The Island

Crisp, cool linen sheets caress

        our barren shins and thighs

                 as I slip into you stealthy arms,

        your luscious lips brushing against the nape

                         of my impressionable neck.

The balmy breeze is a banana split,

                 sticky, sugary, sweet,

        but it tames the ferocious tiger

                        within, as I relax into you.

Time shared with you is Heaven;

                we soar high in the indigo sky

        over mountain peaks and plush, green parks.

                         Within our bountiful souls,

                 our stalwart heartbeats are strumming

        like guitar strings crooning to their own psalms.

The tangerine orb blisters in the late afternoon,

        the ever shifting sky spraying

                        plum, crimson, and amber,

                a carnival of color painted for us.

Kissing, we are kissing, without trepidation,

        the taste of you always in my senses,

                drowning in consummated devotion,

                         your blazing, emerald eyes moist

                your hand cradles in mine.

Even I love you seems mundane,

        as If we were paying bills or filing taxes,

                        or discussing the flat economy.

                There is no jazzy language to illustrate

        the bliss, the jubilation, the magic, the reverence.

                        My ship sails into your port,

                ready to embark on thrilling promenades

                        and plant seeds in dusty sand.

I presume that I am in love with an island,

        you, as long as you inhabit my tender heart,

                       and protect my unspoken ardor.

                It’s the radiance in your smile,

        the hesitation in your voice,

                        the benevolence bubbling below.

                It’s for the taking; just grab the brass ring.

I'll Never Forget

The dissension prompted an unraveling,
        galvanizing a flood of perilous emotions
        to dissemble the forces that protect the nucleus:
                 stigma, embarrassment, humiliation, fury.
        Memories submerged in folds of skin awakened,
                 while nightmares wreaked havoc,
                         burying my pearly essence
                                 in a lacquered pine box.


My ego fractured into scattered shards
        like remnants of sand dollars
        abandoned on a lonesome beach,
                 where the tide strips sand
                 from the barren shore.
        Dormant reflections morphed
                 into a torrid hornet’s nest,
                 festering inside my butchered brain,
                         as feelings fragmented into aberrations,
                         causing the balance of power to shift
                 within my beleaguered landscape.


Tears avalanched, scalding my rosy cheeks,
        as I tasted pungent salt in my mouth.
        Fleeting flashbacks flooded with increasing intensity,
                as my sorrow evolved into a collosal crying jag,
                the shattering betrayal escalating,
                               shifting the blame,
                       resulting in bewildered guilt.


Recollections of his callous touch emerged in my mind,
        how he caressed, then dominated my unblemished torso,
        how he forced me to perform stupefying acts,
                admonishing me for my wicked weakness,
                bullying me into vociferously declaring,
         how much I desired him, savored him, coveted him,
         how I seduced him into devouring my pristine soul,
                         as I lay facing a grotesque, smudged wall
                         that displayed a poster of Mary, Mother of God,
                                 embracing her baby, Jesus Christ.


Malicious thoughts surged and seethed into consciousness;
        the squalid sheets scarred, while the rancid odor aggravated,
        causing me to wretch on to the soiled blanket,
                compelling his depravity to ravish my frail carcass
                        yet again, and again, tainting my faith.
                I have become a slaughtered pig roasting
                on a revolving spit in the blistering heat.


I shut my eyes, the oppressive sun searing
        through dusty slats, as I shut down,
        the palpitations subsiding momentarily  -
                slightly, like a truculent heartbeat trembling  –
        so that I can breathe and decipher
                the genesis of this wicked visitation,
                but I am unable to determine the source
                        that bludgeoned my senses
                        into sleek submission,
                like a concert pianist reluctantly performing
                Debussy's Arabesque  at the bidding
                                of a merciless madman.


How can this barbaric uprising emanate
        from repressed sentiments that once protected?
        How can I walk stealthily amongst the masses
                without the risk of shame annihilating my composure?
         And will I ever imbibe some gracious potion
                 that grants serenity from the bruising events
                 that have permanently defaced my past,
                         altered my present, and taunted my future?


No, I’ll never forget. I’ll never forget. Ever.    
         My sanctuary has been desecrated,
         the grotesque sins of the boogeyman
                forever looming in conciliatory dreams,
                gnawing at flavorless flesh.                               
                                 I’ll never forget.

Spring

*Written in twelve minutes in my writing workshop at the beginning of this term. I finally edited it and decided it was timely.

 

 

This is what it looks like:

                plum blossoms,

                sunny daffodils,

                pink Gerber daisies,

                and lavender, satin tulips

                        borrowed from a wax museum.

 

This is how it feels:
                breezy days, set against crisp,

                and chilled nights. The sky -

                        blue, azure, cerulean –

                cloudless one instant:

                         overcast with a sprinkle

                         of rain the next.       

This is how it appears,

                 an explosion of color:

                                violets, day lilies, hydrangea, heather,

                                the aroma of jasmine sweet,

                                         cherry blossoms making

                                         their own virulent case.

 

Friends arouse out of hibernation, isolation

                to join us in celebration

                                of balmier days,

                                and expansive afternoons,

                as if the brittle winter before coveted

                                harvested energy,

                                feeding on the past season’s

                                        leftovers.

 

It’s time for those special seasonal delights:

                Meyer lemon pie, luscious nectarines,

                Strawberry rhubarb cobbler,

                freshly picked cherries,                

                grilled asparagus with olive oil

                               and fresh garlic.

                                or sugar snap peas

                                with shaved almonds.

 

The city here absorbs green grass, nature’s stain,

                with tree buds flowering:

                                roller bladers,

                                skate boarders,

                scale Golden Gate Park,

                                while amorous picnickers,

                                gently kissing, reading

                                Barrett Browning and Whitman,

                                         plan June weddings.

 

It’s a time for rebirth, the leftover muck from seasons past

                                turn to mulch,  

                                where vegetation

                                is reawakened,

                                with gentle eruption.

 

It becomes tactile, smells anew, tastes scrumptious,

                my favorite time of year for renewal,

                                growth and endless

                                        possibilities.

 

                                Spring.

 

 (C) Michael Wayne Holland, All Rights Reserved, 2012

Inside the Cookie Jar

I peer at these tall things with legs and mouths

                who appear just like me with the exception

        that they use words beyond my comprehension.

Aunt Pink pinches my cheeks. I despise that:

                “Cat got your tongue,” she muses. “He’s adorable

                Nell.” I thought her name was Mommy.

        And no kitty has stolen my tongue. I am confident

        that I would notice should I cough up a fur ball.

                And Fluffy would want her hair returned

                         to her sleek, velvety coat.

Why do these people, they call them adults,

                mutter the most peculiar, flimsy fragments?

        I cannot speak for myself, defend my position,

        as I only know “Mommy” and “Dada.”

I see my mother’s lips moving when suddenly she declares,

                “Well, I told Doreen, there’s no use crying over spilt

                milk . It’s only a dirt stain. It should rinse

                from the garment, don’t you think?”

        When I turn my bottle over, all panic occurs,

        like all went straight to Hell in a hand basket.

                So this “stain” must be pretty serious. I would harrow

                for hours on end. And what’s this about a hand

                         basket, and why send it down to an eternity

                         of fire and brimstone, I peruse in my two year old

                inner voice. See, I can understand perfectly;

                          I just do not possess the required vocabulary

                                   yet to present my case.

Aunt Pink, or Purple, I forget then professes the clincher:

                “Well, that’s the way the cookie crumbles.”

        At that point I clinch and wail. Because I desperately desire

        a chocolate chip wafer from the precious, magic jar

                on the Formica counter top, the special one

                         where all good boys and girls receive a treat

                         for being on their best behavior for displaying

                the most superlative manners, and I have not uttered

                a single word up to this point, even if these “people”

                         are talking in the oddest colloquialisms.

I am certain that I have blown a sumptuous dessert,

                when all of a sudden in front of me, a big bowl -

                         to me that is - of vanilla ice cream is placed

                         before my greedy hands.

“All good babies go to Heaven,” I hear her sigh, followed

                         by large toothy smiles and appreciative grins.

                                  Everyone seems so happy.

Once more I do not follow, and am left on the outside looking in,

                        left in the dark, where monsters lurk and creepy men

                hide beneath children’s beds. I screech once more,

                                  not aspiring to go to this Heaven place;

                        instead I want Papa to clutch me in his big, strong arms

                cooing, “there, there. Nothing is going to scare my little boy”,

                as I embark upon trusting that growing up to be similar

                        these goofs might be just cause for returning to the womb,

                        where it is safe, a haven against the darkness;

                                  from where I an perched, it is blatant that the blind

                                  are leading the blind, and if that is the score

                        then I am better somewhere else, anywhere but here,

                                  where nothing can possibly harm me.