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

Wake Me

Wake Me


Wake me up from my slumber:
dreams of fish swim deliciously,
reality beckons,
chores need completing.
My mind yearns for stimulation
until I am ready for sleep.

Wake me, but cautiously so:
dreams cares only warm waves and sun,
daylight argues over dusk,
truth's anecdote craves meaning.
Thoughts and ideas combine
before I lay in fields of feather down.

Wake me, but beware,
for dreams hold me under its spell.
No more simplicity;
honest afternoons emerge,
gauzy feelings pin me down
and back to bed I go for fantasy.

Exposure

Exposure
 
Blistering moonbeams expose,
even in unforgiving blackness.
Perhaps it is not overtly witnessed,
but you know Intrinsically,
you know that something you protected,
held sacred is no longer hidden.
This masquerade ball has ended
leaving, just you, alone.

It could be a shift in mood,
in expression, that reveals
a heart dispassionate, not intending
to hurt a soul so gentle,
the one who wants you
the way you are, just are, so unworthy
of sanctified kisses, as you are, stagnant
and stale.

Maybe it's in the glint of the eye,
longing to be wrapped in thunderous
whispers, driving the guilt and uncertainty
away, because afterward, you may become
complicit strangers, familiar yet foreign,
in your new found knowledge,
hoping for possibly more, or perhaps
just calling a spade a spade.

Maybe it was enough for then.
What if what you truly choose
to express is just an openness,
a clear view inward to claret
thoughts, and outwardly an honesty
prized for those who understand,
get it, want it, desire it, even covet
it, hoping to be part
of it? And what if they already trust
what you are just now realizing,
and although they see you that you are running,
you may be running to treasure rich
and unexpected? Or plunging into mysterious
pools that can elevate or destroy you?

It's subtle, and it could be all, or nothing at all
Out of these meanderings, windows can open.
The angels can see in, and the demons
may flee, eager for you to pull the night
into citrus sunshine, elegant and pure,
so you can discover a way to your process
your junk and venomous poison.

Like it or not, you will ultimately venture
into your forbidden subconscious.
Openness has its price; it can lead
you to scarlet truths, emerald hopes,
and lavender dreams, if you will open the door
and walk through it.