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The Journey-Lost In Time

I look downward at the pavement below me and watch as my feet shuffle onward.
Where they are going i don't know, they move without direction, and i wonder if we are going to the same place, or if they have chosen a different path. and if so will we meet there someday? will we ever cross paths? Maybe our journeys are the same. we will both go somewhere great, but take the long way there. will they get lost? or have i already lost myself? if i ever get there will they be waiting for me? as the days go on another nightfall has come and gone, and i have grown weary. i don't think i will ever get to where my feet have gone, and stuck in time is where i remain.

Speech can be a masterpiece of artistic creation,

Elegant calligraphy, decorated with the odd heart-flutter flourish,

Fingers working, dancing, pounding on ivory keys, 

The smoke from a handsome mouth drifting through mahogany halls

As though from a fired gun. Dust settling after an earthquake. 

I cast myself in my plays, 

Too immersed to retract from the action, 

Too selfish to watch another fertilise the seeds, 

Too inflated to see my words applauded to another, 

"That's the theatre!" "That's life!"

People care little for Mona herself, 

Only for her master, his talent unbound. 

We praise not sunflowers, but their gardener insane. 

Shakespeare was lucky, the devil of devices, 

But the new world has eyes, not ears. Not brains!

I cannot see the target but for dazzling light, 

Heat and heart working furiously to fuel those pretty-penned words, 

I'm dashing or thrashing, whichever is box-office smashing, 

The multi-skilled wonder man of paper-in-hand, 

I love the stage and I love my plays, 

In most, I play the devil.

》》》

He left two marks on me.

Stains...

 They hurt when they broke the skin.

I tried to wash them off,

And they wouldn't come off,

I figure they are meant to be,

A label.

A scarlet letter,

Written in indelible ink,

Never to be erased

By any man, woman,

Or force of nature.

An insignia

Of how I came to be 

What I am.

I have searched and searched

For their meaning,

Their purpose...

And at one time,

I was even going to sue.

There was no sense to it,

They are here to stay.

I am a tainted woman,

How will I go on?

I beg for some kind of redemption,

Some significance,

Even settle for a tiny morsel 

To quench the aching loss 

Of my dignity.

The disfigurement is disturbing.

But all I know of him

Is what was written on his woody shaft....

I will never forget it.

It said...

  ..."#2".

》》》》

.....

100 Days ago I made a decision to throw caution to the wind

A choice I hoped in the long run would not leave me chagrined.

I thought I would write a daily rhyme, (OK nothing crazy about that yet!)

But in my infinite wisdom I thought I’d post them on the net.

Why I did this is a mystery I still have yet to solve.

When I think back I have to wonder if alcohol was involved?

Whatever! I thought Facebook was the perfect place to let these rhymes run free

After all, everyone on Facebook I have friended...or they have friended me.

It was the perfect place I assumed among people I have known

To try something this scary and leave my comfort zone.

What better place to post the great pieces of literature my mind begat

Than a place that offers recipes, funny e-cards and videos of crazy cats?

Ever since I can remember if there was a special time

My family and friends knew they’d be receiving a copy of my rhyme.

They usually seemed delighted, like my poem gave them a lift.

Little did they know, till now, it was much cheaper than a gift.

They said I should write for other people, they said it’d be a snap.

I’m sure they thought they shouldn’t be the only ones who get to read this crap!

So buoyed by their urging and my own naivete

I decided it might be fun to write a poem a day.

It wasn’t an easy decision to make...to write this daily rhyme

But I somehow found the courage to hit POST the very first time.

It’s now been 100 days and these daily rhymes have not abated

I’m sure my family and friends didn’t expect the monster they created!

I imagine you might like one poem while another you think is a flop

It matters not because, since I started, there’s no way that I can stop.

It has now become an obsession...I think your help I should enlist...

Is there a doctor out there who specializes...perhaps a poetry therapist?

On second thought don’t feel bad for me for everyday I feel blessed

That my poems have been around the world and met with some success.

In truth I have one follower in Germany which really has no glamour

Because the only reason she reads my poems is to correct me on my grammar.

Be that as it may...100 poems, it’s a number that does amaze.

And I’m sure you can’t wait to read what’s coming in the next 100 days.

Will they be happy, thoughtful, heart wrenching, or perhaps a little fun

You be the judge for the poem you’re reading is now one hundred and one.

Years ago I heard a song;

it was a burst of fresh spring water,

thoughtless as thoughts exhausted on a day's end,

somber as delta sleep

with dreams of love like lovers

can never be

in the mind's eye,

because with all its intellect

it's song is little more

than a thousand haunted memories

and a reasonable fear

that what I wished I could keep forever

is dissolving like an exhale into the breeze.

Anecdotes and testaments,

half-remembered precedents;

they set the stage so thusly for

a script that's read in silence.

Eyes may widen as it's skimmed -

shorn, revised and marred by whim -

but as your panic settles in,

it's handed back and purchased.

An audition for your draft.

Your chest tightens as you laugh.

You think aloud, "It's not so bad.

At least it wasn't worthless."

....

...as the feelings expressed on paper

swirl through the room

like leaves from a changing tree in the fall of the year,

the pages of life are turned to reveal the layers

of what once had been covered.

...the leaves fall to the ground,

the cat curls safely inside a feathered pillow,

...the empty cup,

steaming from it's brim hours earlier,

is placed in the sink,

and peaceful slumber

ends another season of life.

.....

Goodbye festers like root rot in the gums.
Spreading the heart breaking venom.
Waiting for the final smile.  The final breath.
Goodbye festers like an acid laced thorn.
Burrowing itself deeper into the spirit's flesh.
There is a man dying giving birth to legends.
Writ in the blood of fallen stars.

Shakespear's quill pierced the voice box.
King's nightmares are the marching bad.
Bukowski is the comedy relief.

In the piss fur coffin lies not Stoker's terror right.

What lies within the coffin, is a living poet.
High on dreams, drunk off hope.
Blind by cherish, deaf by the Muse.
Here is the birth of a poet festering in goodbye.

Dark and depressing,

that's all I write.

It could be about death

or about a fight.

Suicide, murder,

it's all the same.

And because of this fact,

I'm kind of in shame.

For that's all I write about

don't you see?

I can't write "happy"

it just can't be.

I tried to write "happy",

never came out good.

It came out dark and depressing,

like I knew it would.