Concoction for bravery

H.M. Nolan

The truth I often deny

is every day of life

is exquisite

I look to the bottom of my coffee cup

I should fill it back up

with something less bitter

Maybe something that

can numb my mind

I look to the sky

I look to the mountains

I say the rocks in the canyons

look like goblin skin

I pet them like a precious pet

and I make excuses

like the timing isn’t perfect yet

to go after all the things I want

But there is no such thing as

perfection

But love is real

and so is happiness

My hand rests upon my goblin rock

and I contemplate being brave

I’m going to have to cook up some

concoction for that.

When will I learn?

When will I learn?

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The Mirror Sestet Challenge: “Cat’s Tongue”

Cat’s Tongue

Thunderous were the nights that left our minds blind,
blind were the eyes – the voices of the Gods: thunderous,
Gone are the days in which we wore genuine smiles,
smiles that layered us with the dust of good days, long gone,
Time has been cruel and rough as a dried-out cat’s tongue,
tongue the inside of my many painful snapshots in time.

Behind shadows and darkness, the light will still shine,
shine down upon the carcasses of ourselves we’ve left behind,
Beneath the ocean’s swaying swells that lull the deepest divide,
divide the difference – multiply, delete what remains beneath,
Blind to the cohesive fabric connecting us along an invisible line,
line up the pawns and the rooks and the knights, the royalty is blind.

Running Distantly.

Americana Injustica

I remember these things,
the late afternoon’s lulling,
“G.I. Joe – A Real American Hero”,
the ‘Three’s Company’ opening theme,

the sound of an overhead airplane’s engine,
fading away to the south, as the evening draws in,
the sounds of a lawnmower, running distantly,
cutting down grass and sending the scent to me,

I remember the pipes in the walls that would moan,
a surefire way to know when someone was home,
the sound that the front gate’s dragging board would make,
the dogs in the back that always scared the Pizza Boy away,

Anticipation of dinnertime and seeing my Father’s face,
every evening, the hope of seeing him walk into our place,
the leaves skipping up our walkway alongside his tired feet,
the Gods blessed me with a Dad so dedicated and hard-working,

these things I remember, they are mine to recall,
only because of the good I had…

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The Fall Of The Seven Sisters

ChainsawPenguin

xxdark_colossus_by_pearlphoenix-d3ja912

Before the poem itself, I feel like I should give a little explanation/summary so that it is read in the proper context. This is based on a short story I’m working on in which seven angels that are sisters are hunting a horrible monster called “The Weight of the World” across the multiverse and track it down, then destroy it finally but not before losing their own lives in the process.

His head made of fleshless bone.
From his lungs came an awful tone.
With six arms and no eyes,
One might wonder why they try.
His ashen hands and ashen feet,
Uses the mountains as his seat.
Once he took a bite of hill and chewed,
From one mouth flame and from his second, ash spewed.
A violet flame between his hands,
That turns the rocks into sand.
This thing with no purpose other than death,
Sought to steal…

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Let Go.

Mocking Bird Down

Bloody_Face_of_Bagul
Remembering you, is like placing my lips
on a heavy bottomed whiskey glass, filled
with tiny sharp shards of a broken mirror
and tilting it into my mouth. Slicing my tongue,
the same tongue that licked the blood from your lips
when you fell into my glass desk.
Tearing at my throat, with a familiar burn,
that comes only from crying so hard that the
salted grief becomes more acidic with
each clear recollection of
just how
fucked up
you
are.
The mirror catches the light, like you did,
but it makes me keel over; internal bleeding
and a searing pain, also familiar. Your calling card.
You found me when I was just a young girl,
and you added an unforgettable misery
to my world.
Your creation was my slow deterioration.
Your masterpiece was the physical
damage that would grab at me with it’s clammy hands
still, fifteen years later.

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~Turbulent~

That Sinking Feeling by rosiehardy on Flickr

Hiding from life
Endless strife
Drowning under the waves
No need to be brave
Soul searching
Seeking the light
Suffocating darkness
Heart staining blight
Cleansing…all that remains
To rid me of residual blame
My spirit refuses, still fighting me
Thus remaining as turbulent as the sea

©Paris Poems 2015

photo: That Sinking Feeling by rosiehardy on Flickr

My land…Spain

The land of the wild bulls,
The land of the poor,
The land of the……

My land
i´m here to stand
prefer the U.S
but this is my best

My land
great at party
eating quite hearty
hard to find a job-y

My land
i even fought for this one
but now i´m done
time to hit a home run

My land
26% unemployment
but happy people all over with enjoyment
strange…lazy
we are kind of crazy

Prefer the U.S
but i´m stuck in this fuss
and like it or not is….

My land, Spain! where…
if you dare to take the bulls away from Spain we will cause you pain.

Stay Frosty gents and gentesses.

Diabolique.

Americana Injustica

It’s come to my attention lately,
that the wonder of technology,
can be poisoned by the presence,
of a stranger’s mental instability;

We all make choices in life, don’t we?
with effects that will be ours, alone, to carry,
I can’t relate or comprehend – I’m sorry,
the default mechanism of defensive psychiatry;

I’m sorry the road behind you has been so bumpy,
but, you’ve bumped your pin-sized head if you believe,
that I will lay down in the dirt and let you trample me,
there is a fire inside of this woman’s breath and belly;

Please spare me the insidious and diabolique,
the lies used as embers to raise the level of heat,
the games that you aren’t even actually playing with me,
I’ve left the table – now it’s just two – not three;

There is no kind of valor or respectability,
in re-weaving your own perceptions of…

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