A Death Called Dove

“What a short time I had been given to experience love. I felt as my life had only recently begun and now it would surely end at sunrise.”
Meredith Taylor
sweetesttootsieroll
Found then a little dove cowering in the birth of new
A blade came near and scant to miss
only a hairs breath relinquishing bliss
Flying before her time with wind both a friend and foe
Thinking to see, her wings grow tired
Blind fear rushes never more inspired
A shy grasp at what becomes a mysterious fateful lore
Trying but giving away the hidden life
Reduced to nothing and shut in by strife
Again the hungry clock stood its watch over gentle dove
Only to alight were she would never to fly
Wings fail to carry her to comforting sky
Talented feathery quills of reaching passion stoned to silence
Will giving her gifts to the clouds that call
Only create little pieces in the memory of all
Just dreams of doves laying torn in dawns fading embrace
O fragile dove you’ll ne’er see forever pain

Walking in silence ’cause your wings are maimed

Also published in Broowaha Citizen’s Magazine
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Captured –

I like to include a woman’s perspective on the subject matters addressed in this blog, and in light of this consideration I give you this entry composed by Jennifer Hester and published in the Posse’s Lair, enjoy!

She wrote
not about the color
of his eyes
The weight of his stare
pushed her back
pressing her will
against the sheets
her eyes crushed close
an attempt to
obliterate the heat

She wrote
not about his lips
the way they
pretended
to hold some shy secret
brushing temptation
pulling back evoking her appetite
she believed starvation
would eat her alive

She wrote
not about his lips
the way they
pretended
to hold some shy secret
brushing temptation
pulling back
evoking her appetite
she believed starvation
would eat her alive

She wrote
not about the battles they repeated
with wet skin
fire
fingers clasped and limbs
entwined
Their warrior cries and
hushed urgings
the inevitability of death
a quiet relief that held
only until
war was incited once more
What she did write
the sadness
the annihilation of reason
that completely devoured her head
How unreasonably
her ego
stood down
refusing to protect her
banished to the emotional
unable to
talk herself out of his charms
I suppose this is the reason
she didn’t want to write
*

Also published in Opinionsofeye.com

02142013

My Name Is Not Pain –

“If people refuse to look at you in a new light and they can only see you for what you were, only see you for the mistakes you’ve made, if they don’t realize that you are not your mistakes, then they have to go.”
Someone
When as a child with innocent ears
I heard my name with violent tears
Then known as a child abused
My name whispered one being used
Older and with children of mine
My name was called all the time
Years went by and then I left home
My name became as one unknown
Later in life the blooming occurred
A name of mine was an addiction slur
An old man now an ancient in days
My name is what I make it say
In a bold unwavering voice I pray
My name will never again be pain

*

First published in Opinionsofeye.com

02152013

Her-icane

“If people were rain I was a drizzle and she was a hurricane.”  
– John Green, Looking for Alaska 

The hurricane was coming.
 No more wondering, no more warning.

 
Grabbing the tools to put up the ply, 
I began to work, an eye on the sky
 
Nail after nail, I secured what was mine, 
my loose ends are bound with white twine
 
Wind tugs my sweaty hair now, 
as horizontal drops begin to pound
 
Forgetting one thing in all the hurry, 
the open front door in rain now blurry
 
Rampaging through my unprotected gate, 
the raging storm expresses all of it’s hate
 
It’s all over with damage everywhere, 
all of my belongings strewn around there
 

I could have prevented this wind that blew, 
had I stopped myself from loving you

02082012

Beyond

“It is impossible to suffer without making someone else pay for it; every complaint already contains revenge.” – Friedrich Nietzsche

twindle
“You’ve such kind eyes sir, full of sorrow not all your own.”
Thank you kindly, but you don’t see, all that rages beyond.
A slasher lives, who wants to burn and pillage, watching
those who are proud to suffer humiliation and pain, like
what they did to me and to my loves. My innocence
ravaged, I only want to burn, my slashing blades edge
finding their neck. To see their flesh bubble and burst,
their tongues swell with pain and heat, just a little
revenge on those who with violence reign and terrorize,
I’ll burn their Babylon with brimstone and hot black oil.
The trouble comes when, without expression on those,
someone will pay and perhaps not one who deserves it.
An unsuspecting soul, who in a fit of unlucky anger,
raises a fist to the slasher and the fury is unleashed.

Dreamweaver – Nightmares of Abuse

“My father was one of those men who sit in a room and you can feel it: the simmer, the sense of some unpredictable force that might, at any moment, break loose, and do something terrible.
[Burnside, p. 27]”
John Burnside, A Lie About My Father: A Memoir 

The following is an excerpt from the hopeforhealing.org.,  poetry by survivors of sexual or domestic violence.

 

aneasylife4u

Come, beckons the night,
Let us dance together, and chase the dream weaver
I am not laughing at you
It is only the laughter of the past
Rushing through your brain
 
I am harmless, why do you resist me so?
Pearls of wisdom are here within my walls
And peace offerings as well
Yet you quake at the sight of me
My power has not alluded you
 
Need I remind you?
You cannot resist me forever!
I am that necessary evil
Which recreates evil past
My nourishment lies in your screams
So, foolish one, scream on!
 
No one is listening, no one hears
Wake them; tell them of your sad tales
I will recapture them before your voice silences
But they will not find your persecutor
And will think you mad
 
Reach for the sun, it is hours ’til its’ dawn
As I am your punisher, it is your reward
However, for now I am your companion
Let us dance together, and chase the dreamweaver
Come, I beckon you
011912