Disintegration

Disintegration


Liquid whispers turn into shimmering shouts on a dime,
leaving me thoroughly bewildered and afraid.
My heart pounds thunderously threatening to bolt
from my body on to a sticky train track as it assumes
its fate: defeated, flattened, damaged.
I ought to offer you thanks for uncovering things
now rather than later, but the pain is
palpable, viable, present,and it threatens my growth.
The throat has a liquid lump, and my belly expands
like pulled taffy, engorging, leaving me to fight for a breath
that will maintain sustenance. And the sweet tears
find me at my loneliest, at night in charcoal darkness,
underneath stifling sheets that tentatively
offer solace, comfort. I apologize for mistakes
not made,and you apologize in a moment
of pulverized clarity.

“Apology accepted”, I find myself saying.

Why is that I feel farther from you than Neptune’s breath
or Mercury’s fickle ways? Accepting what is in brilliant sunlight
or fragile shadows leaves invisible scars and a frayed ego,
things that can be repaired in time, but never forgotten.
It is in my nature to ask why. Why? I desire closure
that will not come, the closure required to move on, but rigid reality
plays her trump card, and I resign that I’ve been played yet again.

The truth stares at me, smiling her wicked smile, '
and still I wonder: what now? What now?
Only I can answer, and still I ask: what now?

Drowning

Drowning

He wept, sliding, down, down, down
where only an angel could touch
his bleeding heart, grabbing
the percocet and valium,
pouring gin into his glass.

He popped all the pills, all of them,
ingesting all of the medicine,
sobering him somewhat,
just enough to know he had pushed
the envelope too far stamping
the letter himself: unmailed.

He prayed to God one last time:
"Don't abandon me Jesus."
Laying down his weary head,
waiting for his final sleep,
warm dreams of a better place,
swallowing him whole.

(C) Michael W. Holland, 2011

Let's Go!

Let's Go

Whisk me away; let's escape
to a tangerine paradise disguised,
as two hearts pound, pound, pound,
no reticence, no hesitation,
just returning to transparent whispers
from liquid lovers who will go the mile.

Head towards me not sail
away into personal mystery
and forlorn fog, but join me
at this island of two.
Take the journey. Wash away fear.
There is no right or wrong,

just salty expressions,
and chocolate kisses that emerge,
become one, allowing the symbiosis
to collide, making me whole,
making you whole, making us,
us as we were meant to be.

Speak To Me

I hear what you say peripherally
as you smile, touch my arm, blush,
and it is not so much what you say,
as it is the nature of the flirt,
the yin and yang. I find myself nodding
at you with the mocha eyes,and jet black hair,
you with the effervescent charm,
the kind smile, and cherry lips.

I think of our first date,
how knee knocking nervous I was,
how I forced the conversation,
the tight smile, my inner critic seeking
to nullify this connection. I remember
you asking: "Are you as nervous as I am?"
and I relaxed, and melted a little
as our minds melded, stopping time
for just a fraction. I can still taste
your raspberry kisses from that night
as I accidentally leaned against the inside
door, ringing apartments 102 and 103 by mistake,
how my neighbor shouted out - "Who's ringing
the bell at this hour?" - as we both hid
on the shadows and giggled, full of warmth
and connection.

So here we are once again, and you are talking,
and the words don't matter, but they do,
but they don't. You are the ultimate poem.
Your banter has a rhythm in time and space
that speak to all parts of me, from within,
and out.

Speak to me. Keep talking. Speak to me please.
I will smile and you will nod, my arm
will brush against yours, and I will shiver
ever so slightly.

Speak to me. Speak to me. Speak only to me.

(C) 2011

M is for Mother

M is for Mother

She sits quietly, staring diligently at the television,
as she watches Shelley slap Paul for sleeping with Deidre,
or smiling when Ken blackmails Joyce after he discovers
the DNA test results that prove that Samuel is Raven's real father.
She watches this serial every day, every day, whether the leaves
outside are turning plum or tangerine, or if the snow cascades
off bristling tree branches.

Every morning she has half a cantaloupe with a small yogurt,
coffee black, as she sits on the bar stool by the kitchen counter,
talking small deliberate bites, always leaving about one third
of the fruit uneaten. She sits in darkness, whether it is sunny
outside, or whether the moon hangs gingerly in the midnight sky.
Such is her world.

At nine-thirty every night, she settles into bed, listening
to Mike Huckabee, or and old rerun of The Virginian
on the television, or she calls her friend Helen
to check in, say goodnight, before repeating the same routing
again tomorrow, finding comfort in these rituals.

Occasionally, she will go with Duane to the grocery store
as he hustles to grab two percent milk and tv dinners
to place into the cart. He will then drive her home laughing
at her witty observations, how people talk to their pets
as if they were children or how children outfool
slick, strict parents. She is always spot on, even if she cannot
actually see.

Sometimes she will sit in silence listening to the whir
of the washing machine, or to the clink, clink, clink
of the ice maker, waiting until 5 p.m., when her neighbor
Susie will come to rap on her door bellowing,
“Where's my drink”, to which she will reply
“I thought you'd never come.” They will laugh and talk
about emerging taxes, the state of the nation's economy,
how her husband left her far too soon, or how her friends,
one by one, are passing on, leaving her to face the new day
alone, or how grateful she is for having watched
the world change in the past century, or how lucky
she is to have the love of her granddaughters who call twice
a week, making her laugh and smile.

She sees, but she doesn't see, and somehow, in some way,
she accepts what is, and does not question why not, or allows
to feel sorry for herself. She can accept this because the world
is going to change anyway, and all she can do is hang on for the ride.
Just hold on. Just hold on tight. All she can do is hold on.

Demon Dreams

Demon Dreams

The midnight sun hangs, teasingly,
whispering: “you're not asleep, but you can't wake up.”
My eyes are shut, but I can see 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 plead
to wake up, but seemingly can't, and silent screams
only make the jade devil dance. He is lying
beside me, eyes closed, seeing, mouth closed, snickering,
threatening to move at a magnetic moment, seize the victory.
For now he just waits, waits.

I cry, but no tears flow, and I scream “No” in my heave head
as I feel him on top of me once again. Of 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 all. Were we so foolish as to think
he could be destroyed? He is the chip on our shoulders,
the sarcastic response to a liquid lover, the silence
we carry when we watch as the world around us hurts,
or when we are passively respond, indifferent.
Yes you. You too. You too. No one leaves unscathed.

Somewhere between this sleep, between this awakening,
I hear you breathing, that custard breath that used to rest
beside me, feeling warmth on my neck,
but no one;s there. No one's there.

I resist once more, pull towards the light, out of this nightmare,
towards wakening, awakening, but there I am alone
trapped, trapped in this dream of icicle merry-go-rounds
spinning. Spinning. Spinning.

Listless

Groan
Morning again
Alarm clamors, then screams
Time to hit the snooze
Snore for another nine minutes
Until the next clang of the clock
No, not today
He would remain in a state of semi-consciousness
Truth is
He had no where to be, nothing to do
To sleep or not
It consumed his life like a half-eaten roast
He rolled over once, pulled off the outer blanket
The right temperature to --
CLANG, CLANG, CLANG
Damn it to Hell
This time he turned the menace off
Lying there, he wished for a way out of this snare
A place to go
Someone to see, to be
A purpose
We all need that
But he was dumbfounded
Not a slow thinker, just overwhelmed
When you have vertigo, there is literally only one place to land
Down to the ground, the hard surface
His dreams reflected his mood
Edgy, silent, depressed
A conch shell without the sound of the sea
Drifting on a raft over boundless waves
Taking him to no shores
Just the ocean below with all the dangers
Sharks, sting rays, jelly fish
Friends had slowly backed off
Strange how that happens
Where are you when I need you?
It was a question to be repeated
A murmur, a constant buzz
Sliding into his brittle heart
Once so generous and full
The king of his throne
Now the bed was his owner
Sanctuary and prison
A trap not to be trusted
No he thought
Better to sleep
No need to dwell in dark corners
Empty playgrounds
Slumber offers at least some solace
Tears salty
Face flushed
Dreams shattered
It was his domain
And his only
Sleep
Sleep

Written by Michael W. Holland (c) 2008

Skin

Skin

It wasn't your tender smile,
nor was it that look you get,
when the planets unite, join.
It was your skin softly caressing
my own; your touch remains
and fills me like a good earnest
novel, one that is a memory
implanted, folded into a box,
sealed into my faithful heart,
opened for rainy days
when you are gone.

When you are not with me,
I open the my present with the key
unveiling secret delights,
that coo, whisper in my ear,
unbridled love eternal,
never forgotten, nor forsaken.
It's all for me you see, us,
erasing stormy, mossy skies,
unleashing golden sun.

I wait patiently for your spirit,
leading me down lightly tread
paths into sunset worlds,
where princes slay dragons,
demolishing frozen nightmares recurrent,
your skin next to mine, always present,
as it was meant to be, just us two,
welcoming shimmering starry nights,
love eternal, without reservation.

© 2011, by Michael Wayne Holland

Grandma

This is one of the first poems I ever wrote. It was written in the summer of 2007 at the Writing Salon, with Chris DeLorenzo teaching. I have followed him ever since, so grateful for finding a method and a muse.


Grandma


We would always pass by it in the car
on the way to Grandma's:
the dilapidated building
held up by splintered wooden legs,
the façade about to cave in from lack
of strength, threatening to tumble
and roll in our direction.
Empty tanks stood tall like towers in the front:
three of them – one, two three.
The sign in front read "GAS" -- G-A-S,
but the cavities remained still.

It always filled me with melancholy,
that station: deserted, no friends to welcome it, to visit,
abandoned and eroded, weathered like Grandma's
face, the lines traced together to form a Picasso.
No doubt she had lived a life unimagined, but not uninspired:
She had seen countless wars over the course
of her eighty-one years. She helped in harvesting the farm,
living off it, up at 5 a.m. and asleep by 8:30 every night,
planning unearned, often unpleasant chores for tomor

I recall on those adventures spendid,
was passing that tired, run-down gas station,
only ten more minutes before the car turned left
onto the gravel, dirt road,
room for only one vehicle at a time,.
Around the bend, the small church stood,
congregation of thirty-five,
then down the slope to the schoolhouse,
closed long ago before World War Two,
passing fields of corn, tall and elegant,
proud of the precious fruit they bore.

Finally in the distance – Grandma's house!
She was always waiting out in front,
I had no idea of how long she had been standing
there, wearing her white cotton dress
with tiny blue flowers, something she had made
and worn for a thousand summers,
not a stain to be seen. There she was smiling,
waving, allowing the 1968 Chevrolet
to come to a full halt. I was always the first
to open the door, run into her arms,
first generation to third.

Grandma may have lived the bulk of her existence
on that farm, gathering vegetables and cow's milk,
baking fruit pies, cooling on open window sills,
cooking braised roast every night for the farm hands,
later watching Walter Cronkite deliver the catastrophes
of the day. Still, there was never a person kinder,
wiser, more tolerant of life's paradoxes,
flying with the wind, not resisting the tension,
forever loving, soft-spoken and funny.
She could observe simplicity
and make it appear profound.

It was my favorite vacation:
the farm itself a young boy's playground,
six hundred acres of pure bliss,
hanging out with my cousins,
walking past the barn, down to the creek,
where we would swim, laugh and play,
with nothing complicated, never a worry,
always grateful for what I had.

Stood Up

I actually wrote this poem as I was waiting for a date that never showed. Nice, huh? I called the guy and his excuses were lame. Oh well, it is not a great piece of writing, but it amused me at the time.


Stood Up


You could have called you know
I was waiting, waiting, waiting
You said you'd be an hour
Now, three hours have passed
Time for a drink

Alibis do not tell the whole story
You're hiding behind unscripted lies
A simple "I'm sorry I couldn't be there"
How easy is that?
Truth lives despite excuses

Well, the truth has spoken even if you haven't
I do not need to see the writing on the wall
It's printed in spades
What you do not understand is
Everyone is reading it

Written by Michael Holland (c) 2007