by Fegger
I
He wears a pack upon his back,
Then fills with rocks and stones;
Symbols of mistakes he’s made,
Trophies all his own.
He scrubs his hands with molten sands,
Such shards of glass embed;
Reminds him of the hearts he’d lost,
And love weeps, sorely bled.
He scatters thorns in shoes well-worn,
Then ties them for all time;
For detours he had wrongly made,
While crossing chosen lines.
He rinses eyes with brine, then cries,
Eternal, lonesome tears;
Displaying then, for all to see,
Such torment of his years.
Upon his tongue, his words once young,
He’ll singe with glowing embers;
To thwart the rising of such verse,
That no one will remember.
About his ears, such shrill of fears,
Encase his heightened plea;
Releasing guilt and prejudice,
To alter their decree.
Once satisfied he hasn’t died,
He sets on novel journey;
Chooses paths of internal wrath
Which mark his sanctimony.
The first step finds such grounds, unkind,
So soft they seek to swallow;
Consume such traces of his print,
Determined, echo hollow.
The foul stench, then so entrenched,
Encumbered, drawn abyss;
Toward depths anew and rancid,
Reveal apocalypse.
Affixed, implanted, disenchanted,
Approach delirium.
As numbness overcomes the pangs,
Self-cited requiem.
Immobile now, reflects ‘pon how,
Such measures were traversed;
When bindings, anguish gather hold,
And lessons were reversed.
Embracing pain and self-disdain,
Grants flow to great despair;
Simultaneously uncoiling,
Latent spirit and its prayer.
“Guide me forth, charter course,
Where light may come to shine;
And words ascend like Phoenix wings,
To hasten toward divine.
In this hour, we are power,
No bounds to recognize;
Combined we are invincible,
Together, land to sky!”
II
Breath then comes to cease, arrest—
As flooding warmth refills his chest—
As increments of ills possessed
Relinquish former hold.
Hope cascades in liquid streams,
Fails eclipsed by freshened dreams
Senses heat of forgiving beams,
As Purpose then unfolds.
Mixing with such burdens held,
Feeding fires never quelled,
Imbibing passions never felled
From days upon the earth.
Such wealth ignored in ego’s midst,
When adding absence to such lists,
What freedoms known by single kiss,
It’s here he finds his worth.
III
Reborn is he, with new eyes sees,
A virgin parchment—waits;
To scribe the blend of all of life
With truth to consecrate.
The Illusionist
He sits with top-hat, tails and bun,
Rolling-up his sleeves.
Setting tricks of mastery
That no one will believe.
The cards he places order to,
In sync with tactful skill.
To open wide the eyes of those
Who hasten for a thrill.
The doves will fold so easily,
In pockets they will nest;
Until such time they’re plucked about,
A time that he knows best.
The scarves and flowers he presents,
Will surely bloom in awe;
Of naïve crowds he’ll work his craft,
The truths they never saw.
Then he looks up and sighs so deep,
A mirror’s his intrusion.
For there he sees that love’s unreal,
Another soul’s illusion.
Two Faces of Anger
As eve displays such sullen brow,
Quieting youthful grasses upon the lonesome hill;
Allaying spirited ambitions of day’s song,
Embellished by noble woodwinds.
Laughter, no more.
Turbulence tramples the swollen breast
Of free and listless growth;
Compressed and hardened—
Unable to accept future, willful seed—
Left wanting, yearning such promise—
Is swept away by failing vestiges
Of disobedient winds.
Unremarkable to any lurid senses;
Vague to ties of spiteful consort,
Barren soil expands indiscriminately;
As harsh, vindictive words subtly eradicate
Such tender strands of emerald greens.
For passage must remain unhindered,
And faceless.
Dispelling self-regard or purpose—
Quiver, desperate from the contortions of weight,
Amidst feared and unwanted runners,
Finding deceptive passage beneath.
Expanding, flourishing, in the depth—
To arise as with any untimely event,
With wicked tendrils widening,
Choking salient dreams.
Displacing natural cause and justice
Through consumption of all that is good;
Such vines weave and thread without mercy,
Assimilating life in accord,
While feasting on the innocent,
Breathing mockery and contempt.
They will not dance, or sing—
But chant in selfish riot;
Instilling transparent ideals and fear.
The contours of the expectant, rise.
Apathetic saplings await peaceful diversions;
Or pray that finer-lit hours, in harmony
With swollen clouds, unencumbered
By their own sorrow or history,
Fill such tomorrows with temperance
And benevolence once again.
Until such events strike hollow hours,
Resounding in decades of toil and self-righteousness,
Labored by ill word’s apologies—
Until then, dried petals of former palettes,
Wither in dusty confines, trembling—
Awaiting emancipating winds to churn and upturn
The solid and immovable—
And fragile seeds receive rightful needs,
Where fertile lands once thrived.
Point of Confluence
The coffee shop is congested,
But our booth is Ours’.
Your cup is full and tepid,
While mine is nearly empty.
Again, you share your life:
Soccer games and broken toys;
Clothes which are now too small;
How inattentive he remains;
Fresh batteries in his TV remote;
Daughter’s eyes identical to yours;
A room, half-painted for months;
Training wheels soon to depart;
Your car is old, his is new;
Grease on the kitchen faucet;
The ‘Tooth Fairy’ arrived twice last week;
He used to love you, you’re sure;
The washing machine shreds your bras;
You dust his High School trophies;
Your son wants a BB gun for his birthday;
The cold winter consumed your savings;
“Sandra”, your on-line friend has cancer;
His parents rent their seasonal h
ome in Florida;
Your wedding gown still fits.
While I listen, in numbing clouds;
And tongue, pasty from the coffee;
I can barely recall the details of the rented room,
But vividly remember your orgasm.
Entire of Me
Might it just be,
The reflection I see
Is vision, and not of possession?
This silhouette lone
Of features, not own
Refracting my warmest obsession.
In stillness of night,
And truth of the light
Embedded within my own soul;
There you may dwell
Defenses have felled
Gathering pieces to whole.
Skin, smooth and fair
Deep chestnut hair
Appear mingled within my own face.
With ghost-like reveal,
Shared senses congeal,
Cohabitant in sacred space.
Your lips move in time,
In concert, with mine,
Combining our thoughts to exchange;
Of mutual fission,
Culminates ‘wishings’,
Confirming that nothing’s estranged.
Such loneliness fasting,
In love, everlasting,
Embracing such occupancy;
Such fullness I feel,
In closeness so real,
You melding, Entire of Me.
Tickertape Charade
Rented suit, white flowing gown:
So let the games begin.
Agreement in this ritual,
Shall vanquish former sins!
Now fresh of canvas taunt,
Sep’rate colors still intact;
Join young hands to hold the brush
Create your lifelong pact.
Mingling colors is preferred,
And won’t contaminate;
But many works are left undone
Should one then castigate.
Patience lies in beauty’s eyes,
While agendas breed obscene;
Mix then, yellow with the blues,
And celebrate such greens!
Leave illusions at the altar,
For that’s where they belong;
Where misty tales of fairies then,
Tend dreams they must prolong.
Understand the ebbs and flows,
As life is prone to tides;
That will erase the strongest piers,
Should trust be left untied.
Believe, in time, such differences
Will threaten with its harm;
But quarrels cannot ever grow,
In embrace of lover’s arms.
It’s a choice of journeys forward then,
Of one you willing made.
Lest be perched upon lead float,
In the tickertape charade.
Granite Man
Standing, edge of cliff so sheer
Peering toward the vast
Churning blue, and foam recede
Lessons, of the past.
Project my soul, this vertical wall
That shields the tender land
From erosion of the Tempest Wind
Yet carves the Granite man.
Beneath, as passions tremble
And curl about the form
Slowly abrade patina-soft
In forecast of the storm.
Adjacent to these weathered friends
Lie memories of the gale,
When weakness overcame me—
Another love, I failed.
Resting bitter, jagged, waiting
To rest my skin upon—
Accepting vengeance’ laceration,
Exposed--within each dawn.
I, spun in ego—unyielding—
Deny the right to view,
The fissures gape internally
Kept away from you.
Igneous veneered viscera—
With pulse upon command—
And words that knew such timelessness
As footprints in the sand.
Yet vertical and tall I’ll reach
Defy natural decay—
Deeming that my wit prevails
With death I may persuade.
In Time, such shroud consumes me
I will have died before—
Legacies of ignorance—
I’ve offered nothing more.
Granite man is born of fire;
And this, his only sin:
Striking flint and flesh as one,
Igniting from within.
Peacock Lost His Plumage
A Peacock lost his plumage
Contracting such disease
That dried his skin, from out, within
Scaling such as scabies.
Ignored was he by women-folk
Of peacock orientation;
Who will not breed with likes of he;
So left in consternation.
He wandered ‘bout the woodland floor,
Resembling holiday roast:
Without one feather to fan the weather,
No color, then, to boast.
Discouraged and depressed was he,
That he’d wandered way too far;
Yet just past dusk, had change of luck,
And discovered a dark, parked car.
Long and sleek and shiny black,
Slightly foggy on the glass.
Grunts and moans and human groans,
Then flashed a human ass!
The magic window down did creep,
As clothing tossed asunder:
Gowns, tuxedoes, then the Speedos—
The peacock then, did plunder.
He rummaged through that starchy pile,
Of useless people stuff
Until he found, laid on the ground,
A sequined, velvet glove!
“What a perfect treasure here!”
He thought with fortune’s find;
Stuck five-pronged mitten, which he was smitten,
Atop his bare behind.
He scurried back to familiar homes,
Where females there were waiting—
Who’d prance in awe of what they saw:
A fan, so rich, cascading!
But peacocks are a snobby sort,
Especially of female gender;
And found him a bore, and chose to ignore,
A display of obvious splendor.
Cast aside and ostracized,
He wandered once again.
‘Til break of dawn, he came upon,
Such an unlikely friend.
She was flat in beak, color brown;
And had such obnoxious voice;
Flat feet she had, her breath was bad;
But he had little choice.
She didn’t seem to mind that he,
Was featherless and plucked;
Devoid of fashion, t’was nature’s passion
So torridly they---had tea together.
They lived then, long thereafter,
Bald Peacock, Duck, in love;
He remained forever—not one single feather;
But proud of his tall, velvet glove.
Candle
Wick--
The center of your being,
Drawing flame, heat
Inside,
While willingly sacrificing
The soft, smooth external
For the experience of passion’s
Glow.
Consumed once,
You may be reformed,
To illuminate ‘forevers’;
Or remain, in memory.
Loved for light.
Offered in selflessness;
And swallowed in increments
By known betrayals
Of the night.
Ancient Tree
His hair is white, brittle-dry;
Cataracts, soon to claim one eye,
Facing term
s he can’t deny,
As autumn faces lull.
Winds that swirl the dead leaves up,
Myriads of moons fan abrupt,
Un-parched he holds his empty cup,
Yet drinks from fountains full.
The crooked staff he holds in hand,
Will read this path of familiar land,
Traversing this he understands,
Journeys kept before.
When lungs elastic fed the pace,
Springing tendons, then he raced,
With quicker turns he left no trace,
With forests first explore.
He arrives then at the ancient tree,
That grew so tall in woodlands free,
Where suns would rest on canopy,
In patience, light his way.
Looks then, so high above,
Where he had carved her name in love,
Smiles when he’s reflecting of,
Him kneeling on that day.
He pauses, then returns to fend,
The voyage toward the river bend,
Where life begins and life must end
If truth remains sublime.
His pack is his, with nothing lent;
No ills or hatreds to repent;
Contented men fear discontent
As he walks, in hand, with time.
On the Lonely
Such silence I won’t overcome;
Fresh verse that harkens me to numb;
While I remain, both deaf and dumb;
And trust your indignation.
To know such sense of obscene hollow,
Leaves no course for me to follow;
The poignant scent or bitter swallow
Dispels all consternation.
Disperse me, then, in fields I pray;
Where thorns enwrapped in laurels lay;
And I will sleep, accept decay;
With fertile words to comfort.
Mingle hither, fresh decline,
Of tangled thoughts that weep sublime;
Raise the clear of blood-red wine;
And toast of those triumphant!
May you be spared repented dreams,
Of what you’d held in high esteems;
Yet, carry forth, the worth you’d gleaned,
In lover’s kind remorse.
Reflect upon such forces, fears;
That cannot be so tamed in years,
Will never wash in anger’s tears;
But disappear in course.
