Enchanted Instant

He approaches like a fresh pink morning,

         dew on his tongue, and honeydew lips

                 ripe with lustrous wonder.

 

I melt like an apparition in purgatory

                 unable to stumble into subsistence,

         his brawn desecrating me, searing me,

                 and breaking barriers 

                        between flesh and blood.

 

His touch fuels a debate

                 of torrid anecdotes,

        whose ardor has pearly essence

        to hush braggarts and thieves

                        into submission.

 

Still, I covet his candied caress,

        once again when the moon

                crashes the ebony sky,

                        before the cicadas hum.




And listen to my recording of it from SoundCloud:

http://soundcloud.com/michael-wayne-holland/enchanted-instant-2?utm_campaign=timeline&utm_content=http%3A%2F%2Fsoundcloud.com%2Fmichael-wayne-holland%2Fenchanted-instant-2&utm_medium=facebook&utm_source=soundcloud#_=_

Drawing Circles

There was a golden moment, when we knew how to respect

    the passion between us, before the indigo storm

         swept past us and infiltrated her moisture

             in every part of our union.

A severed wound does not always heal, the scar tissue

        a marker for the forlorn and abandoned,

        like a hen who forsakes freshly laid eggs

             for some poacher to devour.

    One minute you were drawing circles in the clouds

         painting prisms with your delectable charm

         as I watched magic forge from the hands

             of an artist who spins impressions

                     from slippery stars:

             beholden, cherished, consecrated.

But the torrid rains plunged, and capricious anger

    turned her fickle cheek and mocked the path

             we followed, as if to say:

    “you’ve lost your designation, like a pirate

             seizing a ship’s sail, and soaring

                     to lands unknown.”

         Your were crazy, fallacious accusations

                      inhabiting your mind,

                 paranoia cluttering acumen,

                 like a melon left to spoil

                 in the melting sunlight.

             My love was a casualty of the war

         you succeeded to launch, choosing to drift

    from you and begin anew with adorned angel wings

         that lifted me to freedom from persecution,

                 providing me a second chance

             while I watch our faded love dissolve

                      into a denigrated illusion

         unsure if there ever was a time to rejoice.

I light candles one by one, make a wish, and douse

    them out, like blowing bubbles into the wind

             as they blanch and disintegrate,

             like the remnants of our liaison,

         now just an apparition that haunts,

             taunts and inhabits musky dreams

             which bludgeon what was, stomach

                 what is, and slowly expires:

                           time to take quill to paper

               while drawing my circles in the clouds.

Persistance, Resistance

Six months they quoted,
          but although I felt spent,
     stubbornness and fear,
     bled though angry veins,
     and blistering bones,
          settling in the crevices
          between muscles and nerves,
               just below my heart.

Thump…thump…da-thump.

My stomach revolted,
     leaving an unsavory taste
     in my mouth, in my throat,
          as I attempted to conceive
          how I would deliver the news
     to those I loved:
               for now – shhhhh!.

The struggle occurred each night
     as I strived to deny the succubus
     that filtered through consciousness
     and caused me to wake up drenched:
          another symptom revealed,
     hoping to live to the ripe age of twenty-five;
     I fantasized that the results were erroneous,
          but upon a second diagnostic,    
          I was asked to appear to the lab,
          an appointment I never honored,
               my body whispering the truth
                   to neglectful ears.
 
Every symptom: cold, fever, headache,
     swollen glands, fever blister, nausea
               all meant my pungent demise,
          a time to make amends,
          keep failed promises
     that I was too proud to consummate,
          for fear that my secret,
              a tainted taboo,
          would eternally scorch my reputation,
          so I kept quiet, put in my place,
              swallowing anxiety,
              and hollow solitude.

Thump…thump…da-thump.

I had responsibilities to uphold:
     graduation from college,
          a full time job,
              where absence
          was considered deplorable,
     my volunteer commitment
          to the crisis hotline
          where I assisted the destitute --
              I should be a client,
              I obtusely observed,
              not a counselor.

No treatment options available,
          I winged life like a drifter
     ready to pounce on the next train car,
     an attempt to flee the bristling scorpions
          that inhabited clustered thoughts,
               but there was nowhere to bolt.

Twenty-five came and went with internal fanfare,
     and miraculously, thirty also thrived,
          even as my health subsided,
     my immune system resentful and defiant,
          curing this virus that devoured
              and flourished.
     Medication presented an arduous task:
          side effects toxic, causing
          me to lose twenty unanswered pounds
              in two months, the aroma
              from my favorite meals
              resulting in an upheaval
              from below, a daily process
              as my body attempted to absorb
              the “approved” poison selected
              by a field of physicians --
                   a bunch of bullshit:
                   test results produced
                       no gains.
         Neuropathy, chronic fatigue and depression      
              proved to be my worst enemies.

And in the end, I am here, present, blossoming.
     Six months? No one can judiciously surmise
          when your time has been expunged,
              nor can the human spirit
              be denied unfulfilled dreams,
              castles spinning in the air,
          permitting fundamental growth to emerge,
              a poet borne from the nether regions,
              spewing ink from a belabored quill,
                   final satisfaction
                        and atonement.

The Ghost Of You

* This poem was borne from an inspiring quote by Pablo Neruda. The challenge was to use every word in the quote in an original piece of work. So here it is, I hope you enjoy it.

Quote: “I love you as certain dark things are to be loved, in secret, between the shadow and the soul.”  ~ Pablo Neruda

Between the haze of incandescent light and silver shadow,

            I uncover you in the folds and crevices

                        of barren skin and blistering bones.

            You are intrinsic to my satin secrets

            as water is to a swollen brook spilling

                                on to dark river banks

                        where our souls unite and conjoin.

Benevolence blossoms in these magnified moments,

            as I cherish your mocha kisses and fevered touch,

            comprehending that though we cherish

                        and are adulated, it is imprudent

            to anticipate a reality where the things

                        we treasure will comply

                        with our ultimate desires:

            never harmonious, never indulgent, nor binding,

                        yet I follow you into misty twilight

            where neither of us can declare for certain

                        that we can withstand the folly

                        that bewitches and bemoans

                               our tremulous union,

                        like a priest rejecting the notion

                               of Heaven and Hell.

Be as it may, I awaken to your passage, like a crafty thief

            absconding precious gems and pliant cash,

                        only surfacing when the cobalt sky

                              swallows the glowing orb,

                              where we rendezvous

                              under the transient moon

                                    fully fathoming

            that in this eminent instance, this singular second,

            there is a place for us under licorice sheets

                        beneath the crust of the sun,

            a place where we can dance and sing

                        in melting moments shielded

                                    in blues and grays.