Tag Archives: poetry

Chop Chop!

The date at 6.  The clock at 5.  Everyone waiting for me to arrive like festivities barred behind brittle little braces and I’m the Straw that breaks its back.  I want to be there.  I want more time with you all.  But painful is the prodding that produces this person to patiently mosey around from my private cove.  The lines on the clock face tick lines on my face, and all I hear is –

 

Chop Chop!

 

My private cove where my actions are my own and not the production of string pulls on my marionette.  My door like scissors that cut me loose into my own sanctuary.  I drop my masquerade in a jar by the door and may work on my dreams in peace.  And pieces they become for two eyes of my own for I share them with no one; not for my sake, I just wear a particular prescription.  My farsighted lenses I paint over with roses save me from the Grims that speak with no filter.  So I stay here with myself.  I lie in bed and let my aspirations float up into the ceiling fan – and pieces they become.

 

Chop Chop!

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Love Letter

You’re the gravity,

That gives these words weight.

Without you, it’s just a blank slate.

 

You’re the word I can’t stop repeating,

Until it loses all meaning,

But I can’t stop from singing.

 

You’re the body I hold under the sheet,

Because when our brains turn off,

Our hearts still beat.

 

You’re the gravity,

That gives these words weight.

Without you, it’s just a blank slate.

 

You’re the one after the “To”,

Who I’m sending this love letter,

To try and make our love better.

 

Jaded Diamond

It’s been three years since they said it would be over in three months.

It’s been three years since I wasn’t warned to bear the brunt.

It’s been three years since I couldn’t munch-crunch on brunch-

Only ever wanting to confront the bunched up grunts with a punch,

And a punt in their scrunched up guts.

But I was too weak – too tamed to maim the brains I blame,

For my guts lacerated like a hollow candy-cane.

So all my aggression, depression, pressurized this compression,

That I prayed would turn my lump of coal into a diamond – that’s my confession.

Kept tryin’ to turn it into a positive,

But I’m positive – it sure was causative.

 

The result was no diamond.  I’m jaded.

My ‘care-free’ faded.  My Mr. Brightside shaded.

And to not be angry at the God who forgave me;

I hope He’ll save me from these drugs I keep taking.

‘Cuz I know that I’m destined for more than monthly injections,

For this lower intestine.

And you know I’m bestin’,

To alchemize this jade into perfection.

It’s predestined progression- not even a question of reaching succession.

I’m working to the top.

Until then- can’t stop.

Sunday Photo Fiction – Behind Closed Doors

stonecat

Walking down 3rd Street, passing across Washington, we phase through ethereal fog. We can taste the smog, the ‘city-water’ sitting water splashing under endless tires, me and my daughter. The aftertaste of old pennies and nickels permeates my palate. I can almost taste the tableau of top brass, Thomas Jefferson, under the steel skyscrapers. The contour of the skyline sharply engraves itself on the curvature of the night sky’s full-moon like the flavor of the etching of the executives on the change in the pocket of my mouth. The rigidity of the urban iron and the awful aroma of alloy is obnoxiously noxious, but despite my derision, I stay stone-faced in disdain.

Cars cruise past the far lane as I try to keep sane through all this pain. I look down at my daughter for some respite and she’s already looking back at me with a crooked smile in delight in the light of the city at night and I can’t help but wonder when we forget that everything will be alright. Her face scrunches in playful disgust as she sticks her tongue out: sensing the same sense I’m sensing. I just can’t help but wonder at what age do we hide our true feelings behind closed doors behind closed doors behind closed doors behind closed….


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Friday Fictioneers – Lies Forevermore

© C.E.Ayr
© C.E.Ayr

Am I to believe all these circumstances?  Have I been bred to be so naïve?

Sometimes it feels like platforms are falling into the path of my steps, and I get to where I’m supposed to be.  This calculated fate designed for destiny; premeditated not by me.  Do they think that I don’t see just because I’ve always been here- that my sheltering would leave me transfixed?

To hear all my life the beauty of the painted skies, but when I finally reached out for them, my knuckles resounded a knock!

I beseech you the truth.  Lies forevermore, nevermore.


Mondays Finish the Story – Material Things

2015-08-17-c2a9-2015-barbara-w-beacham

I see absolutely everything.

Soaring on the heights of wings.

Discerning which of the ants down there

Are supposed to be the queen and king.

 

I may be deemed ethereal,

But definitely not imperial.

That’s what they have over me-

Their things are material.

 

I wish I could give you all the world,

Necklaces, bracelets, rings all pearled.

I wanted to be there already,

But my plans have all unfurled.

 

Maybe it’s some fear of commitment,

I already want to be at fulfillment,

Too much to say with no one to read,

So I guess I’ll just have to film it.

 

I need shaken this unshakeable vice,

That I feel each gift must have a price,

Even when you say you don’t need it,

Some gifts sure do entice.

 

So my darling, and dear friend,

I promise to make it in the end.

You’ll have more than you’ll ever need,

Until then, love I send.

 

 

Mondays Finish the Story – Petroglyphs

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© 2015, Barbara W. Beacham
© 2015, Barbara W. Beacham

“The petroglyphs told the story of an unusual event.”

An event so precisely parsed even William could tell.  Our handicapped language is still working, but I still can’t effortlessly illustrate this devastating event of a feeling – a muted implosion of serotonin and adrenaline through capillaries that discharge blind aggression like kerosene between teen King and Queen Dopamine.  I need three bottles of codeine before I try to convey this allegory with metaphors, analogies, and similes like a Professor Dickens teaching the difference between two cities.  I could borrow a French expression, add an Arabic adage, and toss in a Portuguese epigram.  I can’t do this.  I have to postpone this interpretation to deaf bones.  I have to escape it – this feeling, this pain, this pleasure.  I’m prone to combat these, although I don’t condone, trazodone until I’m monotone.