Fears and Mirrors

At night,
   the mirror reflects
                       fear,
                       forges images of a more frightening version of
                                    myself.  My
                                           eyes are wide and shadowy, large,
                                                 set against gaunt and grayish face.
                                                     Horror creeps ever nearer until I'm forced
                                                      to look away.

A simple call from nature,
                         once the lights are out, and I am
                                                  again, eleven,
padding down a (suddenly) long,
                                       long hallway, heart
palpitating,
palms sweating,
gust of
ghosts behind me, hot
upon my neck.

The bathroom bestows
      no comfort.
To
turn on the
light or not?

Avoid the mirror- but I
can
   not.

Brief glance...
            and there I am - (she is) in all her gore, garments dripping guilty garnet
                        red.

I see her without really seeing her-
imagine, only, vision.

Hurry, then, back to bed.
Slow
my breath,
close my eyes,
wait for sleep to rescue,
pray for dreamless rest.

Damn you, slumber parties of my youth and your Bloody Mary stories.

Poetry Jam

Light Words
         

Sickness Seeps

The sickness seeps; a contagion,
frantic, searching for invasion,
seeking host to infect with lies.
Poor victim's sanity, the prize,
every answer an evasion

until truth becomes an abrasion,
invention the new equation
for narcissus' sly disguise
and sickness seeps

with words employed in persuasion
till loss of self, mere sensation
and in denial the soul dies.
The poison pleased with the demise
moves on, searching next occasion
and sickness seeps.

dverse

Afternoon

It was afternoon -
burnished light of day
the sun glared, exacerbating
her eyes, already so tired
so exhausted that irritation
came as a defense, to cocoon
Boiling hot
but birds still sounding,
though, as they, too,
were angered. dual chirps,
a scrape, one lurched
down, above her head.
Her nerves, brittle,
shook, but she did not blink
but she tasted blaze of fever
Her feet remained in place,
barnacles attached
to some sinking ship
She swallowed finally,
mouth dry
tongue rough
thoughts not quite as fixed as body.
Steady, her mind reminded,
watching
waiting
The authority,
austere,
commanding,
of logic and survival
prevailing.
A cloud rested,
blocking the bright
and her hard as flint
involuntarily \
relented.
She felt it in her toes,
their relent
The blur
of his face
came into focus
and when his eyes
flickered,
she saw her chance
She spat
drenched
him
with
her
hate.

After

Your voice
is an image now,
stamped -
quite beguiling.

 My
                eyes burn with ideas,
 and I'm stuck
 in
                                                              time flowing so fast
                                                               it deranges.

                                                               I see what's
abandoned, what affliction is avoided,
and I'm contemplating the wisdom in matching all you're cap-
able of.  Deserting, too, the
                       the towering space where once we stayed.
                                                                    Did we leave
anything at
all
behind?  After rumors of ruins,
              and suggestions of deaths, I am fearful of venturing back...
though
the cries of passage
         echo earthward,
 treasure
                            telling, somehow.   There is
a choice in this,
but remembrance falters, and your scarcity gives you away.
Still,
I dig through, clambering up, not sure what I'll find or
                                                                        where I'll end
up.
I am
filtering through the vanished and
unreturned,
pushing
past phantoms, and I am taut of tongue close to
  the precipice
where our love
  hangs in balance.

Write at the Merge

Let's start with you

Let's start with you,
I hear you say,
as you hold back, breathing long.  So, I prepare,
                                                                                                                       pick up pencil,
and the words become damned digits, tricky little bastards, I can't get a hold of.
I'm staring into your laughter, hearing calculus, doing math, where I should be writing rhythm.
I'm reckoning my life in terms of loss and gain,
but it won't add
up.
I'm reworking each number, line by line, going half
         mad, trying
                 to figure out where I
                                     went wrong.
I am turning, examining angles of myth, bends of mystery, holding on and giving up.
       This
isn't easy.
     To what small or large degree have the mistakes of my past brought me, in mind,
                                                   down to the boundary where the indigo pulls, closer to you.  Maybe, you've got
              the brains - or the ways, can do with negatives what I do with the upside of words.
                         I start with you, because that's where it started,
but maybe if I move the placement.....and you draft dispersal,
we'll fit in the end.
I am rounding up, mixing roots,
        real,
imaginary,
    and then impossible, and
                  maybe, I'm tallying what I should not be, maybe, I'm instead,
                                                          subtracting increase.
                                                                          It's a
                                                               toss up, this pending
                                                                        pain, I know.
Torment of dilemma, or maybe it's simple
                                                                          as pie, you and I.
                                                                                I think what it all comes down to is the sound of your
voice,
so I say, Let's start with you;
          you tell me how one and one makes two.

for the record

The photograph of you
with my mother,
both deliciously happy-
 or appearing
so
(your lips are sealed) makes me
wonder,
how now, I have only this.

Much is missing
from this picture gallery,
laid out in
     mind,
           despite the illustrations,
and elaborations,
and still,
                                            nestled
away
in a heart ache
is that pearl like
motif-
embalmed,
for grave.

So, when last night, I
didn't bother with a bath,
it came as no surprise this morning,
                      that I
         should happen on such delicious
symbol of the way I (used to?)
                                       do
things.
                         If it's
current,
it's not old.
Why do I
forget?
        The insanity is
                     alive
                     and well.  Conjoined, I
map back to determinant,
    puncture
                each season,
dry and wet
                   alike,
producing
what I
                       know I need to put
away.

I am mopping
up remains of conversation,
finding I am fonder of the fantasy
                                    than
                                    this mess
                                       inherent
to how things are,
                      and
       at present,
       am only making up
for life I've lost.
                            I have paid for
this in pain.
Overused the common,
and denied
the
truth.
I have violated voice.

So, now, I'm waiting,
         weary,
for the way of wound
                         to meet me,
                         through
                         the ruin
and the
                              rain,
                               astonished
                                               still,
by the circle
      that brings me back to
  you.

                                           

Just Your Voice

Source: sailorsandsluts.tumblr.com via Nicole on Pinterest

Damn,
 just your voice,
 an elixir.
              Seven years and that sounds perfect, like some lucky number.  A
                                                                    completion.
 Some long journey absolute circling back.
            But I'm trying not to
do that-
     to reduce right away, like I am, to
                          the meaning, supreme- like I want
                          to.
I'm trying to
keep my cool.
 And each slight pause, I'm  panicking
                                               to keep it going,
 keep it coming,
say enough
 but not
                                               too much.
  I've never been good at that.
But just yesterday, a week ago,
                             a year ago,
 I couldn't breathe
 or bear the thought of never.
 So,
the sliver lines like silver
 the cloud
that's lingered, holding downpour,
                                                        waiting, of all dreams of day.  I''ll be the first to
                                                                                                            say, it's
less than sane, but it's always been that way with
                                         you.  Every cliche I've
                                                  ever worked to avoid
crashes bold and unashamed
                                                                           confessing in the beat of leaked tenderness.  Across lines, can
you tell?
 Who's the junkie now, paranoid and high?
  Oh, that great man
                 who knew so much, who said of this before me,
what was once behind me, brings to mind the revelation of what was always there.
 He spoke to me,
and the great man you held in wait, severed by,
 let's call it,
fate.
 Sluttish,
         slow and slip of tongue, of life stinted.
 I'm softly exhaling
                                  that torrent
                                            of torment
                                                 to inhale a new, less
potent fragrance
 in all its impossibility.  Can I trust my
                                           mind this time?
Keep talking, I'll keep listening, afraid to say goodbye.
 Why are you not here?
 I'd fall
                                                                                     flat with my words
 and on my face
 before
I'd let you go again.

Write at the Merge