Run in the rivers Scrub beneath the finger nails Blink - it's back again
The brush of absence Without feeling or thinking Paints death into life
We can't wash our hands The blood is under the skin Written in our past
Blood, Blood
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Buried Under the Rose Bush
We never mastered houseplants. Above and beyond, but a foot to the left. A green thumb was never our best asset. If you didn't shoot, the leaves would be green. The potted plants thrived on the terrace: In the house they just repeatedly cried uncle, Their roots wiggling like an old b-movie. Do all new killers go blank in the stare? Gardening was worse than getting an instrument: Another substandard, low average hobby Intended to expand the pointless talking points. Maybe your urge is due to seasonal pollen? The effort level of the cactus was minimal. Yet in a humidity it was still kindling to burn. Should never have made them my central focus. The hardware store had a shovel clearance. I have to straighten literally anything out So I don't pace 'til the hour of judgement! You think I could pretend I wasn't here and hide? If you go down, will you bargain for my pardon?
Anchored Beacons
Dew swept wind hills of May morning Captured moments in sprinkled droplets That begged passers by to be collected. We knew to wait another hour or two Before stepping into their damp tracks Lest we become entranced by their tales. Humanity bled memories into the valleys. Tiny beetles feasted in the chaotic morning, Their shells glittered in the gloss of droplets. When the night's trouble was collected They'd disguise themselves in a minute or two Before the songbirds could recite hunting tracks. It was finally safe to leave our sacred cover. Humanity bled memories into the valleys Through the corpses of their fallen brothers. The glorious warmth of a sunny morning Reflected in our eyes like twinkling droplets Of youthful hope. It was our courage collected, Shared and displayed between only us two, That we may complete our pilgrimage together No matter the troubled ground we may cover. Humanity bled memories into the valleys Through the corpses of their fallen brothers. So few survived when kin killed beloved kin. A journey of miles, trudged through a morning. Stepping rhythmic, drenched in sweated droplets And woefully feigning we were calm and collected. Fear was painted behind our mission worn mask As we checked the mapped route together, Arguing the shorter path as we replaced it's cover. Humanity bled memories into the valleys Through the corpses of their fallen brothers. So few survived when kin killed beloved kin, Too many were martyred by man's monstrosity. Legs aching from the endless walking morning, Bodies craving sustenance, but surviving on droplets Tipped from the final flask of water, and of hope. You snatched the final sip, cracking under your mask. It seemed we'd outlasted our journey together, Our separateness apparently hidden under cover. Humanity bled memories into the valleys Through the corpses of their fallen brothers. So few survived when kin killed beloved kin, Too many were martyred by man's monstrosity: Those who fought for the beauty within us all. We parted with the last seconds of the morning, Silently wishing the other would reconsider. Survival now was only built on an anchor of hope That outlived the violence and psychological masks. Hope, that final chant uniting the distant together In a melody no imposter was able to falsely cover. For humanity bled memories into the valleys Through the corpses of their fallen brothers. So few survived when kin killed beloved kin, Too many were martyred by man's monstrosity. Those who fought for the beauty within us all Are anchored beacons of hope in dirty waters.
Dancing Brevettes
Couples s w a y Waltz
Waltz C i r c l e Princesses
Princess C a p t i v a t e Ballrooms
Written in response to an Ampersand Prompt
Vermin
Bitten through, Tough to chew Burnt sinew Set the trap Necks to snap Peaceful nap Bred again Ten plus ten, Outman, men
Written in response to an Ampersand Prompt
Meretricious
She lacks symmetry. In the curve of the looking glass She’s obtuse, Deliberate in naivety. Her melody chants emptily Constricting her harmony to base notes: Rooted and diatonic Yet obliquely tuned, off key. She reflects with the clarity That only the distorted can: Off-balance and perfectly malformed. In the eye of creation She’s a falsified sequence Sat between design and serendipity. A constellation unmapped For her rising suns are only set And her moons are drowned In the tides they made. There’s no happenstance here, To her, existence is a gift. The opportunity to remould The kinetic sand in which she swims So it may smooth the surface To form a meretricious shine.
Gunpowder and Whiskey
A crystalized lowball glass sways; Jigging the rocks around the whiskey. Holding the glass is an aged hand, Belonging to an aged man Just threatening to tell a story. The bar listens with tense ears And choked breaths. "She was my first wife; June, beautiful, bewitching, bodacious; Too much so at times. She wore her hair pinned At the crook of her neck With a single silver barrette. It softened her harsh features Just a little you see. I came home one day To discover her on the floor, Deceased, With a single silver barrette Plunged deep in her eye socket. But nobody knew a damned thing!" The lowball swayed mores And the tavern slouches listened on. "Next there was my second wife, Anna-Marie. She was a pious woman, And her slight figure would pray Before performing any activity And i mean any, before the Lord. She tied the waist of her dress With a bright green ribbon; it was so tiny that waist of hers. Shame I found the ribbon Around that pretty porcelain neck. And for some reason, Everyone thought nothing of it!" The lowball was empty. Once the bartender topped it up The man continued. "Finally there is my beloved Jessie. Far too pretty and young Especially for this old ruffian, But she would ignite the fire To warm any man's soul. Now she's still alive. But that there stiff That got my gun going He's the bastard Snatched her from me. And with God as my witness, She remains my wife, So she belongs to me." And with one long final sip, He left the bar without his gun; High off of gunpowder and whiskey.
A Dragon Saved Me
Before the monster could harm me Great jaws rose from the depths And swallowed him whole. I peaked through the gaps in my fingers But I didn't scream, I wasn't scared, For the dragon had eaten my predator.
Poly-Cotton Shield
Don’t pull the covers away; I’m not ready to face the world And all of its sharp edges. I’m warm under this comfort blanket, Safe under my safety net, Hidden from those peering, prying eyes. I’d rather be smothered in poly-cotton Than drown in the darkness out there. Don’t pull the covers away; I’m not prepared to face the world And all of its harsh voices. I’m calm under this comfort blanket, Safe under my safety net, Hidden from those intrusive, prying eyes. I’d rather be veiled in poly-cotton Than exposed the judgment out there. Don’t pull the covers away; I’m not equipped to face the world I’ll just crumple at its feet. I’m serene under this comfort blanket, Safe under my safety net, Here I cant be vilified for being. I’d rather be concealed in poly-cotton Than pretend I want to play this game.
Having ‘That’ Conversation Again
My Dearest Armistead, Is life a perpetual cycle? Because everything seems To be happening repeatedly. I found myself, again, Engaging in 'that' conversation. The conversation where I hold another person's life. The conversation where There is only one chance To do the right thing. I can only hope I made the proper choice, But I dread that with each cycle I am a step closer To getting it wrong. It seems inevitable that I will have blood on my hands From being unable To do enough Or get there quickly. Every time I have 'that' conversation; I am left empty, Wishing I could have spoken to him. Wishing that I could have soothed him. Wishing that he was here, And it was all a horrid nightmare. Why can't someone else Accept the burden for a while? Why does it have to be me? Yours, Armistead.
The Poet Armistead 