the next clang of the clock
No, not today
He would remain in a state of semi-consciousness
Truth is
He had no where to be, nothing to do
To sleep or not
It consumed his life like a half-eaten roast
He rolled over once, pulled off the outer blanket
The right temperature to --
CLANG, CLANG, CLANG
Damn it to Hell
This time he turned the menace off
Lying there, he wished for a way out of this snare
A place to go
Someone to see, to be
A purpose
We all need that
But he was dumbfounded
Not a slow thinker, just overwhelmed
When you have vertigo, there is literally only one place to land
Down to the ground, the hard surface
His dreams reflected his mood
Edgy, silent, depressed
A conch shell without the sound of the sea
Drifting on a raft over boundless waves
Taking him to no shores
Just the ocean below with all the dangers
Sharks, sting rays, jelly fish
Friends had slowly backed off
Strange how that happens
Where are you when I need you?
It was a question to be repeated
A murmur, a constant buzz
Sliding into his brittle heart
Once so generous and full
The king of his throne
Now the bed was his owner
Sanctuary and prison
A trap not to be trusted
No he thought
Better to sleep
No need to dwell in dark corners
Empty playgrounds
Slumber offers at least some solace
Tears salty
Face flushed
Dreams shattered
It was his domain
And his only
Sleep
Sleep

Written by Michael W. Holland (c) 2008

Skin

Skin

It wasn't your tender smile,
nor was it that look you get,
when the planets unite, join.
It was your skin softly caressing
my own; your touch remains
and fills me like a good earnest
novel, one that is a memory
implanted, folded into a box,
sealed into my faithful heart,
opened for rainy days
when you are gone.

When you are not with me,
I open the my present with the key
unveiling secret delights,
that coo, whisper in my ear,
unbridled love eternal,
never forgotten, nor forsaken.
It's all for me you see, us,
erasing stormy, mossy skies,
unleashing golden sun.

I wait patiently for your spirit,
leading me down lightly tread
paths into sunset worlds,
where princes slay dragons,
demolishing frozen nightmares recurrent,
your skin next to mine, always present,
as it was meant to be, just us two,
welcoming shimmering starry nights,
love eternal, without reservation.

© 2011, by Michael Wayne Holland

Grandma

This is one of the first poems I ever wrote. It was written in the summer of 2007 at the Writing Salon, with Chris DeLorenzo teaching. I have followed him ever since, so grateful for finding a method and a muse.


Grandma


We would always pass by it in the car
on the way to Grandma's:
the dilapidated building
held up by splintered wooden legs,
the façade about to cave in from lack
of strength, threatening to tumble
and roll in our direction.
Empty tanks stood tall like towers in the front:
three of them – one, two three.
The sign in front read "GAS" -- G-A-S,
but the cavities remained still.

It always filled me with melancholy,
that station: deserted, no friends to welcome it, to visit,
abandoned and eroded, weathered like Grandma's
face, the lines traced together to form a Picasso.
No doubt she had lived a life unimagined, but not uninspired:
She had seen countless wars over the course
of her eighty-one years. She helped in harvesting the farm,
living off it, up at 5 a.m. and asleep by 8:30 every night,
planning unearned, often unpleasant chores for tomor

I recall on those adventures spendid,
was passing that tired, run-down gas station,
only ten more minutes before the car turned left
onto the gravel, dirt road,
room for only one vehicle at a time,.
Around the bend, the small church stood,
congregation of thirty-five,
then down the slope to the schoolhouse,
closed long ago before World War Two,
passing fields of corn, tall and elegant,
proud of the precious fruit they bore.

Finally in the distance – Grandma's house!
She was always waiting out in front,
I had no idea of how long she had been standing
there, wearing her white cotton dress
with tiny blue flowers, something she had made
and worn for a thousand summers,
not a stain to be seen. There she was smiling,
waving, allowing the 1968 Chevrolet
to come to a full halt. I was always the first
to open the door, run into her arms,
first generation to third.

Grandma may have lived the bulk of her existence
on that farm, gathering vegetables and cow's milk,
baking fruit pies, cooling on open window sills,
cooking braised roast every night for the farm hands,
later watching Walter Cronkite deliver the catastrophes
of the day. Still, there was never a person kinder,
wiser, more tolerant of life's paradoxes,
flying with the wind, not resisting the tension,
forever loving, soft-spoken and funny.
She could observe simplicity
and make it appear profound.

It was my favorite vacation:
the farm itself a young boy's playground,
six hundred acres of pure bliss,
hanging out with my cousins,
walking past the barn, down to the creek,
where we would swim, laugh and play,
with nothing complicated, never a worry,
always grateful for what I had.

Stood Up

I actually wrote this poem as I was waiting for a date that never showed. Nice, huh? I called the guy and his excuses were lame. Oh well, it is not a great piece of writing, but it amused me at the time.


Stood Up


You could have called you know
I was waiting, waiting, waiting
You said you'd be an hour
Now, three hours have passed
Time for a drink

Alibis do not tell the whole story
You're hiding behind unscripted lies
A simple "I'm sorry I couldn't be there"
How easy is that?
Truth lives despite excuses

Well, the truth has spoken even if you haven't
I do not need to see the writing on the wall
It's printed in spades
What you do not understand is
Everyone is reading it

Written by Michael Holland (c) 2007

Choose

Things should fit like how the gentle rain
caresses sweet honeysuckle, yielding
to electric dew spirals which lapse
into slumber, as the dense ground
defers, slips, melts away, creating an abyss
of tangerine lemon auburn,
now void of bleak existence,
a place where falling is continuous
and unrelenting, as if in a vacuum.

It's not death, or even rebirth,
or even something to fear,
but at brilliant meteoric speeds,
you either embrace
what you do not know,
or reject the reality,
as it taunts you with its dizzying
somersaults and spins.

Until you face it directly,
the connection you felt
remains hidden, even coveted,
stuck between midnight freedom
and twilight wonder. No, there are no monsters
under the bed sheets, nor spiders lurking
in that hallway of arms, the ones
that always reach, grab, seize,
and the river that runs
through splitting hairs,
the one that pleads allegiance
to the most convincing
unconvincing reality is seeking
to find you a way out if you pay attention.

So the question is: what's more important?
Taking unseen, unknown, uncalculated risks?
Or inhabiting the safe, the stable,
the predictable?

Either way, there is no safety net,
nothing to catch you,
from your own choices,
There is no judgment
but their could be repercussions
in mind and spirit, if you reject
that knot in your stomach,
burning with faithfulness.
But, if you listen, but truly listen,
rather than vanishing in your indecision,
the specter is simply invisible, transparent.

Now is the time to reveal secret
codes, trust sacred confidantes, pay the piper,
unscramble puzzle pieces. Or you may opt
for the foreseeable: security.

It's up to you.
And only you.
Choose!

(C) Michael Wayne Holland 2011

Summer

Yes, I know it is spring, at least here in San Francisco, but I yearn for summer.

Summer
 
Blistering heat, humidity sparing
no one, steals my breath,
and the air conditioner hums
my tune as I sit in front
of it, air spraying cool sunshine,
on overexposed pores.

The sweat is now dissipating
and my brother scowls.
because I am absorbing
pure delicious coolness
while he sits and sputters:
"Move out of the way!
We all need to cool off!"

So I step aside looking outdoors,
noticing the hyacinth. She doesn't appear
particularly flustered by unbearable
salty heat. In fact, she radiates, smiling
at me: flirting, purring, beckoning
me to join them outside,
but I am too smart to listen
to the coo of some flattering flower.
I stay inside, lying on my back
behind the couch, just under this slice
of frosty Heaven. And I hope
that tomorrow brings wealthy thunderstorms
glowering their disapproval
of that monstrous citrus sun,
that has dominated now for days on end
making itself felt, known, forgiving
nothing.

But I yearn now for the rain that will pour,
weeping in sheer delight, while we meager
mortals thrill, rejoice
in a cool day, just one cool day.

(C) 2010, Michael Wayne Holland

Incredulous (A Rant)

Incredulous (A Rant)

You may be exceptionally bright,
just not particularly modest.
You may be correct, most times,
but are you likable?
You tell me. You appear to know
more than I do.

I bow down before you,
you the king, an Adonis.
Frankly, my back just hurts:
the pressure, your magnitude,
that you ask me to hold
for you, brilliantly shining
in the Universe, which you seem
to own, parts of it, that is.

But, the one thing you relish
that you can never have is my soul:
that's right, my soul.

How about a slice of humble pie?
I'll slice you a piece.

(c) Michael W. Holland (2008)

Conversation

Conversation

Their bickering is like a cacophony of blue-jays
sparring, spewing, taking sarcastic jabs, stabbing
aimlessly. I see the seething hostility,
like a hot steaming pot ready to boil over, emitting
hot gasses and scalding water, scarring
recklessly.

From where I sit looking up, all I can see
are faces: Mr. and Mrs. Potato Head,
with expressions distorted, almost comical,
but whispering in infuriated tones.
Frowns, smiles turned upside
down, like murderous outlaws.

I am asked to finish my peas. I hate
peas. They are mushy, with texture
like baby food. My brother mixes
his with mashed potatoes, while feeding
the flavorless meatloaf to the dogs under the table.
They gratefully lap it up.

My aunt and uncle are oblivious, waging a war
that escalates, each claiming prized territories,
lands protected by an army of hate,
but both are overpowered by their own opposing
forces. We watch the skirmish, afraid to move,
dodging their spears and javelins, thrown senselessly.

My sibling and I are trapped at dinner,
unable to be excused, our plates still half full,
milk still in our glasses. We must eat everything
on our plate, gobbling what they were deprived,
having grown up in the Depression.

I am no longer hungry. Instead I want to hide,
shrink and fade into the darkened dusk,
avoiding both feuding opponents.
I am stuck in their web, sucked in like a fisherman
who reels in a trout. I am being de-boned,
my head is lopped off. I am now the entrée.

"Eat your peas!"

My aunt's noticeable exasperation
is drowning her once omnipotent voice,
frustration now giving away to tears.
My uncle falls silent as a silver stone,
face pulled tight, grimacing, reminding
me of an unstable clown. At any moment,
he might erupt into laughter, at some demented
joke, only things will not turn out the way
it had been designed.

And, I feel helpless, weary of their aggression.
How much longer must I endure this?
When will Mom and Dad return from their trip?
A few days? A week? Hours seems like years.
I ask to be excused. Defeated, they consent.
The warriors now occupy their terrain,
so they relent. I get down and walk towards
the den, the television a welcome distraction.
I can now try and forget.


© copy right 2011, Michael W. Holland

Dogwood Days

It is a fact. She sits in glistening darkness
most of the time as bitter blood flows
through fragile veins, pulsing, hearing
the beat of her heart, the beat of robust rain,
a beat that alludes defeat, and I always make certain
that across the room she has flower smiling
brightly at her. Yellow daffodils are her favorite,
and out of a pale pinhole, she can see, just barely
see, see the crystal vase full of something
so exquisite, it warms her, soothes her, brings
buoyant joy in a pure package, just for her.

She never complains of limitations. Instead,
she talks about the dogwood tree
that grew in the yard when she lived
farm as a young girl, how majestic and full
of life it possessed, so vital, unabashedly unafraid,
just growing and feeding is rich soil.
Or she speaks of the magnolia that only displayed
three three buds the year my father passed,
and how the very next year, the branches
were full with blossoms, or hoe in late summer,
she could smell and taste the honeysuckle
hailing from the open field just across the street
from the first house she lived in after marrying
my father. And how the rosemary grew wild
as she would pluck it and use in her baked chicken.

She sees out of that tiny, tiny precious pinhole,
but all she sees is something vivid, something
beautiful, and tells stories, stories most people
take for granted, stories that should be told
to grandchildren, stories that should be passed
on from generation to generation, stories
some people will embellish, or some people
forget, stories that quiet and comfort
my soul, and make me appreciate her: my mom,
her challenges, how she views beauty, just sees beauty,
just beauty, and comprehends, and never complains
or feels pity for herself. That is the true gift
she taught me, one that I do not forget,
one that I know, love, and leaves me breathtakingly
speechless.

Parting Glances

Parting Glances

Silently, we face each other
not a thought shared, nor a whispering
wind to cut the tension. Watching you
chew on that muffin, I dig deep
to betray my disgust. Yes, you disgust
me, pretending there is something
worthy, that we are substantially
more than what we have become.

You believe you know who I am, thoughts
blurred in your mind, bending truths
that validate perceptions. Better
to keep your enemies close they say,
whoever “they” are, those magicians
who dance with snake charmers and kiss.
babies. But, you aren't what you say
you are either. Why don't you just admit
it? Let's just have one honest moment,
the moon illuminating your mind,
spilling out the words that need to be heard:

"It's over"!

No pretense, no assertions that I care,
delivering you to your fate, the lion's den,
where you are certain to be the main course.
Your ego would not have it any other way.
You pay the price for your treason,
doused in a vat of spiders immersed
with poison. Naturally, It is not as venomous
as my glare.

You wouldn't notice a dragonfly
if flew into , your eyes, but my presence
is just an apparition, as if I had never occupied
this space with you, no footprints
to be recalled, parting words muffled, invisible,
with your talent to disregard and uncouple.

One day you will look into the heavenly bodies,
feeling spent and alone, all the while wondering
to yourself: "What's that? I recognize that
brightness". Surprise, it has a name:
me!

(C) Michael W. Holland 2011

Blackout

Between twilight and the black
of night, you slip by unnoticed.
Ship of fools, I sail away.
forbidden waters are forever my
home. You understand, having traveled
to icy waters yourself. I am seduced
by your wisdom. See,
no one truly comprehends
my salty adventure,
my internal dialogue.

You have to have been through darkness
seen the light from the tunnel
of stars, navigated through strange
and morbid paths, having forgotten
all taught to you.

No one can help me now, except possibly
you. I will blithely cruise to new continents,
blinded by faith, but not blinded
by your effervescence.
I feel safe. Is that a crime?
If so, I have committed treason
against my very own emotions,
backing away, backing into you.

Let's escape together
never turning back
The future is without hesitation.
Now is the time,
cobalt blackness replaced
by dawns sunflower glistening
brght.

Poetics

Poetics

I am not going to write a poem about you, even though you intrinsically
know how I feel about you, the way my skin burns at the slightest
touch, or how I can sleep in brittle cold with your lips against
the back of my neck, or how the Heavens move, pushing
past me like an exploding supernova.

I am not going to write a poem about you just because I dig
your stubborn nature, and sweet, generous heart you have disguised
as pure bravado, even though I see right through your words
and into silver shadow lands, into a melting heart that blazes,
past and present.

I am not going to write a poem about you just because yes, sixteen
years ago I knew then what I know now, and you’ve changed,
and so have I, and we are respectively more complete versions
of our incomplete selves, but somehow it is okay, and I am working
with all this jazz.

I am not going to write a poem about you, just because I lost you once
and I may lose you again, and I will take my licks and bruises,
and challenge you to find the best in imperfections, and just trust
that it can still fit imperfectly, if you just give it a chance, and breathe,
just breathe.

I am not going to write a poem about you just because I’ve moved
on and we are now the newer, older versions, maybe wiser, maybe not,
but it’s cool, and yes, did I mention the Heavens that moved,
your lips against my neck, and how my skin burns? Well, I guess
I did say that.

And I am not going to write a poem about you just because you know
I will anyway, and it makes me a little crazy, but it tickles me
that you have figured that part of me out, something others claim
I do, but haven’t yet, and probably never will, but they will believe
what they want anyway.

I am not going to write a poem about you just because your voice
is the last one I want to hear before I go to bed, just because
I get insecure too – two? – and you know I have your number,
and that I can call anytime I want, but I won’t do that since
I know I can already.

I am not going to write a poem about you just because I can,
and after all, I am a writer, and a storyteller, and well, you said
so yourself that I should just mention names and put it out there Javier,
so well, there I went and did all the very things I said I wouldn’t,
because I am incapable of lying to you.

I am not going to write a poem about you, because I just did.

(C) 2011 Michael W. Holland