Issues in a bone closet

Life is perception, and perception is through each eye different.

the slivers of dark-ling glass poke me
at times
like jaded eyes in my shadows
as i swerve to avoid their deliverance

 

i stand at the shaded window
gazing at a world i don’t live in
spilling useless ink on pages rarely read

 

wishing like a grievous seeker

 

i remember that barefooted child
pigtails and my dolly trailing behind me
i always was a sad little loner

 

stained cheeks and tattered clothes
funny
the things about people no one knows

 

whiskey spelled out terror like claws
ravens cawed and staked their claim
and i hid under the willow
that weeping tree that seemed to find me

 

its ancient whistle ricocheted off my
agile and wounded bones
like gentle fingers
a balm to the burns of enemies

 

i remember broken floors and that scent
of old house and somber raindrops
whiskey and too much beer tainting the air
like the stench of caleveras

 

hungry was a word i knew well

 

a little girl
sat with haunted eyes
any form of paper
and a semi broken
pencil scribbling words to ease the horror

 

my window sill dripping like my tear ducts
leaking
leaking out

 

momma loved us….
she dearly did and held us
as best she could in the madness
but daddy shot fear out like bullets

 

sometimes the screams are not heard
sometimes they get trapped in the confines
of my aching throat

yet i hold on
as life is sometimes a wild ride
and days and hours are what we make them
i refused then and now to let it break me

 

life is butterflies beneath the stones hurled
it is scarlet tulips in the winter
buttercups dancing in the summer wind

 

i live through my skin
through the breath of dreams
again and again and again…..

Reviews

[E.H. Monroe]

When you take something like the past or memories or good or bad and roll it into the confines of a poem you lay out a pretty hefty challenge. The risk, as obvious, is the pain in the a*s of "will they get it?" whats the message? OR I wonder if someone's gonna see some s**t that I didnt lay out and birth something new.
The few pieces I have read do the latter and its the best kind of read.
The glass can be the reflection of the picture frame looking back into that time. At yourself, at someone else, the eyes etc.
Eventually, the pain of a childhood sets in. No matter if you have the beauty brush out the stroke are ugly, and the fear sets in. Reflecting on Mom and how she tried and dad and his own agenda. The reader can easily be the kid, the mom OR the dad. Thats the beuty of this style of poetry.
Its like a stage...and we're on it in whatever capacity we wish.

Do i even need to say great job..?

Sure..Great job..wonderfully introspective..for me anyway

[MAC]

i enjoy reading you again and still

[Siddhartha]

Like a gaping black hole in the cosmos it draws in and yet terrifies at each turn, at every twist. The pain here is insufferable and the emotions surreal. Death it seems would have been better than such a life, yet the life has been endured and what a triumph it has been. Bravo!

[Art Sun]

Reflecting upon the past can be either a sad or joyous memory...as you write "perception" is all how one views everything within life. The beginning of your poem creates a grasping to the storyline within your thoughts throughout the poem...the ending completes the reflective nature of it all...