Tag: poetry portal

White Knuckling Fiend

The white knuckling fiend

With fists gone pale

In dogged determination.

He wouldn’t admit to himself

Everything was unraveling

Like wool sweaters you never wear

Only ever pulling on the threads.

He had tragedy in his veins

And his countenance began to crumble

As he wildly brandished

The polished pistol at noon.

Now weeks later

Many lies later

And three trials deep.

His threats cajole me one way

My hopes quite another,

Now here’s for some medieval justiceFor modern thought.

That’s what I say to myself

Preceding the first smirk in months,

I won’t take the fall

For wrinkled blueprints

Stuffed in my red pants

When I wasn’t even looking.

Under oath I have the voice

Of a nightingale,

And though he shouts his threats

He’s years away from me now.

And these blanket truths I’ve uttered

Comfort me just like one.

– Vagabond Prophet

– thanks @josy57 for prompting me with ’ under oath.’ More weirdness today.

Days of Honey

I am Mr. Cash

I am the mourner,

I’m everybody dressed in black

Who am I?

Is grief not where I dwell?

Is sorrow not the gold mine

Where I scratch out a living?

These things you say to me

Only leave me perplexed,

My days stuck in traffic

My nights stuck in thought.

My swallowed tongue

My rib cage rung

Climbing up and down

From a mind with kidney stones.

Every thought taking such effort

To unearth from the depths

And push to the surface

The pain brings me to my knees.

My own heart is the box

Marked fragile, intentionally dropped

Because it says so.

Now these keys on the ring

For locks I don’t remember,

Need to find a resting place,

And those locks with wide open jaws

Awaiting the crooked teeth

Of this forgotten tool

Will not close their lips for any other tongue.

For it knows my shape

And lies in wait

To fulfill the promise

Made by someone other than myself

For I hold the key that another designed

And must seek for it a sheath.

The journey is long

The path winding

And so I am thankful

For the days of honey

That heaven finally brings

To remedy this bitter soul.

– Vagabond Prophet

Thanks @josy57 for prompting me with “Swallowed Tongue.” This one kind of got away from me, hope folks like it.

Hickory

Once again I ride the town,

Hop on board until

The end of the line.

Through this haze

Of hickory smoke from

Wildfires too close for comfort.

Morning mists not yet burned

Mean everything is grey,

Sinking in deeper

As we saunter downtown.

It’s thick and it’s hot

Leaving streaks on windows

As though it’s the sweat of the flame.

Not the first time

Won’t be the last

Thay I pray for rain.

For pregnant clouds to come

And birth that fresh new life

On all that smoulders.

– Vagabond Prophet

Fruits of the Spirit #7

Love as defined by the poets dictionary:

Definition: Love allows for this break in style.

Of love we the poets agree to say little

Of love we the poets agree to say much,

For it stifles the verbose

And makes garrulous

Those wonderful few who are traditionally

Iconically

Ironically

Laconic.

It’s big ideas from small minds, still better than all the complacency of the brilliant.

It’s the ink in this pen, only being itself no matter where it’s placed.

Love is the guerilla act of kindness

In minefield valleys, and stormy mountains.

It is love that perished in an act

Of veil tearing demonstration

That love and justice need each other

To be themselves.

In the dying of love, death was defeated, how lovely.

Love is the adhesive property, holding my cells together.

Love always extends the helping hand,

Not caring how barbarous the individual in need may be.

Love holds two souls together in affection, adoration, and commitment.

Love blots out ones tears with tender lips.

Antonyms: Hatred, fear, self preservation at the cost of others well being.

Only love inflates the space between the words, to remind you your story will stay afloat.

– Vagabond Prophet

– That’s me finished, @mildreflections it’s all yours now pal.

Brand New Key

Brand new key,

Fitting too well

Not allowing for my elbows,

Suicide by installments,

Or even custody of my own eyes.

Truth isn’t easy to swallow

Nothing that sharp is,

Wildfires don’t permit

Caveats and addendums,

Flash floods don’t schedule

Convenient appointments.

All consuming flame

Knows that real estate

Is the only good investment

So it comes and buys it all

No resistance fought

No feeble squall.

This decimation of autonomy

Is a blessing in the end,

For it strips the razor wire

From my own DNA

And cleans those wounds invisible.

– Vagabond Prophet

Soundtrack

I hear desperation sing out

From the shower down the hall,

Plaintive moans

From yet stretching chords.

It harmonizes with carts

Rolling along down the street,

The screeching tires

And the angry cries

At nights most hurting hours.

It’s the soundtrack of the city

Shouting at the great boot

That would stamp out the light

But for the disjointed resistance,

The reluctant militia.

We march in all directions

Starting as many fires as we put out,

Yet onwards ever onwards.

Even at 3 A.M.

The rubber never leaves the road

And the resilience to survive

Is never stopped, only slowed.

– Vagabond Prophet

Chronicles

Wood grain warped by knot in center,

The weakness the flaw

Removed to learn it was the cornerstone.

Extracted and everything starts to crack

Splintering lines rush to furthest border,

Why is it so that we should crumble without scars?

The chronicles of your ventricles

The hallways your blood strolls through

Provide for me an answer.

The best things the strongest things

Are made so by pressure

By a measure of suffering

And persecution,

The flower pressed

Preserved by adversity.

– Vagabond Prophet