Fear

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On Edge

Content or complacent

The words that whole nations sent

Teetering on edge

Debate of all the hem and hedge

Plunging down cliffside oceans

For fear of others’ heaving shuns.

 

I would not call you pent

But I think that we could name you spent

Rent or wrote on broken arms

Contentment is triumphant harm

Rendered at the end of wrestling gods—

Beyond the scope of mortal nods.

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Absence Explained

Yesterday, you may have noticed I posted a poem for One Shot Wednesday. Nothing out of the ordinary in that, and certainly unorthodox. Those among my commenters section, however, may have noticed that I have not, as my usual goodly self would have, traveled to your blogs in turn for a comment or a quality liking. You may be thinking, what a dick, that Chris guy.

Well humbly hold back on the dickery decrees for a moment while I explain. This week, you will probably not be seeing much activity from me. Some issues have erupted in the real world that have left me scrambling for sanity, but facing worry; for time, but finding little to be had.

My mother and father, Rocky Mountains 2010.

Yesterday, my father was taken to the hospital following a week-long sickness. In the beginning, we had thought it was the flu, or something like it. When it stretches for a week – certainly not the case. He was checked into the emergency room. Doctors seem to have figured out what was wrong – infections coming on in clumps all up in the wrong areas – but they don’t know yet if what they have prescribed will be enough for the moment. They have held him at the hospital for now, and given him antibiotics. They may take. They may not. If the don’t, they will likely have to conduct surgery. A skittish Chris is left in the meanwhile.

As if that weren’t enough, the week seems content to stack numerous other obstacles and bad things in my path. For example, yesterday, not 20 minutes before I learned about my father, my dog was mauled by another dog while we were walking down the street. Put an inch long gash in his neck and took a chunk of skin out from under his eye. Would have been worse, much worse, if I hadn’t booted the assaulting animal off my thoroughly startled dog. Have to deal with animal control and all that now. Likely an angry neighbor as well.

"Fane," post-attack.

I will likely return to normality next week, and you will see posts and commentary the same as ever from regular Chris, but for the moment, if I’m a little lacking in internet presence, I hope you’ll understand. All the best to you all.

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Undercover

Breathe light.

The moment the

candle flickers to dark

no covers keep the monsters back–

life holds.

* My latest contribution to the wonderful One Shot Poetry Wednesdays! The style used here is known as Cinquain, a five-line stanza form containing twenty-two syllables, in the sequence: 2, 4, 6, 8, 2. Notice I’ve been on a bit of a Cinquain trip lately? So have I. It happens. I’ve been form-napped.

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Time Covers All

By Iquanyin Moon, for One Shoot Sunday.

I cannot see you anymore.

 

It ends in solitude,

The salient serration of your survival

Severed all trace of tactile touch—

I reached for you and you recoiled till

Whispers on the lovers’ trail

Turned it all to desert and to dust—

You went alone into the waste.

 

You are naked to me,

Wind-blown wraith wreathed in

Dust—blow, ye wind blow, for you

Are nothing, breaths and breathing

Touch upon the earth and fade away—

Just footsteps sifting in the sand

And Time.

 

Time covers all.

*This poem is a response to the latest of One Stop Poetry’s Sunday Picture Prompt challenges. This week’s featured picture was provided by i-Phoneographer Iquanyin Moon, who I interviewed for this week’s One Shoot Sunday. Check out her wonderful work, her insights, and some great poetry…

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A father’s love

Staring out the window

the old man sees the picture:

laughter and smiles, these bodies still they

tackle and break and the ball

it floats between, less a joy than a symbol

of a father’s love–

he young, to full of life and love

for dearest son–

he still the younger, laughing, adoration still

he sees this game, a day, a week

and weeps upon the broken knees,

this weary flesh–oh time, time

has rotted;

there is no game for he, this is

Life, life he shall not have, nor give,

but still he looks to the growing faces

of the life beside,

and to this image can but smile–

in that child’s eyes

a word, a look are all he needs

to know the love, the deed–

he cannot do, but love can show

in other ways–

sometimes he just needs the reminder.

Oh these regrets, such bitter things–

thank God, thank God, that child

still smiles at me.

My latest contribution to the wonderful One Shot Poetry Wednesdays! Once you’ve had a look, check out some of the other One Shot Poets as well– they’re a skilled bunch of poets, looking to form a community and support one another.  Enjoy!

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The Wisdom of Life

On every thorn, delightful wisdom grows,
In every rill a sweet instruction flows.
~Edward Young

Not to know at large of things remote
From use, obscure and subtle, but to know
That which before us lies in daily life,
Is the prime wisdom.
~John Milton

The fact is, that to do anything in the world worth doing, we must not stand back shivering and thinking of the cold and danger, but jump in and scramble through as well as we can.
~Robert Cushing

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Restless Nightmares Break…

A significantly darker piece than what most of my recent work has been, just in time for the first One Shot Poetry Wednesday. Once you’ve had a look, check out One Shot Poetry, too–a bunch of great poets, looking to form a community and support one another.  Enjoy!

Restless nightmares break,

From wretched slumber do I wake

To a world of endless night—

Thunderous choirs make me crouch in fright.

High above us wraiths now soar,

Men clasp their ears to deafen their roar.

Over hills and shattered streets,

The bands come marching to woeful beats.

A hundred thousand voices cry,

Then all the singers die.

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The Labyrinth

Commit unto me

the ability to See;

there is so much I wish to Learn,

no longer shall I simply yearn.

Commit unto me

the secrets of the endless ages

bound by the winding passages

of your shadowed mystery.

Let all be bared to me

as I commit unto your halls—

winding, coiling in a countless web

of one path, bound to a single center.

Take my eyes

and let the darkness grace,

eyes blind but arms outstretched,

with mind open to embrace.

Cast aside the clinging tatters

for immaterial metamorphosis

from the chains of that society

that barred me from your gates.

Lo! No more bound

I float into your grace

and rapture myself

upon your delicate caress.

Shut out the light,

stretch out existence;

the senseless path becomes

alighted by reality, purified.

In you the sky is my solace,

dancing and diving through clouds,

limitless in my exploration,

but grounded—finally connected.

Others jeer amidst

the fickle insecurity

bred into imprisoned forms—

bound body, mind, and soul.

No fear, march unhindered—

their rage is not for you;

still wrapped in grim conformity,

blinded minds bar ascension.

Noise topples as I touch the center

and everything falls away;

complete, I breathe at last—

Your corridors have set me free.

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What will I see?

Dust clouds on the wind

Scorch my skin as I

Break against the rocks.

Blood trails the cracks

And I reach for the summit

But I am nothing to

This peak.

It feeds on my destruction

And colors itself with my

Irreverent dedication.

I must climb

Another step, just one but

What will I see?