Pageantry for Hate

You asked, ‘I do not understand…this pageantry for hate…’

And, more so, I heard the question…’really?’
As if, in disgust over how peace could be what I may have been feeling.

In an instant, the night raged on…doubt deep.

My fitful sleep…to keep.

Thus, I had lingered on your words today.
Watching as the roots, the limbs, the earth…felt the anger of our decay.
Avenging angels dressed up in their poetic make believe.
Babes with pacifiers, made of leather and recycled politically correct discussions.
Nibbling little infants feeding on store bought garden variety weeds.
Oh, the young, filling the void not the need.

Drifting back from the path in which I came.
The grove of 3 leaf clover, recoiled and fluttered
Nature blew about your sake, your self sanctimonious title…your fiery heart’s name.

My footing wavered over stone and ledge.
Focus, on good, focus, focus…
I began my pledge.

Death is spoiled on the old…or, so I am told.
Perhaps, I am just beyond bold.
Yet, I could not shake what might be easier if displayed.

Storms set deep inside the soul.
Rumbles of angst upon the horizon.
Wolves parading in opaque fur.
Screams in the night awaiting to be heard.

All of this and more, my dear.
As humiliating as stumbling down a wooden path.
Old and used…forgetting where you began at.
Wasted energy
Letting bad karma take the lead…
down a road of… nature’s way of showing off our misdeeds.

Holding Back Tears

She spoke of tears as if, a translucent demon.

As a nightmare that is grappled with over and over again…

until it is finally shed.

Had it not been a means of self-preservation for all of her confined years…

I would have agreed.tear 2

Ironic what we are taught and what we do…

slowly becomes a watercolor mask we cannot take off.

Sleeping Beauty’s Proxy

With a smoke so thick it cast shade.

The devil in his Archie Bunker chair.

And, I in my tabletop rocker.

I knew…I had been made.imageedit_9_6953307773

With the grin of broken, red tainted, golden arches.

 

And, offerings of Girl Scout Cookies and Moxie.

I knew…more dues need be made.

I knew sleeping beauties…were just a proxy.

 

 

the Imperfect Weight of Color

imageedit_59_7524784941

Caught the eye of a stray color…

passing by!

Had to hold down the thought.

Put a handle to the feel.

Why?

What of this homeless rainbow fray?

Is it the recurring nightmare that calls to be heard?

To be written down frantically?
As thou, it were a spy?
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Free expression?
A matter of…
do or die!
 ⇔
What of?
Those drawn to flowery phases?
It is,
after all,
Some of the
tastiest samples…
to ever taste.
 ⇔
Defining the art of humans
and
their waste.
A restless fisherman
and
his pole…
both dangling out in the cold.
Relocated visions that have no home.
Welfare of many out in the woods.
Each of which…
rummaging around under mother nature’s hood.
 ⇔
I wonder how a colorless weight must feel?
Lost in hectic, translation.
It must lose some conformed appeal.
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Dreaming in Texture

Empty manifestations with minds of their own.

But will first blush, allow for separation of church and body?

In the bronze light of smoke-filled ambivalent days,

azure skies.

Course,

I have never liked blue.

Considering it always looked pungent on you.

Why is it…only in the light of night,

you clearly,

always,

wanted more for less?

No matter,

past or present,

dreams are in texture

and

color in screams.

Faded rust,

peppered with,

a crunch,

beneath bare-feet.

Nighttime in fallen leaf.