VerseDay 10-25-2018

What Was. . .
Hours fall silent in Autumn’s dappled shade
The undertone
Impending death
Swallowed in fiery grandeur.

Illusion of beauty
Laid waste by crackling footfall.

Wind torn branches
Stripped barren
Their cold black fingers
Silhouetted against the potential dawn
Where murderous flocks huddle
Waiting for light,

Warmth.

Never comprehending
Both are gone.

VerseDay 10-18-18

Today’s submission for The Beautiful Stuff’s VerseDay comes from Heather Hudson, of Aurora, Colorado. Heather is a writer, novelist, poet, and all-round amazing human. A warrior momma, and a black-cat whisperer.

Enjoy!

Marked

“I wish I could mark you the way you mark me.

A neon tattoo of warning or desire.

I wish, that when I touched you, they could see you also.

A bright neon sign that said

broken, shy or…dangerous.

I wish that our meetings could be recorded on your skin.

And others could see that you grope without asking

or that you have a tender true heart.

I wish we could mark you,

and then we would all know your virtues and your sins.

They would say prove it.

And you would roll up your sleeve

and your love or your violation

would be revealed.

No one would have to prove who you are. Everyone would see.”

Heather Hudson

VerseDay 10-11-18

Today your weekly dose of culture-building poetry comes from the talented Ben Brizell, a writer, poet and blogger. Check out his other work at: Benbrizwritings

 

Enjoy!

 

 

Further

Looking back through

all these memories;

ticket stubs,

scrawled notes,

stacks of poems,

leaves a painful taste.

All I can do is wonder

If it all really went that well.

I’m a cynic at heart,

which leaves a little room for bias.

 

 

Ben Brizell

VerseDay 9-27-18

Happy VerseDay! Beginning next week, I will be featuring some of the amazing stuff that you have been sending in. Until that time, please enjoy this triplicate of Haiku.

The feeble heart stroke

Little beats against her ribs

Sparrow trapped within.

Rush of blood to brain

Thoughts misplaced; edged with remorse

For words said, too late.

The trouble with love

Is the world in which it’s borne.

Death springs from context.

VerseDay 9-20-18

I don’t know about this one.  It’s a little rough. I think it needs something. Severely lacking in hope and warm fuzzies, to be sure, but something else. What do you think?

 

Time

 

Time is moonlight through the branches

of a tree that once sat lower in the window

It’s the gray hair in the washbasin you notice while brushing your teeth.

The teenage screams of “I hate you” and the slamming of doors,

Doors that once could not be shut for fear of being too far from you.

Time is the ache that once whispered,

And now holds you hostage.

 

Time is the moon and gray hair

A change of pace,

The wobble of temperament,

And the cruel device flashing revelations in pops and crackles of bone and joint.

 

Time is the tired vacancy of your parents’ eyes and the sudden realization

That you will be an orphan in less time than you’ve already lived.

It is the knowledge that they will be gone…

And so will you…

And that howling teenager, once so sweet a baby,

 

her too.

 

And we think it so unfair…so sad.

But our thoughts and laments do nothing to change it.

Nothing we do will ever stop it…

Because Time is an uncaring bastard,

who marches by and leaves you along the side of the street,

waving your tired little human flag.

 

And nothing matters really.

 

We humans are so infantile, never growing in our short span of century.

Cry babies for truth and justice,

Never grasping that we lack the ability to really understand there is no truth…

Justice nothing more than a construct of simple neurons needing to find order.

We are not ready for truth, we are not big enough for justice.

 

Nice try, pea brain.

You can barely remember where you parked your car.

VerseDay 9-13-18

Here’s a thing….

 

Atomic Hit and Run

I am in need

to feel your atoms against mine.

Even though it is short lived and often

 

unintentional.

 

Because your matter on mine,

matters.

 

Gives my particles cause to spring up from apathy.

As if I shared your stardust once, so long ago.

As though we had a place in time long before this,

When oceans were gas, and metals made mountains

Comets careening off of placid moon-dusted plains.

 

Somewhere back there,

You careened into me

And my soul still remembers.

 

It drives my poor lizard brain to ache

just once more

Maybe I’m just looking for the particles you stole,

when you astral side-swiped me.

Like exchanging insurance numbers.

A slight streak of sanguine against metal.

Small token of our shared space.

 

It is miserable

and noble.

All at once.

Time is a boundless roundabout

And all exits bring me back.

 

I tell myself it is a finite dance

I can only spin so long,

Until the friction of physics halts my motion

And particles lay in defeat.

 

I have to tell myself it is finite.

I need to know it ends.

I need to know it ends.

VerseDay 9-5-18

Okay. So this is a weird one.

The picture alone is disturbing. Sometimes in life we stumble across things that are perfectly normal aspects of the natural world, but they affect our human emotions on strange levels. Mother Nature’s everyday can make us feel uneasy and strange. Maybe it’s our too-advanced brain reading depth where there is none. Notions of mortality and empathetic wondering.

 

In any case, I acknowledge that it’s strange, and a bit unnerving. But then again, so is life.

 

 

Evisceration

Yellow stripe teardrop burrows deep into her leafy green belly

Once so full of harvest and good planning.

The seeds to feed the hungry nesters

Spilled across the glass table top,

Like a cornucopia

A feast for jagged takers.

Did she feel much after the first piercing sting?

Was it just all black?

Or did she feel the tugging pull of her insides, turned out?

What if Katydid?

VerseDay 8-30-18

Happy VerseDay.

Today was darker, as some days can be.

Enjoy…or if you can’t enjoy it, sit with its awkwardness for a bit and don’t be afraid of the feelings you may catch. Part of our Beauty lies in those dark and painful corners.

I Belong

I am yours and I am theirs.

I am the scale’s and the mirror’s

I belong to the vogue airbrushing

And the PTO.

I am the tethered hawk,

Forgotten her wings.

Hungry to hunt,

No freedom with which to fly.

I am the man’s and the patriarchy’s

I am the lament of God

And the decent substitute,

When nothing better comes along.

I belong to so many,

Each a share of grief,

Each a pound of flesh

So many hyenas tearing at a picked over carcass

I am wasted and wanting,

Found without

I am the lukewarm spread, the mannequin arms,

The expected response and sweaty spectral.

I am the failure of my skin

The price of privilege

The stain of guilt.

For apples I did not eat.

I am the sunken boat,

long forgotten; a weathered splinter in the reeds,

I am the once useful, fading at dusk.

I belong to you.

And to them.

I am no more myself, than anyone else’s.

But oh the torture of knowing.

How different it could have been.

VerseDay 8-16-18

Good morning, Darlings. Here’s a little something to start your day.

 

Frailty

How precious, the fear,

Of casting your frailty,

Out into the jaws of a desolate world.

How brutally important

To stretch the lines of comfort

 

Throwing the weakly bonded cells

Into the universe of chaos and rock

The stone that tears,

Branches that bite,

Fire’s searing kiss.

 

How cherished, the heart-pounding uncertainty,

That drives us to the far away,

Against the pleading of timidity

Begging us to come home.

 

Safety is not safe,

Until we step into the treacherous.

Verseday 8-9-18

Good evening! Today is about the terrible habit of looking behind, and being tethered to memory… and I also think I might have a hankering for fall.

Enjoy!

 

autumn autumn leaves blur close up
Photo by Vali S. on Pexels.com

Lie in Weight

 

Now the days of yielding past

And fallow fields in quiet repose

Beckon down dark geese in flight

 

The crackle of air settling cold

The dusty birth of Autumn spreads

Waits for coy light to brave horizon.

 

I am still and lingering.

Patient like the fading light

The callous bite of snows to come

And the bitter taste of wood smoke in lungs

 

I remember the hush frosted grass beneath feet

Like your breath on the apple of my cheek

Clear as the fading day and vibrant as fog on the moor

How I long to miss the memory

 

When will it burrow beneath ground

Settle somewhere in the dirt where you hide

Silently waiting.

For my dawdling to cease.