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.

Russian Roulette

The final blistering thought I recall,
    before the abrupt, slicing punch
    to my underbelly that seeped
    into my bowels, was that I needed
        an exit plan out of this dragon’s lair..

See, the actual leaving is the easy part;
    but always entails a frenzied farewell,
        he pitifully pleads his case:

I’m sorry Babe. Please don’t go.
    Please stay; it will never occur
    again. Don’t you understand
    that it pains me to treat
        you like some gutter rat,
        skinned and skewered
    for some desperate loser
    who can’t pull it together?

My chin droops, as the harrowing shame
    flushes my cheeks, like some cheap rash
    that creeps up my skin and leaves
        a puddle of blotches that itch and tingle
        in unadulterated agony. It is my fault
    that I imprudently remain with the Cyclops
    with the commanding frame, the one
        that can catapult from a tall building,
        always landing lithely on two feet,
    the one that can outrun a cheetah,
    hunting me down, shadowing
    me, so that I cannot breathe.
I stand tall, but I am no match
    for the unruly demon. Playing
        a game of Russian Roulette
            has its advantages over this repellent
            arrangement, for I am a mellifluous
        doe, caught in the giant jaws
            of a slick, steel, bear trap,
        viscerally exhausted, as mental fatigue
            threatens to debilitate my armor,
                leaving me defenseless, vulnerable.

I must now bide my time, until that precise
    moment where I escape like Spiderman,
        scaling the periphery of soaring skyscrapers,
        in a frantic moment when he is asleep, or drunk,
        or both, after I have administered
    a sleeping pill in his bottle of Jack Daniels,
    which he meticulously hoards and gobbles
        until he is lethargic enough to nod off.
It’s that, or I take the cleaver out of its casing
    and carve my initials into his chiseled,
        masculine, furry chest, followed by resting
    the pistol against the temple of my head,
        count to three, and desperately hope
            I draw a boorish blank.

Confessions of a Drunken Pen

As I perch on this stool, my hand dashing
    across the dancing paper to the vibe
    of bongos and a disco beat -
        I swear the room is spinning -
I dare to say what was tacit,
    the glass of raspberry tinted Pinot Noir ample,
    that crisp taste of melodious nectar
        enticing my tongue to spill succinct truths
        without worry that perhaps there are consequences
        of haphazard words by an inebriated bum.

Heck, it was only two glasses, or possibly four.

I ponder; was the foray of my ex entering
    my life a clandestine opportunity,
    or a desperate ploy to repel me
         from admitting the blatant truth:
         that I was over him long ago?
But, I am enamored by his attention,
    as I consume a another gulp of ambrosia.
    Red flags pop up whenever he is denied
         full immersion in his twisted, frail ego,
         since I can now quickly assimilate
         when the evil beast that lurks
    beneath will make an unwelcome
    appearance. For now, sweet pleasantries
         and charming sentiments are exchanged
         forsaking my normally irritable soul.
The truth is, I still want him on some level,
    his hand caressing my neck sending shivers
         down to the small of my back.

How pathetic, my inner critic challenges!

It’s not my fault that I participate
    in this charade: the alcohol an ether
    to my tethered brain. I assent
    to five more minutes of his gibberish –
         I love you Boo! I am forever yours! –
    as I hang up the telephone blaming
    the feeble cell call reception for causing
        the ruckus as I send him a scrupulous text
        rather than requiring that we converse
directly with one another.

I understand it is wrong, just like when I inform
    my roommate that the dress she is wearing
    is a combination of a clown carelessly clad
         in a harrowing muumuu, like a Freddy Krueger
Halloween costume, minus the gloves
    with the razor sharp blades, that I feel certain
    she wishes accompanied the outfit,
         so she could bleed me dry, the reckless victim
              of a cunning werewolf’s snack.

“I am sorry,” I manage to blurt out. “I am immersed
    in my second decanter.” But, she has now scurried
         into the kitchen, a silver mouse on the hunt
              for a mere morsel of stale Swiss cheese
         glaring like a dog with rabies, foaming
         at the mouth with glistening fangs.

I must pull it together before I become a nameless
             face on an obliterated milk carton.

My other housemate hesitantly paces
    outside the kitchen where I have been burrowing,
    like a bristling bear in a cozy cave,
          after opening yet one more bottle
          of enchanting elixir that lingers
    like sour vinegar, surely pickling
          my fingers, toes, and liver.

He is arguing with his partner over an infidelity
    that occurred last summer when they dissolved
          their tryst, and then reunited one weak later,
              a time prior to his residing with me.

“Chris,” he chastises into his phone,
    “you seriously don’t want to quit your job
         as a clairvoyant, and as for us,
               it's over.” Slam!

That is when it all permeates the brain,
    arousing my defective memory,
    as to who this Chris is, that lusty romance
         that lasted three days, and four nights,
         and like a truth serum, the sentences I mutter
    require me to spill my billowing bowels,
         as I blurt out the visceral truth.

It’s the wine, I ponder, leery that another human
    will chance upon my decaying body
    before bloodhounds find me buried
         under the floorboards of the wine cellar,
obscured by the Persian rug in the living room,
    beneath the piano that possesses
    a thousand thunderous, twisted secrets
         of duplicity and blasé confidences,
         that precipitate a crystal clear extinction.

Attribute it to the alcohol, I concede,
    as my final thoughts begin to blur,
         dodging the sharp blade aimed for my heart.

Salty Sunshine and Colored Glass

Rusty recollections of painted

    summer skies: as dusk approaches,

        the clouds change as the wind bellows:
            plum, blood orange, amaranth, goldenrod.

Walking along the beach, there is ample light

    to find the colored glass, smoothed

        by the harsh, salty sea, rounded and polished,

            in various hues of sea foam, navy, and coral.

I would collect these liquid shards,

    and deposit them into miniature jars

    that sat on my desk in my bedroom,

        along with my menagerie of sand dollars,

        starfish, and sea horses, reminding me

            of a brisk summer breeze adrift

            from the ocean, brushing over

       our tanned bodies, and tranquil smiles.

During those simmering days, you could spot

    color nearly every place trekked, the aqua-blue

        and green crests of waves, tinged with white,

            the red and ivory striped lighthouse that sat

    at the pier, and all the candied shades

        of swim suits, the full spectrum of the rainbow

            represented, often in the most garish displays.

Children would swim to shore in cerulean

    and dusty rose blow-up rafts they would cling

        to so they avoided the perilous undertow.

Pink and golden tan bodies lined the shore

    under brightly tinted umbrellas in an effort

        to block harmful ultraviolet rays cascading

        from the fiery orb that cast its heat

            on bodies dabbed with lotion and baby oil;

            a searing, scorching sun burn awaited

       those who did not heed the cautionary tales

            of the perils from direct exposure to the sun.

As twilight marched into the moss green

    cottage where we lay content having dined

    on a supper of fried shrimp, hush puppies,

        coleslaw, and watermelon, we drifted

        into slumber, the breeze cooling down

            the smothering heat of the arid afternoon,

            listening to the rolling crash of the surf

                as it tumbled over the shore, the moon

    pushing and pulling the tides, depositing

        more treasures along the beach for us to uncover

        the following day when we would once again savor

           our vacation, our haven, cherished memories

               embedded in our minds for us to relish

in the following years when the whimsical

    fantasies of childhood were long past,

        casting its visceral spell from a lifetime ago.

© Michael Wayne Holland, All Rights Reserved

A Slippery Goodbye

Note: This piece was conceived for a contest I entered. We were required to use four words: "pipe, stitched, glow, and machine". I think I got them all in without sounding strange, huh? LOL



The glow from the tangerine sun

     masks  your weary, vacant heart;

     like a stitched up Raggedy Andy doll,

     your derisive blunders and gestures

           make me wary as I walk on precious

           egg shells whenever we crisscrosses paths.

 

It’s a pipe dream; what I ardently desire

     is probably not what I entirely deserve,

     but that does agonize Mr. Machine;

           press your button and out pours

           ostensible data that spews filth

     in the form of calloused love.

It is a crap shoot. I recklessly turn

     to the magic eight ball and proffer

     a one final lucid question:

           “Why? What did you become?”,

      but the response that is displayed

      reiterates what I intrinsically ascertain

           “Outlook not so good.”

 

I wonder if I am just a tad too slow,

     not picking up the sullied notion

     that perhaps we are not slated

           to walk in milky forests

           or frolic in willowy meadows,

      that perhaps what you fervently crave

      is lusty power, the kind that seeps

           out of stingy eyes and desecrated souls.

 I nullify this communion, retreat

      into the depth of oceans blue,

      discover a sheltered domicile, a haven,

           under aqua seas, where yellow tangs

           and marbled angelfish dwell,

           somewhere never to be detected;

I shall swim under orange-red coral reefs

     in the darkest deep surfs,

     sure not to collapse in a heap

     on some encrusted shore

            unable to inhale translucent air.

Poetry In Motion

My perilous pen eludes me as I scramble
    to scribble nouns, adjectives, and action verbs
        seizing the grammar into something meaningful,
            but the words stare at me, mocking
my ineptitude, and they ascribe
    to their own malevolent agenda.

To fill a page full of eloquent metaphor
    much like Kerouac, Burroughs, or Collins,
        as if their presence will assist me in scribing
a newsworthy masterpiece or New York Times
        bestseller. Another cup of coffee please.

I attempt  an ode to love, a subject I consider
    for the ten thousandth time, a habit I revive,
        and then try a rant, my four hundred fifty-first
            effort. How original. Time for a drink.

Wine in hand, I now peruse older works
    for weary revision, as if I am inspired
        by what is stale and trite, like rewriting
            Dr. Suess’ “Green Eggs and Ham”.
Time for a smoke. Wait, I am not blessed
    with that vile habit. Perhaps I will start now.

Seconds turn into minutes turn into hours,
    and I am still perched at my dire desk,
        praying to the Almighty that a miraculous
            phenomenon will occur to jolt the senses:
an earthquake, a blackout, a tidal wave.
    No such pristine luck.

The phrases I have printed mock, cajole,
    and snicker in sinister tones, until eureka!
        I remind myself that some days the poetry
            is ominous, like trying to impede a freight train
by holding up a stop sign, and I gently remind
    myself that tomorrow will be yet another chance
        to wake up bright and fresh, like Rip Van Winkle
            after a twenty year nap. Brilliance emerges
like a tornado, and creativity will anticipate
    a way to display those shifty words
        that for now are snoring to the hum
             of tender rain as it raps on the roof
of my secluded bedroom.

Seven

I would swirl around in a symmetrical circle
surrounded by mountains:
navy, cobalt, azure, grey.
They told stories, beckoning
me to listen and savor
tales from Grandma Ruth
who had weathered a thousand days,
always kind, always interested.

The farm where my grandparents dwelled,
those corn fields standing proudly,
as the fruits of their labor
hummed and sang, standing erect,
swallowing the sun, smiling,
were forever alluring, as I ran
in between rows that crisscrossed
dazzling paths, where hide-and-seek
became the game of choice,
as my curious cousins would discover
me hiding beneath a carefree stalk.

The Holstein cows breathed and cried
as they were summoned
to the machines which attached
to flagrant udders; distracted,
they would feed on diet
of straw, soy, hay, and legumes,
then escorted back into the pasture
having already forgotten
their recent trauma.

This was how it was, blue skies
enshrined by billowing clouds
that floated until night befell,
as stirring stars gleamed,
the constellation Orion
always flashing his belt,
searching until we spotted
the Big Dipper, completed
with the arrival of the North Star:
the telescope magnifying
illuminations displaying
round orbs of green, blue, and gold
for dancing eyes to absorb.

Uncomplicated, revering,
always ascertaining an existence
full of magic, I always return
to those dazzling days,
wistful of engaging remembrances,
grateful of the memories that molded
me into the man I have become,
a witness to the ever changing world.

(C) Michael Wayne Holland, 4/30/12