Pink

I sit on the bottom-most step
on a stairway that leads to the past.
The anger I feel is so hard to conceal
so this deep breath is not going to last.
You’re standing ahead of me.
She’s there instead of me;
curious look in her eyes,
like I really repel her.
I don’t know what you tell her.
I guess you’ve been spreading more lies.

I move to a table and sit down to eat
my last supper, warmed up in a pan.
If I were entitled to have twelve disciples,
I’d swap them for one honest man.
You talking behind me,
bragging quite blindly
while playing the good Christian role.
You praise her in favour of
cards on my table
that could help resurrect my lost soul.

to be continued...

Starting Over

“Till death do we part”
I meant it
from the depths of my heart.

I followed honestly as a sheep
but the flock moved on.
So, I morphed into an ancient, grey standing stone.

Single,
I cemented my hard-core
to the middle of an empty, green pasture,
surrounded by a wire fence,
to keep people out.

Am I real?
Women confirm their reality by sharing
and the only known cure
for fear
is faith.

So,
one day
I believe
a whole flock of stones will stand here
in a circle.

“Till a life when we unite”
And I mean that
from the core of my rock.

The SS Sinking Ship

“All Aboard the SS Sinking Ship!”
cried the captain from the bough.
“All you gullible believers,
climb aboard, we’re sinking now.”
With a backpack full of memories
I held the gangplank rope.
As I climbed aboard the Sinking Ship
I let go of all hope.

The captain sung about the sea
but he never learned the song.
He made up every second word
while the sailors sung along.
One bright midshipman spotted flaws
and ordered scrutiny.
And, before the ship could sink much more
he cried out, “Mutiny!”

We swum for shore the best we could.
Some of us were lost.
I lived to see the shipping lines
I never should have crossed.
I’m a gullible survivor
lured on a one way trip.
Don’t ever board the gangplank
of the SS Sinking Ship.

(Another oldie from the Jolly Roger archives of Hazy Dizzylady).

Cardiac Arrest

The Colonel marched to ninety two.
Could my heart ever prove that strong?
Could it beat a path from the back of beyond
to the frontier, where a gong...
in an echoing tone, would summons
you to sit down at my table?
Would you come to my last supper,
to sing a dirge if you were able?

The Captain sailed to ninety four.
Can my heart float that long?
Or, will it break like tectonic plates
on these shifts from right to wrong?
Will the seismic waves of passion
forever swell to floods of tears?
Will you keep burying me in oceans,
flying half a mast of grief?

The Judge ruled on to ninety six.
Does my heart look like a conn?
If he could give me one sentence
would he say, "hang her at dawn"?
If my life were a one day punishment
and your gavel ruled my chest,
is this seven o'clock in the evening
of my cardiac arrest?

(A poem from the archives of Hazy Dizzylady)

The Mallacht

In the beginning a nightmare will slither in. Let me tell you about her.
Shrewdly, her clandestine watch will begin beneath the streetlamp,
but in the shade of your garden hedge. There she’ll crouch, patiently,
until she hears your key engage with the metal lock of the brown door.

Quick as a zip, she’ll slant diagonally across your lawn.
Her teeth will interlock with your shadow and you’ll carry her inside
on your back. Gullibly, you’ll see only the dark, purpling of the night,
but when the nape of your neck itches, you’ll scratch it and shiver.

You’ll twist and turn your head in front of a mirror, intensely
searching for the inflamed bite of a flee, or the birth of a boil,
but all you’ll see will be the pink tracks of your own fingernails
as you scrape. Despite a change of sheets, scraping will rock your bed.

When, finally, you greet sleep with a deep exhale, she’ll begin her burrowing
to measure the quality of your backbone. If you’re weak you will easily feel her
because, as you roll to turn over on the in-breath, you will absorb her
into your vertebrae, where she’ll plot her way up each bone into your brain.

There, in her nightclub she’ll begin her striptease, shedding back your layers;
the veils designed to protect you from seeing yourself as you really are.
As the veils expose and peel back from your skin, you’ll first writhe in ecstasy
before plunging into lurid fears of walking naked in public anguish.

Yes, in the beginning, a nightmare will slither in. But, it’s only the beginning
and I will take your hand, like you took mine to be cuffed in chains.
I will also be there to lead you through the night, like when you had me lead
to that dark gaol of horror... in the beginning, when my nightmare slithered in.

How to Spot a Fake Dictionary

In a genuine dictionary
the word ‘friend’
has a special meaning –
he’s a true supporter;
someone who is on good terms
with another,
and for whom he can feel
a consistently selfless degree
of empathy,
loyalty
and affection.

The New Year of the Performing Monkeys

See-no-evil banged the drum,
while Hear-no-evil sang.
Speak-no-evil did not show,
so, the Fiddler owned the band.
She bowed her strings without a smile;
mouth kept tightly shut
in case some evil rose up from
the conscience in her gut.
See-no-evil, he was blind
to all her slight of hand.
Hear-no-evil, claimed was deaf
to the fiddler’s g-string plans.
She fiddled songs of heartaches.
She fiddled tearful airs.
She fiddled tunes of loss
as long as no loss was hers.
Blindly loved then Deafly loved
as the fiddler cast her spell.
Oh, you evil little pixie, you
think you fiddle spells so well.
But, I’ve been outside in the audience
and my hearing is astute;
I’m not blind to the fact
that you think you’re very cute.
I’ve heard that you’re a user
and I see you get your way.
You may bow faster than a whirlwind
but your writing is child’s play.
You’re a thief. You’re a tyke
and your sham is not engaging.
You might know how to fiddle
but your pixie face is aging.
There are five monkey senses
that match our human race --
there’s sight, sound, sense and smell
but what’s missing here is taste.
My name is Taste-no-evil
and if I joined your band
I’d spit out the sour taste
of your fiddling command.

The Pixie

When her pixie whirlwind settles
and our sun sets
and your day ends
and old friends leave
and new owls call
and a dark conscience haunts...
will you lie and think of me?
Or, will you have to lie 'to' think of me?

When her pixie whirlwind settles
and our sun sets
and my day ends
and old friends return
and new owls call
and a clear conscience soothes...
will I lie and think of you?
..............


Hazy Dizzylady would like to point out that this is an interchangable, DIY poem and that you can insert whatever last line you wish for yourself instead of the dots. However, please insert your answer responsibly. If you write no, negatively, then that is your choice and no one elses. If you write yes, then be prepared to act positively in order to bring about positive results.

Thank you and Goodnight

No Where to Hide

She said, “I hate the sound of arguing,” Her head stooped low.
“…even anger in jest," she said. "I’ll run where I can go.
I feel people’s fury and... need I say more,
except I hate having no where to hide.”

She said, “I hid in a dark cupboard once and held my breath,
unsure of which I feared more; my life or my death.
My every breath was stolen in that breath-snatching theft,
now, I hate having no where to hide.”

She said, “You’d think that as a child I’d be easy to conceal
but I felt clumsy in the corners where I’d run to squat or kneel.
Now I’ve grown, my panic's stretched to as gigantic as I feel
and I hate having no where to hide.”

She can sense your inner anger, and she told me to say,
you'll stand alone when she's gone. She'll run away.
So, speak softly, like to little ones. Make the child within her stay,
because she hates having no where to hide.