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