A poetic journey through my mind

social commentary

Beauty (trigger warning: descriptive language)

Hard, soft, hard.  Hard, soft, hard.  She rocks in a rhythm,  a pattern, a silent rhyme.  Hard, soft, hard.  Bony knees clenched tightly under her chin, skinny arms wrapped around like a ragged bow on a present never to be opened.  Hard.  Soft.  Hard.  Huge luminous eyes stare straight ahead, eyes made to seem even larger, sunk deep in their pits of shadow.  Mouth open slightly, a rifled purse,  soft keening cries spilling constantly forth. Hard.  Hard enough for her head to impact the cold cinderblock wall with a muffled thunk.  Soft.  Soft but fast, back and forth, quiet swish of cloth on the painted cement floor.  Hard once again.  Thunk.  And still the cries, still the stare, still the eyes that see nothing but the past, the past which is her eternal present…hard..soft…hard.


The Bad Thing

Softly she stumbles,
Silently weeping,
Down past the rooms where her children lie sleeping,
Down the dark stairs she goes cautiously creeping,
No light required, her feet know the way.

On one hand soft fingers hold tear stained note lightly,
The other a fist on which knuckles show whitely,
Fear, rage and shame are all mingling tightly,
As outside the nighttime brightens toward day.

Soon she’ll be leaving the note so deceiving,
her heart deep in grieving for memories lost, while upstairs the villain snores loudly, sleeps soundly, midst blankets and pillow as if by storm tossed.

And young ones will wonder at lives torn asunder, how silently thunder can come in the night, filling lifes pages with a nightmare of rages, forcing the caged bird to finally take flight.


Edit: Very Important Question

 

(Hmm.  8 “likes” and no comments.  Guess that’s a “no thanks” to Patreon for now.  🙂

Okies, back to  “work”…maybe something will be worth supporting in the future.)

Heya! Got a question for y’all. Ever heard of a thing called “Patreon”? It’s part of the whole crowd funding scene, a place kinda like Kickstarter but with two notable differences: A) It’s just for artists, but for artists of all stripes and types…and B) Instead of one time donations, it’s a recurring thing, allowing folks to be, basically, patrons of the arts…at whatever level is possible for them. From a dollar a month to…well, as far as you wanna go.

The fun thing is the reward system. For each level of payment there’s a reward, contingent on the particular artists choice and type of art.

For instance, for visual arts it might be anything from being able to see works in progress before anyone else, to being entered into a monthly drawing for an original piece!

Also, like Kickstarter, there may be goals to be reached, depending on the artist in question and their needs.

I’m seriously considering starting a page, for two purposes. I’m still really intent on organizing my stuff into book form, or maybe even two…one for the “social commentary”/awareness sort of ones (that one will be a not for profit project, but it won’t, unfortunately, be free to make…) and one for my mythology based work, both the poetry and maybe even some short stories.

I’m also moving, soon, from Florida back out West, to Salt Lake…and I want to build a tiny home. My severely limited mobility really cuts into my creativity, as chronic pain leads to depression and anxiety. I’m basically living in one room now, and one under 400 sq. ft. space with no doors or stairs or other nonsense sounds like my idea of paradise…not to mention it would be my first actual space entirely of my own…at 47, that makes it about time.

So I guess I’m asking for advice…does it sound like something worth doing, and should I put the effort into it?

Don’t worry, my new stuff will still come here (hopefully more often than recently…the more I write the more they come, I’ve found.) and it will be free as always.

But folks who want to follow me over to Patreon will have to let me know what sort of thing you might like for a reward…some of the ideas I’ve had are a chat/text group just for y’all, to talk about whatever…(in case you missed it, I LOVE to talk…😝) or maybe personal suggestions/requests for poems, toss me a random poem prompt, stuff like that? I’m even up for challenges…give me (almost) any three words and an adjective (funny, horrific, romantic, etc) and I’ll find/construct a piece for you. If any of these sounds good, just leave me a note in the usual place, and maybe we can make this happen!

Love,
KC


In The House of My Enemy (trigger warning, child abuse)

 

In a basement, in a closet, in the corner of my mind,
I am hiding, I am running,  I am being hard to find.
Hide me darkness, hide me silence,  hide me safe from any sight,
keep me hidden, safe and quiet,  far from pain or rage or fright.
Search is coming, pain and anger, fear is icicles inside,
eyes are staring, heart is beating, breath is curling up to hide.
Footsteps nearing, rage is searing, in threat and anger raving,
darkness broken, hard words spoken, fear and pain past saving.
Hands are groping, no more hoping, plleas and promises ignored,
pain and screaming, fade to dreaming, till the darkness falls once more.


Pointless

Not wanted, dead or alive.

What do I do, now that I’ve lost the point?

So many heroes in the world, 

So many villains,

So many many many extras, 

background noise in the Big Picture 

that so few can afford to see.

And me. 

Sir Not Appearing In This Picture.  

The Nun of the Above.  

The Maiden China, breakable, do not fold,

swindle or mutilate.

Was there ever a point?  

If so, what was it pointing to?

And why?

Points are sharp.  

Ugly things that rip and tear.

Off the edge of the map, 

deep in Here There Be Dragons land.

How do we know that the Devil That We Know

is better?  

Who says? 

Maybe we should all get The Point.

Just dive off the Cliffs, 

and the Clints, 

and the cliches, 

and impale ourselves on 

someone else’s Points of Reference.

What is The Point of Order, anyway?  Who decides?

Never Mind.  

It’s a bad idea.  

It leads to thinking.

I think, therefore I thwim.

Keep your head above water.

Head and shoulders above the rest. 

Never rest.

It’s another bad idea.

Sleep is for the week.

And we are the weakened.

The ragged jagged remnants of 

the once discrete Points of View.

All poured and stirred in the Melting Pot.

Melted, melded, gelded, shorn.

Doesn’t it feel better, 

now that all that heavy thinking is gone?

Just rock away in the Cradle of Humanity, 

and babies, you can sleep while I drive.


Trigger Warning

 

 

invasion

tab A into slot B

tab a, b, c, d, e, fu

 

smells, sounds, tastes

smell of power, smell of fear

taste of pain, disgust and hate

sound of screaming

 

But how can she be screaming with her mouth full?

How can she be screaming, with her mind full?

How can she keep screaming, with her face full??

 

Lift, hoist, propel

Stumble, protest, complain

Fist, propel, maintain

Through the grass, to Hell.

 

 


Image

The truth, via “A Softer World”

This is from one of my favorite webcomics, “A Softer World”. Very deep, funny, sometimes even just silly stuff. It just hit me, after the last post…so here it is. Thanks Joey and Emily!

 

(Oh, and if you click the pic it will take you to their site, but be warned, it’s addictive.  It will eat your brain…  *eg*)


Valentines and Tinsel: A Love Song in Three Parts

Ice and fire, fire and rain,
the opposite attracts,
Drowned in tears and burning rage,
a heart beneath the axe.

“She could never forgive him, for what he didn’t say.”

Dance on air, fall to earth,
open up your eyes,
“Love will lift you” is no lie,
it just wears a disguise.

“I thought “I love you” meant forever…not until.”

Take your chances, place your bets,
the best is yet to come,
You may yet live to sit alone,
uncomfortably numb.


Silent Sky

in his silent world he sits, and gently rocks away the day,
or sometimes, suddenly, he hits, his stare confused and far away,
each worrying claw and bite and slap seem to be beyond control,
and just as suddenly, he’ll stop, retreating to his safe, dark hole.

his eyes at times hold secret worlds, depths no other mind can plumb,
the children most especially, and so they laugh, and call him dumb,
and when he doesn’t understand, or even really seem to care,
they escalate, as children do, to pushing fists or pulling hair.

he has no tears, no loving glance, he will not look you in the eye,
locked inside his silent world, a world with neither sun or sky,
no rain, or wind, or painted wall, or happy voices raised in play,
he sits inside his tiny world, and softly rocks the day away.