Bedtime Story

Dark Rose by Petr Kratochvil

She clutches her pillow as a charm
Against the unbearable stillness.
Night should bring
The mending serenity of sleep,
Not fevered paranoia
Wrought by brittle nerves
Crusted with the scars of the past.
A midnight breeze
Rustles the willow branches
Outside her window,
A sound more like the scratching
Of unsheathed claws
Waiting to pierce tender flesh.
She measures each breath carefully
With a silent prayer on her lips,
The lurking unseen demons
Waiting to explode into her room
Much less scary than
The monster sleeping next to her.


~~~~  This poem was written for my prompt this week over at Poetry Jam asking us to write about monsters.  This was partially inspired by the Day 9 OctPoWriMo prompt about sounds/noises.  I also used this week’s words from The Sunday Whirl.

The Number

Old Telephone Booth by Jiri Hodan
image from publicdomainpictures.net

As the dusk faded away 

And the moon rose high 

In the midsummer night, 

His thoughts wandered 

To the faded phone number 

Scrawled in pencil 

On the back of a recipe card, 

Buried with the essentials 

In his rucksack  

But never far from his mind, 

A ten digit link 

To the life he could have had, 

The one within his grasp 

Until anger built a fence 

They could never climb.  

He could call that number, 

Beg to be forgiven,  

But after all these years 

He knows that number 

Only connects 

To an empty phone booth, 

No operator assistance available 

To trace love’s last call.

~~~ This poem was written using words from the Sunday Whirl a few weeks ago…a little late to actually link the poem up over there but still like giving them a bit of credit, great little community of writers!  I will be sharing this one over at Poetic Asides for this week’s prompt of memory poems.

Empty Womb, Tired Heart

Empty Cradle by ARemington @ deviantART

I hear the refrain
of those that claim to care,
the endless chain
of  Why
and When
and Just be patient, dear.

They don’t understand
the gravity of my condition,
the anticipation that swells each month
until red flicks of disappointment
trigger more despair, more heartache,
my grittled hope cracked and fading,
maternal arms still longing
for more than an empty cradle,
clinging to the desperate dream
that love will finally plant the seed
I’ve waited to watch grow and bloom.


~~~~This poem used most of the words from this week’s wordle at The Sunday Whirl.  I’ve also linked to this week’s Poetic Bloomings prompt asking us to use a line from another poem written for the site as the title of a new poem.  My title came from Suspension (a shadorma) written by De Jackson.  Be sure to check out her poetry by following the link.

A Missive from the Lair, Part Two

You have proven to be
An inferior adversary,
The pathetic balls of fury you hurl
Bounce off a rind grown tough
From years of your exploitation
Without even a hint of sting.
As if I would do anything
But spurn your pleas for benevolence…
Mercy no longer exists in me,
Replaced by ruthless bloodlust.

Everything is proceeding
According to my design.
I've bided my time in obscurity,
Patiently subtracting
Days from the calendar,
Months and years of planning
Stretching into an eternity
Of placating the ignorant,  
Channeling the angst
Of Midwestern housewives
As I wander through
The post-apocalyptic rubble
Of failed romance and broken dreams,
My subliminal poetry
Turning masses into minions
Awaiting my command,
My demonic daydreams
Measured in iambs,
Tucked into dusty drawers
Until that moment of glory
When the tyrants fall
And the poet reigns supreme.



~~~~ Be sure to check out my first installment of A Missive from the Lair.

~~~~  This poem was written for a prompt from Imaginary Gardens with Real Toads asking us to write a poem in parody of our own style.  This also works with the prompt from dVerse Poets Pub asking us for ars poetica (poetry about poetry) as well as my prompt over at Poetry Jam regarding daydreams.  Finally, I incorporated this week’s words from over at The Sunday Whirl in this poem.

Scraps

Scraps of memory
Flash by in a broken montage,
A testament to the flawed design of my life…

A red dress meant to accentuate
The ample curves
Of jasmine-scented teenage flesh…

Sneaking out the window
Upon hearing a whistle
From a quintessential bad boy
Whose demons I would never understand…

Sunset bonfires and beer
Leading to sunrise regrets…

Nights of anguish
Trapped in a demon‘s domain,
Praying for a glimmer of salvation…

I will no longer be trapped by my history.
The past may be etched in immutable granite
But my future has yet to be written.
Although I feared that knowledge
Had slipped beyond my grasp,
The power to transform my world
Has always rested in my hands.



~~~~~~  This poem was inspired by a photo prompt from Poetic Bloomings and used this week’s words from The Sunday Whirl.

Shadows on the Water

Copyright © 2012 Hannah Gosselin ~ Pier Post Persisting

I ventured through the mud and stones
Until I reached that special place
Where the lingering shadows
Of willows trembled in the dying light,
Cooler of cold Corona in hand
And memories of you in my heart.

Seeking salvation for an aching heart
Is much easier here than in a field of stones
Shaped and engraved by a mournful hand,
Finding comfort in a familiar place
Where we watched divine light
In its endless dance with the shadows.

I truly understand those shadows;
They now occupy my heart,
Their darkness choking away your light,
Brushing across the stones
And desecrating this place,
Dusky phantoms melting in my hand.

I cup water in my hand
To wash away the shadows
Yet they remain in place,
The stubborn stains of a wounded heart,
One martyred by Death’s stones
But still seeking the redemption of the light.

As night approaches, the light
Crawls across the bluffs, God’s hand
Stroking color across the stones
But not banishing the shadows
That now haunt my heart
Every moment in every place.

I’m merely a vessel floating in place,
Unable to move forward toward the light,
The loss of you a nail through my heart.
I take another bottle in hand
And make a toast to you, to shadows,
To lost heroes in a sea of stones.

Here in this place I feel you close at hand,
Your spirit now a part of that dance of light and shadows,
Bringing just a bit of peace to a heart battered by stones.


~~~  This poem was inspired by a photo prompt from Imaginary Garden with Real Toads that featured the photography of Hannah Gosselin.  It also fits with this week’s prompt from Poetic Bloomings, which asks for poems about water.  I incorporated this week’s words from The Sunday Whirl into this poem.

Weathering the Storm

Chisel my epitaph
Onto the storm-weathered stones
That crouch along the shoreline,
Where the jagged edge
Of lightning’s glow draws the eye
And winds of discontent split the soul.
We drifted apart in a deluge of tears,
My bruised and beaten heart
Crashed mercilessly against the rocks.
Pierced to my core from your outburst,
I crumple, rain-soaked,
Under the weight of my despair,
But never stop seeking
The glimmer of redemption
Contained in a rainbow’s promise.


~~~~ This poem was inspired by the prompt from Poetry Jam asking for poems about water.  I also used this week's wordle words from The Sunday Whirl.

Laying Poetic Tiles

© Daryl Edelstein

I scrape the barnacles from the hull of life
And shards of humanity fall around me…
Brittle words from the tongues
Of austere women sipping their tea,
The recollections of flinty old men
Drenched in yesterday’s glory,
The simple joys of sidewalk chalk drawings,
Winding roads and long lingering kisses.
I gather the fragments close to my heart
And draw them into my creative cocoon,
Burnishing the rough edges,
Mixing feelings and phrases in a blur,
Binding them together
In my own quirky view of the world
To be shared by those willing to read.


~~~ This poem was written in response to a prompt from Imaginary Garden with Real Toads featuring the photography of Daryl Edelstein, specifically her photos of the mosaic art of Isaiah Zagar.  I also utilized this week's word list from The Sunday Whirl and the prompt from Carry on Tuesday.  Be sure to check out the links for some more great poetry!

Facing the Sun

A massive stillness envelopes his mind,  
A secret grief that lives in his marrow.
Through the window of memory
He still catches glimpses of her,
The scent of rosehips in her facial cream,
The clattering colors of her crocuses
Poking their resilient faces
Through the snow to face the sun,
But he does not recognize the woman
Who shared his bed for fifty-two years,
Who now visits his bedside
In the advanced care center daily,
Who still hopes that perhaps
Life will hand her husband
One more chance to flower
And face the sun.


~~~This poem was written in response to this week's prompt from The Sunday Whirl.

Greeting the Goddess

Wrapped in the chains of expectation
And the intractable whims of others,
A lost wanderer struggling through
The morass of my daily existence,
I’ve squandered opportunities
To drink of glory, of victory,
Talents relegated to obscurity,
Forced to conform by my own insecurities.

It is time to say goodbye
To my indigenous doubts,
The string of demons that visits
Only to dampen my spirits
And fill my eyes with elaborate deceptions
Meant to further impede my faltering footsteps.
No longer will I tremble
In the face of the rituals of despair.
I will live my life with intention,
Significance placed on the journey ahead,
Not the immensity of the mountain I must climb.
I will keep on until I plant my sacred flag on the summit,
Embracing the goddess that dwells within my soul.


~~~ This poem was written in response to several prompts...the prompt from Carry On Tuesday this week was "Time to say goodbye."  I also used this week's words from The Sunday Whirl and Three Word Wednesday.

Unseen

No one saw her cobalt blue memories
Align with her emerging depression,
A vortex of sadness engulfing her,
Hooks sunk deeply into her soul,
The gaping sores that dot her mind,
Oozing poison through her days,
The demons swirling around her
An invisible barrier separating her
From the rest of the world.

No one saw her foundation
Begin to falter and vibrate,
The grind of the emotional weight
Giving the demons more power,
Not a wink of hope left in her world,
Any clear chance of redemption fading.

We saw what she wanted us to see,
Her illusion contrasting with actuality,
Her deception firmly imprinted on us.

And her final act?
No one saw that coming either.

~~ This was written for my own debut prompt over at Poetry Jam (be sure to pop over and check it out!) and also made use of this week's words from The Sunday Whirl.

Paper Hearts and Dragons

In his watery blue depths
I was swept away,
Lost in the discordant melody
Of a doomed romance,
Addicted to a man
Who only knew of dysfunction,
Not true intimacy.
Our love was plagued
By his unslain dragons,
Demons tormenting each step,
Sending us into an abstract shimmy,
A bizarre dance of avoidance,
Emotions folded and creased,
Reduced to scraps of refuse.
The ethereal spangling of angelic wings
Was not enough to save us.
The coda of our love song
Distorted into cacophony,
Then faded into nothingness,
Leaving only the aches
Of the origami heart he shelved,
Fermenting in exquisite agony.

Tequila Sun

The sun’s intrusion through my bedroom window
Pushes back the Patron-induced fog.
Tequila’s evil tricks swirl in my head,
Last night’s events only a hazy blur.

Angry words ricocheted around the room:
You’ve changed…
Why do I even waste my time?
I need someone younger…richer…
More energy…more flexible…
Then after our dramatic exchange, the bar…
Shot after shot of smooth agave blend
Stoking vengeful flames…
Attitudes soften, igniting a different fire…

And now, with daylight rudely insisting
I return to coherent consciousness,
I feel his hand splayed across my hip,
Forceful and possessive,
His hot breath on my bare shoulder.
I cast a sleepy glance
Toward his sweet brown eyes and whisper,

“What was your name again?”

Unfinished

Sorrow...by sweet-lovely-death at deviantART

His promises cannot redeem
The dusky shadows of a dream,
A mate who finds truth obsolete.
Her story is not yet complete.

Overwhelming feelings flood,
Addiction buried in her blood
That reawakens when they meet.
Her story is not yet complete.

She dies a bit with every kiss,
Staggering into the abyss
While destiny makes its retreat.
Her story is not yet complete.

Nothing but a wounded sparrow,
Lies have cut her to the marrow.
Deserving much more than deceit,
Her story is not yet complete.

Singing broken songs of sorrows,
Focusing on her tomorrows,
An ending she will not repeat,
Her story is not yet complete.

Joy and the Magic Man

Over the years, Joy’s name
Seemed to fit her less and less,
Her spirit eroded by
A river of responsibilities,
Once supple skin scarred
By the acid touch of time,
Myopia pushing aside
The artistic visions of her youth.
She almost did not recognize him,
Black hair lightened into gray,
His slower steps assisted
By a cane that mirrored her own,
Nothing to gauge that he even saw her,
Much less remembered
The time when she was “his Joy,”
Back before she had developed
Any acumen at the craft of love.

He had been her Magic Man,
An alchemist whose tender touch
Turned her tears to drops of gold.
He sprinkled her life with wonder,
A belief that life was larger
Than she ever dreamed possible.
He taught her how to embrace freedom
In a sensuous dance of hearts
Uninterrupted by the outside world,
Two artists in love feeding
On the creative juices of the other,
Stoking a fire that overtook them,
Consuming and eventually leaving
Only smoldering embers discarded
In search of the next inspiration.

She set aside her brush
And oil paints long ago,
Arthritic hands and withered dreams
Unable to give shape to her visions,
But as she sweeps past him
On that cold January sidewalk
In her sensible shoes and sturdy coat,
Shadows of Joy and the Magic Man
Float in the fog of yesterday.

A Modern Take on Fairy Tales

I quit believing in fairy tales long ago.
These stories carry a promise of happiness
But baffle us when reality negates fantasy.

There are no glass slippers for these feet,
No magical delivery of an elegant gown
Spun from starlight by a fairy godmother.
I’ve never wandered the dark hallways
That lead to enchanted towers
Or alone through a haunted wood,
Basket of goodies in hand,
Anxiously listening for signs
Of a wolf stalking my footsteps.
An evil elf will never test my limits
In a sadistic guessing game.
Prince Charming and his meaningless gestures
Hold no substance behind the façade,
And kissing too many frogs
Only results in a trip to the free clinic.
I’ve never even seen a spinning wheel,
Much less pricked my finger on the spindle.
Singing in the forest to a gentle menagerie?
Housekeeping for seven short miners?
I don’t think so.

The drama in my life comes
From much more mundane sources,
My previous disappointments
Leaving an inherent lack of faith
And no drive to repeat an unhappy ending.

Still, sometimes, a random smile
Or an unexpectedly tender glance
Reminds me of my lost innocence,
Makes me wish upon my star
That someday, someone
Will make me believe again.


Note: This is my 200th posting here at Write Wing Conspiracy...can hardly believe it!

The Long Pause

Everybody knows you cried last night - jenbeez

She spent years trapped in limbo,
Trouble wrapped around her
Like a thousand writhing tentacles,
Squeezing, choking, suffocating.
She cannot blame some accident of fate
Or some menacing faceless stranger
For a plight caused by her own hand.
That bad decision mars her existence,
Keeping her trapped in her personal hell,
Not allowing her to step forward
And claim the life she was born to live.
She’s paid a hefty toll on this journey,
Confused emotions forced her to settle
For extended misery instead of happiness.

Overwhelming as it seems,
I know she still has plenty of resources,
An untapped strength to spur her on,
To handle the hard choices that face her,
To escape the sadness permeating her life.
Tears are not a permanent tattoo,
Only temporary tracks to be wiped
Away from a hopeful spirit,
One recharged with a new focus after a long pause.
Once again she will drink of joy’s libation
And realize life at its best is poetry;
That’s all she could ever ask for.

Broken Girls and Unheeded Warnings

I ignored the well-meaning advice
From friends and family.
They didn’t understand.
They didn’t know him the way I did.
We were in love, and love conquers anything.
In his arms this broken girl
Found salvation in a dream come alive,
A balm to ease the pain of a chaotic life,
Unaware the path I had chosen
Only led to more chaos.
Seductive words from his forked tongue
Slowly weaned me away
From those friends and family,
Leaving me wandering
Coatless through the wilderness
With only him to save me.
His sweet words soured over time,
Turning derisive and cruel,
Stripping away my sense of self
Until all that remained was
A drained vessel to be filled
With more woolly logic,
More twisted illusions,
His viselike grip on me
Suffocating in every sense of the word.
The dream deteriorated into an nightmare,
Days carefully calculated to avoid his wrath,
Nights waiting to see what torture
Lie in store should his temper rise again,
Perhaps another verbal assault
Spiraling into something more physical,
Unwanted invasions of my deepest self,
Lying awake wondering
If this was the night when the
Cold metal of a kitchen knife
Would slide between my ribs
Turning white sheets to crimson.
By the time enough fragments of myself
Had returned to identify the danger,
I was nearly incapable of escaping.
I almost didn’t.


I’ve watched her grow from
Chubby toddler into gawky adolescent
Into a young woman who could be my daughter,
A beautiful but broken girl
Whose steps mirror my own path.
I know his embrace eases that broken feeling,
Brings a fullness to her life she’s never known.
Today I am a much wiser woman
And can see the warning signs,
She thinks no one understands;
I understand far more than she,
Knowledge forged in an abuser‘s shadow.
She shapes her life as he prefers,
Days carefully calculated to avoid his wrath.
She is already slipping away
From the friends and family
Offering advice I know will be ignored.
I find I cannot admonish her.
I can only pray she learns
Before repeating all my mistakes
And walks away from him
While she’s still capable of escaping.

Seeking an Answer

Image by Ben Kokolas

Her search for an answer
Took her beyond the edges of the map,
Down roads paved with more questions.
Grief is her companion on this trip,
A cumbersome stray dog
That never quite sheds its feral nature.

The murmur of reluctant voices
Pelt her senses,
Silent taunts that only cement her resolve.
The dense smoke of days gone by
Wafts around her,
Seeping through her cracks,
Obscuring the view rushing by her window,
Masking her constant pain.

Grief invites her
To drink of his sorrows,
To lose herself in despair.
She refuses the distraction,
Continuing her search for an answer,
Still questioning how
The man who so easily entranced her
Could slip so easily from her life.

The Dead Road

Photo by Mary Ann Potter

The road was abandoned
By the county years ago,
Used now only by firefighters
Battling the occasional wildfire.
Two miles down that road,
Nestled behind a decaying farmhouse
In a shadowy grove where sunlight seeps
Randomly through the pines,
We kindled our own inferno,
Two restless souls
Lost in the flames of first love
Unaware our fire
Was destined to be extinguished.

Even now as I pass
That overgrown turn-off,
Nostalgia straps in
For a detour to the past,
The smudgy edges of memory
Receding just enough
To show my scorched heart,
The gaping sores of unhealed regret.
I find it just a bit bizarre
That lingering thoughts of him
Can still put me off-balance,
But I know the ghosts of lost love
Continue to whistle through the aging pines.