Monday, April 8, 2019

Pr(e)ay...





calculating, methodical

painstakingly etched out over time

drop by drop, filling each vial

with vile intent

the end result

to feed ravenously

as the prey

begin to pray







 hunger, reaching into deeper

darker places

the stench of the kill

permeating every crevice

yet only one slow

lick at a time

making the mouth water

the flood of salivating glands

leaving the lips glistening

one tug, one tear

at raw flesh

a pull, gently at first

gradually showing intent

careful not to seem bent

on taking every last piece

every last drop

of the blood

as the fresh kill

slowly becomes rank

and rotted

remember now

that traps were set

laid with bait so enticing

the inveigled prey

so beguiled

 with all manner of temptation

threw caution

to the desperately blowing winds

that wailed their warnings

upon empty ears

the howling

deep into the night

that only echoed

bouncing off stone walls

into nothing

was there ever a moment

perhaps just as the jaws

of the steel trap

pierced naked skin

that remorse, regret

or a rueful repentance

passed through the fleeting thoughts

of either pursuer or prey

it is well documented

that no place is truly safe

no one without motive

none free of the entanglements

that sully the purity

of love

there is no benevolent

need



*I wasn't going to give an explanation of this poem but as I keep thinking about it, where better than here?
This idea has been simmering for weeks. It sparked after watching the Leaving Neverland documentaries. First, let me say, this is not about M Jackson, nor is it a comment on his alleged guilt or a place where I want to debate or discuss that. The way the story was told simply triggered some ideas that tell many stories, as poetry is known to do. 
Many people suffer various forms of abuse at various hands and not all of those abuses are quick and violent attacks. Many of them take time and planning and, as in the documentary, are 'groomed'. This idea has gnawed at me and today spoke for itself.*










Unusual


she sees the world

watches it

listens and observes

she sits slightly askew

one foot left of center

she writes things

 in a small notebook

scrawled words on blank pages

she tries

to make sense

of the things that make no sense

she sings quietly

softly

only for herself

anything louder only brings questions

she has no need to answer

she lives inside her mind

her dreams

carefully crafted worlds

where only she

knows how the story will end

and she

isn’t telling anyone

she is seen in the daylight

existing with the rest of them

 as a means

to return to the quiet place

where the only sound she hears

is the turning of the pages

and the lilt

the cadence

the rhythm

that keeps her steady

she crafts and weaves

brilliant threads

stands spanning

the length and distance

of time

and its irrelevance

she is singular

peculiar perhaps

certainly unusual

and in that

she smiles




Saturday, April 6, 2019

Perspective


perspective is the crux

of the decision

distance stretched out

further than the eye can see

shapes blur in the distance

edges slip at the seams

one look is not enough

a glance offers no more

are you looking forward to something

or gazing back at the end

the horizon line

the vanishing point

where the earth ends

and the sky begins

or is this where the sky begins

and the earth ceases to exist

where plan and foresight

become fantasy and dream

there is no beginning anymore

just as sure as there is no end

and there is no steady place for decision

just the ground beneath my feet

I can no longer discern the difference

between moving forward or back

the fact is the road remains

just as long either way



*original photo by Kelly Riley*