Protector (A Collab With Author Karen Dewitt)

* Karen and I have for a while now been in sync with each other as we continue to dig deeper into our works to get to another level. She is my muse, and I am happy to say, she has been a beacon of hope for me. I hope you like what we have pit together.


I cling tightly, to the inner maze of the soul
cushioning the blows of nature, the birds as they mingle unnoticed
I lay on a dreaming pillow, trimmed in the highlights of life's forgotten
as horizontal trains billow down the runway of my heart

Forging, furrowing ditches through me

Clinging tightly to the runway of my heart-
Reaching far, and wide... tickets in my wrinkly palm stretched,
ready for the journey that will take me to another dimensional zone, untouched
Through mountain escapism's and wandering meadow encounters
becoming entrenched within the lining of infinity, and empathy

Reading your mind... the mountains you've climbed

Reaching far, panoramic whispers- the lining of my psyche-
A large boulder extended across the span of my existence, detouring me
to a place I know nothing of, outlined by sadness, pain, and waterfall eyes
The atmosphere fills itself with fate's perfumes, an admiring aura stands still
touching the depths of all the cosmos, plateau's, and infinite portraits

You cannot surrender... for fighting through, clawing with fingers

A substantial stone and limitless paintings-
Though I do not proclaim to understand my presence,
I face both my future and past in one steely glare.
I say nothing, know nothing, except bitter instinct
which shelters me from smoldering suns and tremulous rains,
opening floodgates from the Heavens, washing my torso bare.

I stand up to the olde world, pushing through the universe-

Though I do not declare my torso nude-
I confront pain directly, staring unashamedly
at its face, afraid that the willowy wind will blow me away
to another nether-region that is not home, nor foreign a place,
and I wonder why I have been the one sought to bare all,
to risk whatever is coveted in order to protect others and self in unison.
Solace, alas, finds me withered in a dusky corner.


(C) All Rights Reserved, 2012

Stormy

Your daydream dances inside my head,
tantalizing me like a languid lover
headed for a freight train,
about to jump its tracks:

careless,
reckless,
out of control.

When you declared you were leaving
my heart cried foul, and the searing
shock of your assault pummeled
me to treacherous ground.

What was I to fathom?
Anxiety invaded my body
like a careless hurricane drowned
in corpuscles and veins,
until I had no direction.
Comfort left my sacred house,
while depression moved in,
inhabiting even the darkest
of sullen corners and surly shadows.

It was a violation of my consummate lovel,
so much so that I capsized
like an engulfed barge
trapped in lethal tidal waves.
So much of my pearly essence
was attached to your churlish charm;
my confidence, my conviction, my integrity,
buzzed hastily out the postern door
like a bullet speedily exiting a gun,
leaving me a balance of debris:

repugnance,
acrimony,
abhorrence.

Yet, you refused to relinquish
the devious imprint you callously
seared on my indignant soul.

Look within I say.

Then one creamy morning
I awoke to a steely stillness
within, and I meticulously conceived
that only an abysmal abomination
can take me down for the count.
Like a lassoed bull stubbornly
fighting against brawny rope,
I succumbed rather than resisted,
abandoning your torturous reign
and I stepped up to the plate,
amplified through self acceptance,
and somehow sidestepped
your wicked potion. I affirmed
that I was your perilous antidote,
to your treacherous venom,
your Achilles Heel, your weapon
of mass destruction,
and it could not have materialized
at a more enlightened milestone.

Chronic

^ This piece was conceived in my writing group, and I was able to dig pretty deep for it. It is not poetry this time, but prose. I hope you enjoy it, or appreciate it.

The weary world wreaked havoc, day in, day out, breathe in, breathe out. Worrisome weeks passed, sometimes months, but the chromatic feelings pursued him, taking a stranglehold, until he would nearly choke.

The pins and needles in his periphery began about seventeen years ago, planting themselves in his left toes and the balls of his feet, slowly evolving as they sleepily stretched out across the ankles and rapidly raced up his calves, until just below the knee. The fuzzy sensations in his extremities turned cold, then numb, but thankfully the severe shooting pains were intermittent, and mostly only bothered him when was about to fall asleep.

Some days he would linger in bed, in his lush six hundred thread count sheets of silver, refusing to answer prying phone calls, neglecting pestering email from his friends, his family, even illustrious men who just wanted to spend some time with him, share his body, covet his secrets. These loved ones, and admirers, fell to the wayside in these sterling moments, swept up in a dust pan, and discarded into the trash without a second glance.

His doctor asked him if he felt depressed. He laughed at her until she rephrased. "Are you depressed because of how you feel, or does how you feel cause you to feel more depressed?" His silky voice purred: "Does it really matter at this point?" She nodded her head, just nodded her head, as if she had heard this a million times over and over again.

His cocker spaniel, Billy, gave him some sort of purpose, and he was a responsible pet owner, Billy had a fenced in yard as his playground three times a day, and his water was always fresh, and there was always food in his dish, maybe even a morsel from the dinner table those days when he was too weak to swallow.

The nature of being chronic, he surmised, is that nothing necessarily or drastically gets better or worse; it's just a state of being, like floating in a translucent pool of water, you just sort of drift from moment to moment. Weekdays become weekends. Some mystical nights became luminous days. He would sometimes take advantage in those precious times and maintain some of his relationships by receiving guests in his home, or by going to see a film, or even having dinner somewhere inexpensive and quiet, something he could afford, since he had a limited income, and rarely allowed others to pay his way.

He had looked fear in the face many, many times until he just didn't care. He'd learned to sing in his late thirties, to pass the time, and even played the guitar to James Taylor, with Billy as his audience: "Oh I've see fire and I've seen rain..." he would croon. Someday there would be a cure he thought, and he wondered where he would be. He hated that feeling of drifting through life, but for not it is what it is. He learned to stop judging and just let things be. Let things be. For now, he would sleep, think of Paris and the Champs E'Lysee. It was nice to dream. He still had that.

Sand In My Shoes

The sea washes away crystal sand castles
like wiping a blackboard slate clean,
the tide robbing sand from the surly shore.
It reminds me of what can transpire
in a milky moment.

One of us is always arriving, the other departing,
through opaque doors of opal and liquid dreams,
silent dreams where I always keep you present,
a velvet wish, soft like an overstuffed chair,
comforting my perilous heart
when you are a moon away.

The magical box has been glaringly exposed
by your caramel key. I rouse
from malleable slumber, slipping
into my sandals, as the willowy waves
beckon me, calling me like a siren's anthem.
I urgently wade into the silken ocean,
until I peer just over the hazel horizon,
relishing the sacred island
of starfish and sea horses.
Are you there perhaps on the other shore
longing mistily for me, whispering a luscious wish?

I shut my diamond eye, tears stinging lovingly;
I can distinguish you in my aching soul...
sky blue eyes , dark mane, stoic, yet benevolent.
It's with satin curtains pulled, that I perceive
you clearest, encounter your honey sighs
upon my torso chilled, thoughts unblemished
by what the crazy, weary world offers.
I exhale trembling ever so slightly,
my nucleus ever aching, aching,
my tethered soul unyielding.

I continue to fervently replenish my hope,
chasing splendid, lemon journeys
to acute depths not yet forged
facing frosty truths, lonely, but not alone.
I miss you as always,your silent kisses
betrayed by melancholy sorrow,
when you suddenly vanish
lost in the blues and greys.
We seem to be at a crossroads
where our inner roads conjoin,
seemingly selecting the languorous path
just us two, the Siamese twins,
fearlessly facing life's challenges,
together.

Wisdom

* While I thought this was not my best write, it received a trophy on AllPoetry. It is a fun site, for those writers who want to practice writing with new prompts in a time limit. This was under the Quickie section, so I literally had to come up with a ten line poem in 2 hours based on this particular topic.Anyway, I hope you all appreciate the effort, and I encourage people to play along, not just for the trophies, but some of the feedback you get from other writers is actually useful, and others, naturally, you can discard. Have a great weekend.


Like the old adage proclaims:
I wish I knew then what I know now,
as if some secret chamber of knowledge
would protect me from the claret choices
I made, good, or bad, or indifferent.
There is never a question of what is correct
and what constitutes a mistake.
I never would have put ink to paper
if I did not have tales to weave and wonder. .
Such as I am, I have grown in wisdom.

* This was challenge to write a poem in 25 words only to the topic of "we were born this way." Here is what I came up with. Hope you like it!

We both were born this way,
to love, to fight, to persevere,
and I envision our struggles,
as instruments to guide.
Let silent nightmares die.

(C) Michael Wayne Holland, 2012

Everyone Wants a Love Story

Life is what happens all around:
it cannot be precluded:
the conversation with an ill parent,
as they discuss their last will
and testament on death’s door,
that argument that transpired
when he resurfaces, when he returns
home later than he pledged,
choosing a fight so you are guilty,
betrayed by his lazy propaganda,
or the unsavory credit card statement,
the one that arrives with unidentified
purchases, made from your lover,
to a seemingly worthy other.

Everyone wants a love story,
the kind that curls flimsy toes
and weakens knotty knees,
but it is never the cowardly case,
the indentured details emblazoned
in the precipices of folded skin,
burning you, no searing your lips shut.

What does anyone gallantly grasp
about supple tenderness?
To absolve and blatantly disregard,
one would require their memories
to be erased, evaporated,
into salty air and endless indigo nights.
Love is the paltry price you pay
for an obtuse opportunity that leads
to shattered dreams and melted moments.
It exists with a hefty penalty attached.

Remember that honeymoon chapter
when rhapsody and splendor
overwhelm the stubborn senses?
That, alas, descends too. Yes,
it lapses into dissolving remembrances
and sugared whispers. The true
totality is that we, as imperfect creations,
are simply more intricate than the sum
of out parts. We mean no harm
until there are rusty ramifications
for random neglect and stilted lies.
Welcome to the seasons’ fickle reality.

Everyone wants a love story.
I wispily yearn for that too.
We just have forgotten how to love.

(C) Michael Wayne Holland, 2012

Recovering

* This poem was entered into a contest where the theme was recovery, and you could use only 15 words. It was a challenge, but the good news is that I took home the gold trophy. Didn't see that coming. I am very happy!

Recovering

I survive,
alabaster thoughts
shimmering,
a rose petal
once devoured
by thorns,
sensing solid
perseverance.