Reality can Sometimes Sting

At one time he envisioned simple things
which were born of his own imaginings
All that transpired around him was always
construed as either benign misfortune or good
.

Until that day when he became a secluded target
and experienced a threshing like no other known
Lying in a puddle of his own self he wandered within
and others benign misfortune became his tragedy

.

When finally recovered the skin around his left eye
resembled a patchwork plication prepared by the blind
He never knew the replaced orb was created from cullet
but he was aware that it could only mimic what it once was

.

The same as he himself could only mimic days before
when all was good and evil was in their minds not souls
For now he saw differently and this was not good
not just singularly but now he knew deep down

.

That no matter how he tried to evade the torturous truth
he had become a mere minion to his own dire fear
He felt he now walked this earth distinctly wearing
a bulls eye; ready for the next to pounce upon their prey

.

A heart of cold

Chthonic verdigris like a mottled splodge
adorneth that gangrenous organ once which
upon so called healing seems a keloid map
covered with rime, unable to melt again.

I've heard "It's in the eyes"

Like fog laden mirrors reflect only haze, the eyes of the dead can no longer gaze
although they appear to stare into space, the vision of such is damned hard to erase

Awkward to handle until rigor sets in, flopping around like a limp thespian
unaware of the crowd of bystanders there, all craning to see, some deeply in prayer
.

Or even make out a sheet covered form, that no longer breathes, lost to the storm
of uninterrupted, never ending malaise, those lingering, those fatal, long final days
.

There's always that one, you see is a skeptic, can't fathom that shell is no longer septic
I wish we could just remember the good, if only their trek could be more understood
.

I'm sure it's acceptance that is hard to find, I know there are some who feel left behind
but death is not where I want to follow, no matter how hard being alone is to swallow
.

I'll let it suffice, that my pillow be damp, and hide my fears like the greatest champ
move on, anew, forget that sickening glaze, the eyes of the dead that no longer gaze

.

The Itsy Bitsy Siren

Maybe a somewhat boring existence. For several days now I have been watching the antics of a spider, yes a spider who has taken up residence under one of the eaves of my house. I have watched from day one when it began its first web straight through today ( 3 webs later ) and it may sound odd but this little arachnid sure has stamina. This morning for the first time I watched "the hunt" and it spurred me to write the following; I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it.

The Itsy Bitsy Siren


Glistening filaments coated with dew,
suspending neat packages, not just a few
looks nearly abandoned during each daylight
yet a buzz of activity all through the night

.

When it seems to encourage every mosquito and midge
to try to fly through it and adhere to a ridge
tangled and snared like flying rats in a trap
their seconds are numbered before it's a wrap
.

Lighter than air and stronger than steel
a floating boudoir with some desirous appeal
or hence it must seem to each unknowing moth
who when injected with enzymes turns into a broth
.

Airborne pieces of lint and small bits of hay
are culled from her web all during the day
to prepare for the eve when it's time to clobber
unsuspecting prey who are turned into slobber
.

Eight shiny legs, slender and pointed,
appear carefully tended, almost anointed,
ready to scurry and work on demand
delicately placed, each on a strand

.

The dew that I mention is truly a foe
which causes her mansion to actually show
I think she's a widow but does never wail
and where she has been there's never a trail
.

Disgust and fear she instills in most men
almost as chilling as World War Twos Bren
looks tiny, petite, but has venomous airs
and all over her body she sports tiny hairs
.

A master at hunting, knows how to enthral
she'll take them all on, the big and the small
apparently fearless and on the ball
yet if she could write I know it'd be scrawl
.

Call me ridiculous, call me a fool
but things like this can make me drool
knowing that this spider is fully content
doing the only thing she's alive for, what she was meant

.

.

DS

Shocking Tale!

He arrived home from work late that rainy night and the short walk from his car to his 19th century bungalow had left him drenched. With the current real estate market being in the condition it was he had snatched up that property for a steal knowing full well that there were a few things that needed repair. He prided himself in finding good buys. His soon to be ex wife Kathy hated him for this quality but she'd soon be out of his life. To some the bungalow might have appeared as a discarded soapbox (Kathy) but to Charlie it was a treasure since someday the demand for this type of property in this neighborhood would be high; and he knew it and could wait.
.
Not only did the great price tag include this shell of a home but it also came along with a few acres, a rarity for sure. Charlie was usually a patient fellow and in the past this same patience had payed off so he wasn't really concerned that the roof leaked nor did he care that the old electrical system needed updating; time and a little cash could turn his investment into a goldmine.
.
As he was flipping through the days mail and sorting out the bills from the junk he simultaneously was slipping out of his soggy clothes and was thinking about a nice bourbon and coke. After getting about halfway through the mail he decided to go and actually change into something dry and warm. Although patient when it came to some things, he was not at all happy about dripping water onto the new oak floors he had installed in the little entrance way.
.
Just as he began walking back to pick up the rest of the mail the lights went out; typical he thought, "I probably should have had the electricity fixed first". He headed towards the back of the house where the old fuse box was located and as he approached it he realized that it must have been raining harder and longer than he had thought; the pot he had under the leak in the roof must have overflowed because he could feel the unmistakable dampness of water permeate his socks.
.
Without thinking he reached to open the fuse box and even though no one was around to see the flash or hear the pop Charlie stood there looking like a character out of a comic book with his hair on end seemingly glued to the box. That night was the end of Charlies dream to ever make good on his latest investment.
.
A few days after the funeral Kathy was at his house, now her house, when she noticed a stack of unopened mail on the hall table. Next to the table was a wastebasket with a postcard sized mailer sitting right on top and she couldn't help but grin when she read it; the bold type ad read "Our Rubber Soles Save Lives". Kathy literally said out loud " sorry guys, the lack of rubber soles is what just saved my life". You see 50/50 would have been a struggle but now that it was all hers, well, maybe it wouldn't be that hard after all, and maybe now she herself could be a little patient.

You tell me

Mashed words
crumpled note
Cyber nerds
code they wrote
Unhinged door
no brainiac
Lack of rapport
don't mean jack
.

Cop a squat
near the throttle
Prozac yacht
in a plastic bottle
Hockey puck
slippery ice
A little luck
would be nice
.

Unwanted whiff
an oily rag
Dirty handkerchief
makes you gag
Supposed prose
what a joke
I must suppose
it's just a cloak

Paper, plastic or reality

OK, it's been quite a few days since I've written anything and this morning I had some time and checked out Friday Five - the words are brittle, aluminum foil, Polaroid, skunk and salt - not too easy - I decided to try something I've seen done before and combined the five words given as well as my own choice "cautioned" and put it all into the previous form - the Sestina - here we go, I must admit this was tough!



There is a dreamlike haze surrounding the streetlamp, nothing brittle
more like cloudiness than a sharpened, focused Polaroid
flaring nares inhale my fearful stench much like an angry skunk
while the beads that form on my brow are filled with borrowed salt
and my knee joints are reminiscent of crinkling aluminum foil
I could not deny being aware, just this very morning I had been cautioned

Call it a warning or call it an alert but yes I was cautioned
and despite the growing sense of dread my brains were brittle
and could not heed, I belted my knife like an aluminum foil
oblivious to the possible outcome, just seeing my minds Polaroid
in no way caring if perhaps my visions like bland food needed salt
in order to properly taste, sense, my enemy, that man, that skunk

Tonight I needed false bravado so I first got as drunk as a skunk
so as to care not that I had been first and foremost, cautioned
my concern was to lure him to this spot like a deer to a block of salt
and without his knowledge leap out and begin to pummel his brittle
bones capturing each individual assault to his body like a Polaroid
that I could relive and reuse as if it were yesterdays aluminum foil

Part of me knew I was wrong yet part still glinted like aluminum foil
at the thought of slaying, or even just deeply hurting this lousy skunk
I even considered having a friend stand by with a camera, a Polaroid
to be sure that each moment was saved for posterity, hmph, cautioned,
I'd rather savor this moment like a confection of nuts, a crunchy brittle
that has all the sweetness of candy yet still has that trace of salt

You see, my life has been like an ill prepared Martguerita, never any salt
on the rim and my desires never stayed hot enough, like aluminum foil
that when used and removed from the heat has merely become brittle
and tasty yesterdays can only conjure the lurid aroma of the nasty skunk
It's true, yes it is, it's me who does the warning, I'm the one who's cautioned
myself, I always do, and as long as I'm in control there will be no Polaroid

There will be no slaying, no intentional hurting, no, never a Polaroid
yet for some reason I seem to enjoy filling my wounds with plenty of salt
and always manage so, no matter if I have or haven't been cautioned
my tongue lashes upon itself like the sharpened edge of aluminum foil
and my only enemy is myself, I'm my own evil, my own stinking skunk
I often question my motives for why I've caused my heart to become brittle

My dreams like an old Polaroid photo have a way of fading into nothingness
whether my cautioned thoughts are reality or just my possessed fear

Maybe someday my brittle composure will again be like supple suede
and I will once more be able to smile while I taste the salt of the day

Perhaps the time will come when the skunk inside of me just up and dies
and I won't have to try to recycle my minds aluminum foil ever again


.

A weed indeed

Like mountain crests in alpine air peeking through the fog
Cypress knees protrude above the algae coated bog

.

The winsome spires conjure thoughts of a prehistoric day
when lifespans could be cut in half by your natural prey

.

To cure they gathered herbs and bark for potions they would make
and crushed and ground them into tonics the sick would gladly take
..

These medicines of theirs they cured all ailments, every sting,
they'd fling their fear into the wind and circle 'round and sing
,
Today our standards say they're quacky, these natural healing men
our doc's will try if you're insured, maybe, perhaps just then
.

Some times you feel they want it all, your cranberry colored blood
and when you're dry they'll toss what remains, into the primordial mud

.

So, if I had the chance to travel, back several millennia ago

I'd miss my lattes, sushi and my Hybrid car yet though

.

When I arrived I'd know that I could easily foretell

the days when roots and weeds become the biggest known "hard sell"

The Night Mare

Are they real
or need I wake
these things that make
me want to quake
A freckled child
a sylph, some scones
invade my mind
like sharpened stones
.

A dancing maiden,
dismembered thumb
all mixed together
where from they come?
Like a flat rootbeer
no longer fizzy
if I arouse will
I not be dizzy?
.

Some cows on ice
skates that gleam
all rabble 'round
within my dream
The suasion mounts
it does proceed
the laughing horse
begs me to heed
.

Haunted hours
spent in my bed
crazy thoughts
zip 'round my head
I toss and turn
why do they mock
I wish I'd hear
my alarm clock

Dirt Roadkill

I thought I'd try writing something using exactly 50 words. I have seen it before and read it was difficult, and true to what I read, it is! But here's my attempt at a short, short, short, story. This was fun!

Dirt Roadkill

The Rodeo Clown found a new racket on the side. While busy distracting bulls he'd pick up each trampled varmint. There were green ones, red ones, colors that would boggle the mind. During one stint a shoemaker who made snug fitting footwear from the skins hired Jocko "the snake trapper".

There was a crooked road

I once lazily did travel though life
unknowing, unexpectant of anything
foreign or thrown askew
as if my days were simply
answered arithmetic problems
upon a third grade board of slate
.

When out of the deepest azure,
to my chagrin the proverbial curve ball
was pitched into my line of sight
causing a bob and weave effect that forced
change to my effortless course; again.
Just one more tiresome, painful distraction
.

New plans are set, aiming at goals,
current avenues abandoned, wailing subsides
when it begins all over anew; the arcs of crap
Strolling is over, "life aint a picnic no more"
and it seems that each time I begin to know
where I'm headed, someone moves the ends.

Frans Face

For many years, Frances had been saving her pennies for the operation that would when needed return her to the beautiful looking girl she had once been. She had become a vain person and felt in her heart that her looks had carried her through life, never considering that there might be more to her than just a pretty face. Although others recognized the goodness inside of her, the way she could captivate you with just her actions, without fail everyone would always comment on her stunning looks; even as she aged and her face began to show it.

As a child she had been one of those unfortunate little girls who had been traipsed all around the country to one beauty pageant after another and the importance of her looks had been pounded into her all during her childhood "career". You see, talent was important as well as poise and composure but the key element in winning had to begin with beauty; that was the foundation of it all. There were many times when she pleaded with her mother, not wanting to participate any longer but her mother knew best and Frances learned early on that it was easier to comply than to be herself; "you have to give them what they want, you've got it, use it" became the motto.

Her teenage and early adult life had been typical yet she was still atypically beautiful; she had been given a gift that she had to preserve. Her lifetime included marriages as well as divorces never wanting children who would ravage her body; never wanting to bear the brunt of even the image of her swollen belly. As she continued to age she knew that her beauty was beginning to fade. She cried the day she noticed the first line by her eye, the line that she felt was the first crack in her face and from that moment on began saving for the surgery.

By the time she was sixty she had undergone an eyelift, rhinoplasty, had liposuction, a tummy tuck and knew a complete face lift was on its way; Botox had become a staple for her. Each time she was fully recovered she would prance around her house draped in the tattered ribbons she had won as a child; she would never discard them! Poor Frances could never comprehend that no matter what she looked like on the outside, her true beauty was from within. Her life had been devoted to social work and although there was never any real money in it, it had taught her to love and care for others.

Frances was now what you would consider old, she was in her late seventies yet still looked perhaps like she was forty or so. She had again scheduled an appointment for a consultation with her favorite plastic surgeon and on her way to his office never even felt the onset of the stroke that took her life that day. As she wished she was laid to rest in a cherry red gown and next to her were her treasured childhood ribbons. Many people attended her funeral and despite all of the good she had done for others, everywhere you turned the topic of conversation was her beauty. As odd as it may seem, Frances' beauty never faded; not even in death. She would have been very pleased.

Step Right Up!

Papa swore the pin head boy
was natures own reject

Mama claimed the bearded gal
was famed by mere neglect

.

Grandpa said the giant man
was purely statuesque
Grandma squealed the midget horse
was horribly grotesque

.

The turtle man an amputee
was surely out of place
On his cart with metal wheels
and pulled by a shoelace

........

The chemistry of the whole cast

was aided by the tent
Their faces had the creases of
those who feigned torment

.

The conjoined twins used as the hook
were often misconstrued
As two young girls who did not hide
a tryst, an interlude

.

No matter what the patrons screamed
the players they did know
This was their way to pay the rent
star in their own side show