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.

Tell Me

Tell me how to proceed
when I understand instinctively,
like a sleek silver cat,
that rejection is predestined,
that it is just history
being soullessly repeated,
ignoring my fervent future,
that dormant desire,
cheating me, deceiving,
irritating wounds healed,
beckoning me into yearning
for what was, what could have been,
if given a nickel of a chance,
just a plugged nickel.

Even though the mustard sunflower,
stellar, sage, poignant,
strokes my arm, tries to persuade,
there is no revisiting bygones,
for caramel memories delude,
chocolate passions betray,
licorice assurances beg,
reminding me that I do not covet
a return to absolved conflict.
And yet, I am an admirer
of the ultimate soul mate,
the one who recklessly pines
for caramel kisses,
transparent affections vivid,
the one I caress, covet,
even with eyes locked,
trying to shut out cooing whispers,
beating myself up until I shout:

"Stop it! Just stop it!"

Tell me, tell me how to evolve
from this abandoned love;
I just need to comprehend bluntly
in translucent, clear words,
no more prisoners sequestered,
rejoicing in lucid liberation.

Demon Days (Daze)

The midnight sun hangs, teasingly, whispering:
“you're not asleep, but you can't wake up.”
My eyes are shut, but I can glimpse
endless nights and blistering days.
Outside, all is bright, so bright:
raspberry sun against a chocolate sky,
the grass chartreuse, while giant butterflies,
electric, pink and blue, fly in circles.
It all seems like nonsense,
only I know where I am,
and I desire to awaken,
but seemingly cannot,
and silent screams
only make the jade
devil dance.

He is lying beside me, eyes closed, scrutinizing,
mouth closed, snickering, threatening to move
at a magnetic moment, seize the victory.
For now he just waits, waits, watching
the crooked clock. I cry, but no tears flow,
and I scream “No” in my heavy head,
unheard, as I feel him on top
of me once again.

"Oh God no. Not again."

I push back, but there are too many rocks
in my path. I shudder, quietly, accept defeat,
I feel my heart burn tears into my sizzling skin.
Resist. Resist. But my thoughts are no longer
my own and I reply:

"No. Just relinquish,
and all I will have
to bear
is your
scar."

Resist.
Resist.
Relinquish.

The dark devil smiles. He remains asleep,
but he is always present, always amongst
us. Were we so foolish to assume
he could be prudently destroyed?
He is the chip on our shoulders,
the sarcastic response to a liquid lover,
the sequestered silence we endure
while we watch the waking world
around us sing its palpable pain.
We passively respond,
prolonging indifference
and injustice like a white
elephant filling up
an obstinate room.
Yes you. You too.
No one leaves
unscathed.

Somewhere between pious sleep,
and unadorned awakening,
I feel your brazen breath
that used to slumber by my side.
I feel warmth on my neck,
but no one's there.
No one's there.

I resist, strive, pull towards the light,
dash out of this tepid nightmare,
towards wakening, awakening,
but I am alone trapped, trapped,
in this fickle nightmare
of icicle merry-go-rounds:
spinning, spinning,
into a sphere
of madness.



©2012 Michael Wayne Holland

Escape

She faked it. As he rolled
on top of her smelling
of tobacco, she secretly
plotted his malevolent death.
A rare poison perhaps?
What about a radioactive
particle of some sort?

Her soft moans became copious,
until she panted, cooed, sweat
rolling down dusty cheeks.
Or were they simply pungent tears?
Only she knew the answer
to this preposterous question.

After he left for work, she seized
two green, canvas suitcases
from atop the closet shelf,
packed as much clothes, photographs,
and mementoes as she dared.
She put the hemlock away,
the plutonium secured safely
in her vivid imagination.
The 5:40 plane would escort
her to freedom, cutting the plush clouds
with razor sharp wings taking her to mystical
lands: Madagascar, Bali, Puerto Vallarta.
The horror returned for a split second.
Could he find her? Chase her around
the mulberry bush, hoping to remain
hidden or invisible? Even gossamer
truths do not openly speak.

It would entail more than fortitude
to acquire a sense of self-esteem:
years of therapy and self-reflection,
why she had stayed, why she had loitered,
even after the callous blow while pregnant.
He had undermined her dreams, her essence,
so that she had welcomed her own death.
Even alive, she would be amongst
the walking wounded, the forever injured.

But in this crystalline moment,
she could not refrain from smiling,
because by the time he had returned
home that chilly winter evening,
the 5:40 plane would have flown,
taking her to a destination anywhere.
Frontiers discovered long past
by famous explorers, and stealthy
migrators, were all new and fresh,
because he had no stake, no claim,
in what was in store, only her courage
born in lily fields and clover skies.

And she cherished the revelation.

Vertigo

Groan. Morning comes hither,
to bark as the sun rises and yawns,
stretches her rays upon cream walls.
An alarm clamors, then shrieks.
Time to hit the snooze,
snore for another nine minutes
until the next chime of the clock.

No, not today, he contemplated.
He would linger in a state
of semi-consciousness;
the truth is, he had no place
to venture, nothing to accomplish.
To sleep or not. It consumed
his life, like a half-eaten roast.
He rolled over once, twice,
hauling off the outer blanket.
The right temperature to return
to a land of tranquility and--

CLANG, CLANG, CLANG!

Damn it to Hell. This time he disabled
the menace! Laying there, he yearned
for a way out of this snare, this trap,
that held him hostage in his sacred refuge,
a reason to thrive despite colossal odds
and incandescent incapacity.

We all covet that liberty.

But, he was dumbfounded,
overwhelmed, at the single
possibility that things would abscond
constant, like a searing shipwreck
from a hungry, unruly hurricane,
a sentiment that something was amiss.
When you have vertigo, there is literally
only one place to land: the ground,
that inflexible, edgy surface.

His dreams reflected his disposition:
anxious, introverted, depressed, livid.
He had become a conch shell
that has misplaced the sound
of the fluttering sea, drifting
on a raft over boundless waves,
discarding him on to empty shores,
or plunging to the treacherous ocean
floor with all its frenzied dangers :
sharks, octopus, stingrays, jelly fish.

Friends had stopped visiting, calling.
Strange how fickle life can abandon
you at the bat of an eyelash.
Where are you when I need you?
It was a question solicited to no particular
soul, one that became a mantra, a murmur,
a constant buzz, nesting in his brittle heart.
Once so generous and full, he was the king
of his lavish throne; now, his bed possessed
him, both sanctuary and prison, a trap
concealed, one not to be trusted.

No, he considered, better to sleep.
No need to dwell in dark corners,
empty playgrounds. Slumber offers
at least temporary solace, until the new dawn
winked at him, and the process regenerated.

Tears salty.
Face flushed.
Dreams shattered.
It was his destiny.
And his only.
Sleep.
Sleep.

Glue

The three of us make quite a pair,
me, the third wheel and the glue
that solidifies this treacherous partnership.
I look at Chase, catch his eye, share a private moment,
all the while Lloyd stares at me
as if I am a Thanksgiving turkey.
He wants to carve my wings, stuff me,
only I keep him at arm’s length,
his sharp fangs unable to puncture my neck,
suck my blood: that little parasite.
Lloyd and Chase live together in a state
of confusion and betrayal, unable to free
themselves of their death grip.

I come along. I am the glue.
I hold everything together
with delicate balancing,
gracefully managing the balance beam
with a double round off, and a perfect dismount.
It’s a secret Chase and I share;
he’s loyal and kind, aware of Lloyd’s deceits
and insecurities, endangering trust
by taking, taking, always taking,
forging new bonds, he thinks, with someone
like me, or Tim, or Paul, or Kevin, or Whomever.

Alliances are tricky, but I am the glue.
I keep Lloyd at a safe, not quite respectful
distance, for respect is a two way street,
and he is unaware how cheap and disposable
he makes me feel, like a newspaper barely read,
facts unremembered, thrown into the trash.
I do not internalize this. I clearly state
what I think of him outright, teasingly,
loathing and enjoying him simultaneously,
because I am the glue. He’s stuck
to me, and still I push his paws away

I pledge allegiance to Chase, with forbidden kisses,
later feeling ashamed, with only slight regret.
Sometimes, I cannot even meet his eyes, fearing disloyalty
I have already committed, easily hurt. See, he cares about
mysterious, subconscious feelings.

Yet, it’s Lloyd and Chase bonded
in their seething hostility and love,
neither one trusting the other,
both loyal to me, undeservedly.

I am the glue.
I know the full story,
keeping their not so secret desires
and platitudes within
under lock and key.

C) 2009, All Rights Reserved