apoetsinkling

[apoetsinkling]

Forgetfulness

To be honest, I'm really scared. I'm scared of the times I can't remember what I was going to say. Like, there's this well of knowledge inside me just at arms length , but it's all mucked up with the existential worry that someday I won't be able to remember your name. I think about my grandparents. Sometimes I remember their faces, but their voices are almost lost. I can remember the things they said, but I can't hear them anymore. What was it that Grandpa Gary said? Something about how everything has a cost? I remember things that don't matter: what time Dragon spawns or what my childhood phone number was, but not how important love is. I struggle to show compassion because I can't remember what it is you were so upset about, my attention and my memory forever spiraling in a black hole, unable to escape gravity or gravitas because isn't it all just an illusion, isn't it all just a waste, isn't it all a bunch of cogs spinning with no purpose because some orange asshole stole the flywheel? But inside I feel the pull and tug of memory, sneering from the edges of my consciousness, mocking me, or maybe just crying. I hope I can remember to smile again soon.

[apoetsinkling]

Title Wave

No form was taken by her shape,

The waters of her unjust hate.

My head held below them to make me drown,

Her heart held above it to pull me down.

For this I bled and wept and screamed,

To know that it was never of me she dreamed.

I still feel my soul's shores changed forever,

The wave that crashed over me to love me never.

[apoetsinkling]

To Do:

Checklist sorted into nice clean lines.

Thoughts intrusive breaking through my lies.

Too much to complete without sleep.

Return to the grindstone; grind without weep.

My life a page of an unknown ledger

Exhaustion. I write of business in letters.

Letters to the wealthy. Letters to the poor.

Letter of intent to from this life unmoor.

Tired of little things piling up on high.

Filling up my day; will they touch sky?

Joy inaccessible. My mind is a haze.

Solitude may set my heart ablaze.

One more day. One more hour.

One more moment missing the smell of flowers.

Sitting and cheating the clock.

Collecting pennies while collecting thoughts.

Wasting my time on status quo.

Business is all this place knows.

Maybe I'll find salvation at lunchtime.

Guess I'll call home and say sorry again.

[apoetsinkling]

Running

The alarm is screaming again. "Get up, you fool! It's already been too long since you cast yourself into the sea of dreams aboard your pillow! We've work to do, you sniveling...."

*THWACK!*

I silence my tormentor. As usual, starvation has lead to mutiny as I find the neophytes consuming sugar encrusted grain and watching their idol, a wealthy child, disregard the orders of their parents for the sake of entertainment. I'm reminded of why I hate modern television.

I sit for my customary cup of tea. It's warmth is like a blanket, soothing my still chaotic mind. I'll be on the move shortly.

Just let me rest here a little longer. Always just a little bit longer.

[apoetsinkling]

Alanis Morissette, Sorry to Myself/Haruki Murakami,1084

[apoetsinkling]

Anime Dreams

As a child I dreamt in pixels, born of a desire to be as foreign to my circumstances as the language pouring into the dispossessed heart within me. Calamitous colors coupled with climactic clashes of calloused and courageous characters contrasted my complacent and complaining countenance. I stared into the cubic oracle for hours looking for a cure to life I had been thrust into. Surviving the distillates of time and turmoil, I revisited the oracle from my youth. No longer can I stare with an empty and complacent heart, my reality firmly juxtaposed against the fiction of agency. Yet something within stirs with the wonder of a child coming waking up to view an episode of a Saturday morning cartoon. Perhaps there is the echoes of hope in me yet. Such a silly thing to nourish positivity, but then a silly thing positivity often proves to be.

Perhaps I'll sit down for just one episode.

[apoetsinkling]

My First Love Is A Rose

Today a rose flew into my eyes. Hers was such beauty that a stained glass window could not reflect the glory of her color. A wisp of her tender scent filled the air with my world collapsing into a miasma of ever swaying trees and cherry blossom hearts. Such a scent could only be from a lily. 

As I followed the glowing light of her smile, I burst into the joys of song, and my own voice shot through the air to tell the stars of our growing passion. A mere moment later, I felt the freeing power of truth beg my soul for love in my life.  The wind lifted my spirit up into the clouds and I commenced the marriage ceremony with the Sun and Moon as my witnesses. 

    Her gown was her petals, and with every ray of the Sun did they shine. Glorious but simple were the way they intertwined, with naught but a stem bringing them together. Her face was adorned with petals softer than the finest silks of the east. Even a fountain filled with stars could not outshine her. Such a smile she gave me that the Sun grew dim, and the Moon had to cover her eyes. I took her hand, though wreathed with thorns, and found it comforting and smooth in the daylight. To the aisle we went, flanked by the sounds of laughter and tears; appropriate for is not life filled with such? At the altar we stood as the heavens themselves parted and the Nameless One stood, asking if our love be true.

    I stood for an eternity, watching the passing of the seasons and noticing the features of her life pass me by. As heartache and joy filled my soul, and time faded into obscurity, I looked upon her face and said with the confidence befitting a warrior “I love her with the truth of my heart.” A simple nod was the only response required and we exchanged vows of fealty. She said in a tone that eased the storms of doubt lurking in the corners of my mind “I love thee. I shall steady your steps, and bring peace to your sleep, for the love of no man save thee can steal my heart from yours.” My mind was struck with a numbing fullness and I found myself speaking the truth in my heart. “To you I pledge devout love, sincere honesty, and never ending patience.” As one now, we turned towards He that Sits in Splendor and affirmed our hearts’ desires.

    He declared us to the world and so we stood, her and I, smiling in the breeze of bliss. Our paths now intertwined forever, I will walk with this beautiful maiden through the halls of the seasons. She is the one who finds all of my truth. Her virtue is spoken amongst the wise. Her mother is Life and her daughter is Happiness.

Her name is Liberty.

[apoetsinkling]

Rescue

Time. Time is the enemy of all things, whether humble or proud, rich or poor, strong or weak, real or false, but especially false; Dear God why have I lied to myself again? What can't I just stop loving her anymore?

Take a breath, in through the nose and out through every blood soaked pore of remembering her face when she walked out of that office. I knew we had both died there. She on that table and I on the chair outside, watching the picketers wave their angry messages, condemning me for not knowing what else to do.

Silence save the sounds of gravel and sniffling for hours, 4 long hours as we rode the I-35 to hell.

When we finally pulled into the driveway, all I knew was loss and I can't even remember what she said, only that I cried, then screamed, slammed the wall, then left. Whatever was alive of her was throttled after that. It was all my fault.

The bottle and a joint were the best medicine for her, and I was all too unhappy to oblige, for we'd both died and no one would have ever given us a eulogy.

People do not know what the haunting specter of regret is until they've felt it crawl into their skin. Mine has never left. Or maybe, rather, I won't let it leave, for without it, what vestiges of life do I still have?

My daughters may never know that their father is possessed by his own grief, but there are those who chisel at my self-fashioned sarcophagus and are determined to revive whatever is left of my corpse.

If they succeed, these two whom I love, what will I say to them? For even in death I still love my murderer, but I will not allow her power over me. I would rather bleed until all the ink my veins runs dry.

Keep digging.

Please.

[apoetsinkling]

Radios and Hardhats

The voices are garbled, speaking in gibberish mixed with languages I've never known.

The lives crawl on, eeking a meager existence far from the ones they love and the place called home.

The sun is high, yet here they freeze for the cool tundra air can never compete with the jungle.

The light plays off their helmets, or maybe their faces, as they scramble to finish their work avoiding a bungle.

I sit in their floating prison, all they know for months on isolated weather-beaten months abroad.

They rarely understand as I try to impress kindness, only able to transcend this divide with a simple tilt and nod.

I'll try my best to remember these here, the quiet faceless workers that service the cold north.

I'll show them my respect and cheerfully walk along the deck, forsaking none and reflecting their undenable worth.

Inalienable is their right to life and liberty and on the edges of the world they ply the seas.

They trade sweat, fear, and loneliness for a handful of dollars made sweet only by the reminder of homely teas.

I bless the mariner, orphan, widow, and beggar, for surely a God must exist to honor these.

Forgotten they have been, but in my words may they live with pride for I know them as those who never cease to be.

Faceless wanderers of the sea.

[apoetsinkling]

I can feel it when I sleep.

I feel it when I walk.

Gnawing at my heels.

Even in the most soothing of lights, I can't sit still.

Voids have a nagging, clawing and cavernous way,

of begging to be filled.

"Voids" © Fleur Poetic 2023

Image Credit- Daniel Jensen on Unsplash.com

[apoetsinkling]

Thoughts from the Pier.

Warm machines, valves open.

Oil flowing, words spoken.

Summer sunsets, mosquitos buzzing.

Busted dreams, people cussing.

"Stop stressing!", "No, I'll take it."

Calm I'm seeking, phrases I regret.

Failure father, failure son.

Failure agent, work left undone.

Life's being harsh, "Stop getting angry."

"I don't think you listen.", No longer hungry.

Two little lights, they love me too much.

Can't even provide a loving gentle touch.

Two big lights, I wish I could hide.

I love them so fiercely; Damn my pride!

World calling this way, spirit leading that.

Try to be gracious, still giving tit for tat.

Try to be better, to "fight the good fight".

Fail to find reason, fail to do right.

Suppose I'll try tomorrow, what else can go wrong?

Even if it's like today, maybe here I belong.

Cold hearts, veins open.

Blood flowing, truth spoken.

[apoetsinkling]

ligaments lifted from their home

tissue cleaved from bone

sewn into the fabric

of this textile skin

sinew and lace

synthetic fibers to replace

the space in which the iron

raced through the this body

at vascular pace

I've erased all trace of the

scars you've placed

at the base of this

hollowed out rib cage

where the phrase

I love you

ricocheted it's way

inside the space

in which I once held dear

the image of your face

“Sinew and Lace” © Fleur Poetic 2023

Image Credit- Photo by Magdaline John on Unsplash.com

[apoetsinkling]

Somedays

Somedays I wonder what I have become. From a bottle of milk to a bottle of knowledge, I’ve grown somehow. 

So I had to ask myself, What am I? The following is what my mind replied.

“Somedays I’m a fire, burning through the pages of life, racing along, untamed, unchallenged, and unfettered. I feed off of everything that comes my way, experiences, music, books, food, fights, love, lust, peace... I consume it all. I enlighten, warm, burn, char, and explode every inch of the way. Extrapolating myself into exhaustion, I’ll bend everything into a shape of interest and chaos.” 

I pondered and asked, What about when the fire goes out? This time my body replied.

“Somedays I am the pulsing of a thousand atoms, the charge of energy that ripples through  people, places, events, space, time. A thousand particles of unintellectual motion whose flowing follows the bellowings of a natural wind, a call to the beating heart of life. I move with solid purpose, a purpose of impulsiveness and unrefined conversation, beckoning to the globe to stop trudging about and rush to everything that may fabricate the wills of a walking corpse.”

I thought about this awhile, then in an unsure murmur I wondered, But what about when the world is still? My emotions took to the stand, shouting with conviction

“Somedays I’m the paint of the artist, the stroke of his brush on a canvas of pure zeal. I am  the sound of the choir, the hum of their voices. I am the product of a lifetime and the subject of a moment. I can be present at any moment and gone at the sound of a breeze. I am a garden for humanity, so that anyone may learn of the wonderful and terrible things that rest  in my surroundings. Being a creature of expression, I am the hammer and the anvil, pounding life away, molding it into a lamp that lights the souls that linger in the shadows of their melancholy.”

This time I inquired without hesitation, urgency and fear in my wake. But who am I when the rain falls? Who am I when the sea pulls back and crashes on the shore? Who is it that moves the fabric of change and calls the wild and savage night to be tame? Who is it that can hear the sounds of birds, but cannot bear the cries of a woman or child? Who can rush to the aid of a victim of tragedy, but stand alone when the fight comes home? Who is it that attacks the citadels of doubt and brings her walls to his knees? Who can sacrifice his own livelihood for the sake of someone who has nothing, but cannot force himself to weep at pale figure of a friend descending into the ground? Who am I when you are all silent?

My soul whispered

You are simply yourself, given and beholden to whomever you choose.

Be strong and manifest your heart through word and deed. It’s been quiet for so long and the world longs for sound, so speak, shout, scream, murmur, whisper, cry, or perhaps even sing, but whatever the cost, stay silent no longer. You are the tempest and the morning dew. You are whirlwind and the breeze. You are anything and everything this world needs if only you of yourself are no longer silent.

Somedays? Somedays I’m alive.

[apoetsinkling]

The Sandglass is Half Empty

Today is finally the day. I've waited to see them fall, one by one; the grains inside their glass prison. Every one is the last testament of a dying world, scorched and sunburned, made soft in the blazing inferno of their distant illuminator and perfectly spherical from the wind's relentless manifesto. Yet they, the insignificant few shall be all that is left of this proud world when at last it is embraced by the one we called Sol.

Today is the day. I’ve waited for the room to grow quiet so I can finally hear the river. It turns and bends me to whatever path I'm adrift in and varies between subtle undercurrents and roaring rapids, threatening to upend peace and throw my paddle into the depths so that I may remain directionless. I will swim, if I must, to draw near to the lighthouse that guides my way.

Today is the day. Today she told me that she had a new favorite poet. Between the bars of lyrical prose and lines of flowing rhyme, she slid the knife. The wound was not due to her change in fancy, but in the challenge from the wind: to write a poem about the one thing that words have never been able to encapsulate. So I lay here, bleeding ink from a broken pen. Knowing that no matter what I choose to say, it will never be enough to satiate the appetite of love.

Today is finally the day. I’ve waited to see my execution at the hand of another. Not that I will cease to live, but rather that I may cease to be able to place pen to parchment, hand to keyboard, or heart to poetry. For there will never come a day where I so valiantly strive to find words as today, and in this ubiquitous moment I will be trapped forever, unable to accomplish more than a whisper of the glimmering light of her radiance. I am impotent of speech, for who can speak when they’ve seen the glory of all creation in the heart of another? Nay, I am struck dumb with the weight of my own appreciation.

Today is the day. She is the Queen Bee, the forger of laughter, the coaxer of smiles, and the temptress of shivers. She is the bright morning the day after the world’s last worthy sunset, and the fleeting dreams of the one who finds oblivion behind his eyelids. She is the writer, the muse, the bard, and the inspiration. All that she touches with her heart are gifted with a light that cannot be extinguished, for she is Prometheus who brings fire to the poor mortals. Yet all of these fall short of her.

Today is the day. And yet I wonder: will there be a tomorrow after the sun sets? Or will I be cast into darkness? My muse has flown and so shall I diminish. I love her and all her secrets. I cannot say if we shall ever meet hand in hand again, but I will cherish the memory of her. The couch in mid May, where we watched Sweeny Todd, unable or perhaps too afraid to express the love that was shared in that brief afternoon. Even the barking rats could not shake me from my enamored stupor.

If ever she should seek me, I shall be here. At least for today.