Saturday, March 28, 2015

The First Rung

"The first step, my son, which one makes in the world, is the one on which depends the rest of our days." - Voltaire

 


Reaching up from this muddy pit
My hands find the first rung
I'm not letting go of it, my feet still stuck
Screaming at the top of my lungs
From this first rung on the ladder
I'll not be thrown
Everything's in me yelling, you can't do it
Everyone's around me laughing at my attempts
No comfort, no friends when your down this low
The first rung is all you have
Yet I climb, slapping for the next rung, I'll ascend
Out of this frothing mire
I'll not let go, beaten down time by time
I find myself alone, beginning again
I shake myself from my own doubt
I find myself afraid to succeed
What will be required of me?
No more easy carefree existence
The struggle becomes necessary to stay on the ladder.
At the bottom, swimming aimlessly in the lost masses
Who cares what you do?
As you climb out, everyone looks at you, they are encouraged by your rebellion
To climb out of their own mess, to take the challenge of living again.
This first rung, the hardest, taking the most courage to live beyond
The lies spoken to you from those in your youth, and by your lovers
Who are no longer there.
Discomfort at having to leave your habits, your friends.
Not everyone will follow you up,
Most times, no one will.
You'll have to meet those who are climbing on your way up.
You see they left the mire long ago,
Every now and then glancing back to see the despair
Which they escaped so narrowly.
So I cling, to this first rung, by tenacity, hard to define
This first rung is life, this first rung is mine.

Also published in:  Broowaha
Also published in:  Life As A Human 


03082011

Friday, March 20, 2015

Quiet Retreat

“Do you not see how necessary a world of pains and troubles is to school an intelligence and make it a soul?” ― John Keats, Letters of John Keats







Forsaken by sanity, forgotten by humanity, she fought just to keep from fighting. Barely one step ahead of the encroaching madness, weary from the race, she laid down her arms. Passive resistance to no avail, giving all to go beyond today but consumed by fear of tomorrow and an unspoken dread of a foreshortened future. Like a gold ring in a pig's snout her beautiful body hung from a leprosy filled soul. Her mind wasn't empty but overcrowded with thousands of thoughts every minute, from the mundane to the complex, the raucous sound filled every crack and crevice of brilliance and care. She died long ago, resurrected once, only to be crucified again by the same love that brought her life. This cross she bears through life, stumbling in the crowded streets with the roar of the past and the horror of the future the foreboding songs of the morning. Hear her silent scream, silent lest the world hear the echoes of her demise. In the end, only God knows why she's alive, why she persists, why living is a threat and death a quiet retreat.


Tuesday, March 17, 2015

Sighs - all that's left

“I loved you like a man loves a woman he never touches, only writes to, keeps little photographs of.” ― Charles Bukowski, Love is a Dog from Hell 



desirablelingerie


All that's left is your panties 
and little splotch
of oil
and that's how all my lover's leave
a moan and a sigh
and then
nothing.

Monday, March 16, 2015

Raw and Uncensored








Intoxicated again
off the wagon given
what's left isn't
recognizable
what's left
Is a shadow of
you loving me

and several hours of porn
convinced me your worthy
or not
but despite how others use you... 
I need you.

Somnambulation

 “I don’t know,” he said. “I just feel like I have to do something.”
“Do what?”
“I don’t know. That’s what’s wrong. Or part of what’s wrong. I feel like I’m sleepwalking.”
Rainbow Rowell, Attachments



beckycloonan

Once I was awake and aware,
not that long ago I swear.
Sleep walking and as I go,
moving is unkindly slow.
Force a smile but for me,
awake again will never be.
Doomed to wander in this fright,
dark in here is always light.
In a slumbering place I shake,
always walking never awake.



Friday, March 13, 2015

Safe Harbor

“Nothing external to you has any power over you.” 
Ralph Waldo Emerson


gbcomposer

The haven from which we draw peace is found not without but within. Circumstances change and environments produce storms, but if preparations are made in advance, the harbor's climate is safe and steady. A harbor built before the hurricane provides a sure relief, but laboring to lay foundations in the pouring rain is frivolous. The place of refuge lays beyond the shores of feeling, away from circumstance. A master architect has drawn plans for this refuge and laid them open to all. Their hard to build, patience is needed, and much strength from beyond, but these are afforded to those who labor through dependence on the heavenly Father, a willing participant in building a safe harbor. When finished this will provide protection from the wailing winds and torrential rains of death, life, love, and circumstance. The first step in the process is an admission that help is needed and then an establishment of a relationship with the architect. Then follows conformation to His steps and a steady endurance to resist looking outward at the storms but inward to the work. There's a peaceful place which provides an unchanging calm environment and it's up to us to build it. Godspeed friend, there is much work to do here.




Thursday, March 12, 2015

Mistakes

“Nowadays most people die of a sort of creeping common sense, and discover when it is too late that the only things one never regrets are one's mistakes.”
Oscar Wilde, The Picture of Dorian Gray





She came from behind and with a quick subconscious flick of her wrist, drew a spreading red slash across the neck of my creativity. As if to mock my draining ambition, she put her mouth on me and swallowed the essence of my being, my last trinkets of care for her, for this world, for anything that faintly resembled hope. Sex, the horribly inefficient bandage of the addict that she used to attempt the correction of her mistakes, became the soaked bloody evidence that the desire of body and soul were dying, left unattended by any whose triage could save us. For in killing me, she succeeded in a suicide of her own drawn out and withered existence. And so we died, one for giving, the other for taking, which I decided was right, because both were a mistake.




Wednesday, March 4, 2015

Endless Sky - An Intimate Encounter

"I knew myself no longer. My original soul seemed, at once, to take its flight from my body; and a more than fiendish malevolence, gin-nurtured, thrilled every fibre of my frame.” - Edgar Allan Poe, The Black Cat 


shemakesdirty-wordssoundpretty

I lit the coals with yearning, 
deeper than times sand.
I stoke them with nature's trinkets
Mischievous I take your hand.

Tender violence my guide
Bringing you to passions door
The flames burn hot and long
We consummate the lore 

Fighting to feel not wanting to resist
Together in universal rhythm we tread 
Heat of friction driving your desire
Caught in throes, an endless sky our bed 

Tied with bonds of forbidden
Bringing creation to savor the burst,
I find you my sweet fragrance
Satiated with passions thirst.  

Scarlet silk creates your hidden visage
Tide of lust breaking ground in blurs
Flamed tongues burn hot and long
Embracing you a yearning stirs 

Air controlled by a strangled grip
Crashing through passions door
Leaving you shaking in pleasure
Gliding on weakened wings we soar

Pain creates a direction to edges new
When again on those heights we tread 
Let the torrid heat drive our desire high
Caught in throes, an endless sky our bed



05152013




Related post: Holy Sanctum

Also published in Broowaha Magazine

01262012 

Tuesday, March 3, 2015

A Lesson From Missing You

“...she has the ability to hide as expertly as a sock in a washing machine. No one knows where it goes, just as no one knows where she goes, but at least when she decides to come back, we're all here, waiting for her.” - Cecelia Ahern

 

Breathing in and with each rasping dry inhale I'm missing you
It burns down to the hollow of my soul.
Memories they flood in, a confusing mix. I thought I missed just you,
but I miss the many that are a part of me.
Each having a part to play, each having a part in me,
each deserving of my attention.
What will I do with these feelings? I shouldn't,
long after only you.
I should enjoy the many 
that have become a part in my life.
How can I miss only you and leave out the others
who have a part to play?
I must move on, pay my respects, but in the end 
I know you're only a part.
There yet remains a whole to be built from my life,
a whole song, a whole book,
not just a verse, or a chapter.
In this moment, I'll breath a painful breath that it may give me
a lesson from missing you. 


Also published in Lifeasahuman

Also published in Broowaha

02172012


Leap Of Faith

“The foolish ask many questions the wise cannot answer” - Oscar Wilde

“Of the making of books there is no end, and much study leads to exhaustion.” 





Questions are a sign of intelligence and creativity that given the right environment, can lead to an endless, tortuous circle of reasoning. Why did that tragedy happen to me? Is God male or female? Will I know people after I die? These inquiries exhaust my mental and emotional energy, leaving me with no strength to push through the day at hand. Questioning my beliefs, my existence, my experience, is necessary, but I must lay down these pursuits and find a place of peaceful existence should my questions go unanswered. What follows is a leap of faith that eventually brings sense of well-being to my life. There I have to understand that I don’t understand, admit my finite power of mind, lay down my notepad, my calculator, my psychoanalysis, and find the peace that will guide me though the dark valley of the unknown.


Also published on Broowaha

12122011