Land of Dreams, Sea of Reality

It is here where The Land of Dreams blends in with the Sea of Reality.

I scoop the earth-blackened waters of its banks, only to see it slip through my fingers.

In the distance of my fantasy worlds,

Castles crumble.

Palaces burn.

and things that aren’t pretentious about

their brutality

break the spine of humanity

over their knees.

 

The crack of shattered, severed bone sounds like an

exclamation mark on the period of life.

 

No escape.

See? The gift abandons you, as a

faithless priest

his calling.

The candles in the temple are extinguished,

And canticles and prayers rise in supplication,

Only to get trapped in the webs and rooks of

defiled, unholy rubble, and desecrating doubt.

 

The hand trembles with pain,

wrinkles with age.

 

The fight is all-encompassing now,

and strength is leeching, leaking, leaving…

 

The Sea of Reality has the remnants of

wasted time, missed chances, lost loves

in your wake,

even as mines of potential and buoys of pleasure

come into view.

 

The sun perpetually sets on the horizon.

Fog will coat the water’s surface,

and the stars change position and darken

as you navigate.

 

The rudder of the pen skips,

The oar of the pencil splinters and cracks

even as it shrinks.

The laptop lighthouse can no longer illuminate

the safe harbor of your hopes.

 

Mortality and eternity mix and war,

the storm clouds full of nightmares realized,

the cirrus clouds of curried wisps of daydreams

fading to mist in the mind’s ever-changing weather.

 

A dark and silent bay awaits,

with no guiding stars,

no turning of the hourglass,

no sailing with the tide.

 

So then, captain, it comes to this:

Do you run aground, leaping safely to shore?

Do you founder and break on the coral and stone,

clinging to what remains?

Do you let go of the wheel of your life,

drifting into nothingness?

 

Or do you smooth out one last piece of parchment

like a billowing sail,

and once more

take up the stout and stubby oar

for the last voyage?

 

Chess

A powerful and poignant work, written by a 14 year old.

Poems and Petals


‘Neither will win’, the audience says

Now that the contest starts

For black men move without their heads

And white without their hearts.

‘And if one shall advance’, they said,

‘So much as one short pace,

His fellowmen shall shun him then

A traitor to the race’.

‘You wooden men give up the game,

For what are all these squares

But black and white and black again,

The pattern of your cares?’.

The chessmen quickened into life,

For love has conquered pride,

Those that were angry face to face

Are quiet side by side.

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Victory

I killed him on a summer night.

The moon shines on him fully.

The wolves now come to crack his bones.

Tonight I killed my bully.

No tears I shed, although I sigh.

His corpse swings on the pulley.

The crows will pluck his filmy eyes.

Tonight I killed my bully.

I dreamed about it for some time.

My mind would get all woolly,

And it felt good to shear his throat.

Tonight I killed my bully.

My cats and I pretend that we are

hiding in the gully.

But really we are in my room.

Tonight I killed my bully.

 

Laying Stones

One night I woke, and watched you.

Saw the past in your mind, through your eyes.

So still you were, but there were tears in the moonlight.

I don’t know if you built the wall

or someone took you behind it,

but it was a place I could not go.

I tried.

I fought.

My hands were rough and bleeding,

and I had no rope, no grappling hook.

When I was almost there, I reached up for you to help me.

And you walked away.

I tried again, until I could no more.

When I passed through the gate

for the last time

I turned,

and you were there

in the window,

laying more stones.

Still crying.

 

(*art by jonasjensenart.deviantart.com)

Poetess in the Park

I stopped because she was absolutely riveting.

She actually wore a beret, had fully bought in to the whole scene.

Everything came together as I watched her perform,

as I watched her play the crowd.

I wanted her to hesitate when she looked at me, to stumble over her words, and come to a stop.

But she didn’t.

I understood: The poem was all to her, everything to her.

But to me,

she was the poem,

the art of something so out of the ordinary

it could never fit in.

I wanted to be that vibrant to someone,

for someone to know me so well they’d anticipate

what I’d improvise.

I wished she was my all and everything.

But I never asked her name.

The Empty Poet

He searched the floor of his life for more words,

but there were none.

In his day, he waxed quite elegant, his inimitable style admired

by all who attended the readings full of smells of coffee, sweat,

and too much perfume in close quarters.

The applause, while not thunderous, was engaged.

The conversations, while not stimulating, were polite.

“I liked that poem.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know. I just did.”

“Thank you.” Sips coffee to indicate

the conversation’s over.

The microphone was no longer a beacon, but a flickering ghost light

in a dark theater.

The notebook paper and computer screens were all test patterns; nothing to see.

Nothing in them. Nothing on them.

My life isn’t over, but it seems to have run dry.

Was there really nothing left to say? Nothing that moved him? Touched his heart? Enraged him? Set him laughing hysterically?

Desperately, he mined for it, memories in black, oily sludge best left buried slipping in stringy fragments through his finger.

Feelings unrequited. Longings unfulfilled.

And now, the words have flown as well.

No feathers to fly, unfettered, they flee.

The skin dries as the words evaporate,

and the poet is now a husk of man.

Desiccated and empty, seeming all of a man, but containing nothing of him.

The pen slips from his fingers; the battery in the digital thing no longer holds a charge.

Change is forthcoming, but he will stand and remain, no regrets.

The memories are old, unrelenting, full of sharp rebuke.

He rises from kneeling in the sludge of his art,

As his husk dries slowly in the morning sun,

as the poet’s soul slips free.

#FridayFantasy – Denizen

An intricate and clever use of imagery and rhyme by Morgan on her BookNVolume blog.

Booknvolume

Denizen

Denizen of the Sullied Night,

Gazing Perpetually

With Diabolic Light,

Sing of Enticements

Wanton and Fair,

Intoxications Beyond Compare;

Denizen of Intrinsic Reign,

Watching spectrally

While Shadows Feign,

Incubus of Beauty,

Tempting concessionaire,

Proffering Intemperance as We Dare!

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~Morgan~
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Artwork found at: mmogames.com

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