Shattered (BTP prompt)

I really didn't follow prompt this week, but instead took some snippets from a few unfinished pieces on the same topic and wove them together into one.
Knowing someone with mental/emotional illness is a difficult thing to watch and attempt to deal with. I know someone with these issues; this poem attempts in it’s feeble way to describe her pain.


She holds herself through too long days
enforcing stillness with granite jaws,
Her nails tattooing crescent moons
While gripping demons
with sweat slicked palms.

Afraid of breathing much too deep,
best to keep each intake shallow,
or she might loosen up a scream,
expelling monsters
she cannot tame.

To see her face, at first you’d think
her mind was just preoccupied.
But then look deeper at her trance,
bright eyes unfocused,
blind to light.

Then some slight switch is somehow flipped
and nerves, emotions come unwound,
like prickly knotted sisal rope
of tangled threads
that won’t be bound.

With thoughts careening wildly
through eternities of mindless pain,
no one can ever talk her down
And backwards to
a life of sanity.

Pearl Harbor (December 7th, 1941)

(photo courtesy of historylink101.com)

I wrote this piece in honor of Pearl Harbor Day; in thanks to my Father, Father-in-law and four of my uncles who were all decorated soldiers during this time; and also in honor of every person affected by the terrible tragedy of WWII.

The news brought them out of the woodwork.
Boys with patriotic attitudes,
dreamers with fabulous imaginations,
or ones with simple bloodlust in their hearts.
Those with delusions of grandeur
or the desire for adventure,
to swash-buckle through the Pacific.

Instead they found near annihilation-
of dreams-of innocence- of their very lives.
Battling something utterly alien,
completely incomprehensible.
Violence unheard of, unbelievable.
A vast Pacific of bloodshed,
primitive atolls of mindless atrocity.

Bataan, Saipan,
Iwo Jima, Guadalcanal.
Okinawa, Corregidor.
Funereal jungles, floating crematoriums.
Wild -eyed bonzai brandishing swords-
kamikaze clinging to samurai code.
Mere pawns in this game of death.

They mustered through, those boys.
Growing up rapidly, finding their way.
Gaining strength in numbers,
courage through necessity.
We can never repay their gift.
There are no words to give thanks
to that "Greatest Generation".

Gimmee, Gimmee (BTP Prompt)

The Prompt this week over at Big Tent Poetry was "ENOUGH".  Very thought-provoking, I wish I had the time to turn all my ideas for this into poetry...

Those screaming needs
and hard demands,
swarm around like angry bees,
and buzz within my addled brain,
as sharp, relentless stings enforce

their painful, bloody victories.

Meanwhile, my gentle wants,

desires,
my small attempts
to carve a piece,
a sliver of that precious self,

must fall away like dying leaves.

Crushed beneath commitment's boot,
as slowly I forget to dream,
and accede to others appetites,
while I grow smaller every day,
from losing self to selflessness.

Of strength, I'll never have enough.

Run Away (BTP Prompt)

 First of all, thanks to Barbara for this devil of a poetry prompt over at Big Tent Poetry . I have never written a “cascade” poem before, and boy did it give me trouble!  I was so busy figuring out how to do it, I think the content and flow suffered a bit…but, here goes... my take on Woman as victim, as symbolized by Dorothy.

Brushing straw from your tangled hair,
throwing your apron to the ground,
just put your best red high heels on,
be brave and make it on your own.

The scarecrow called you ignorant
to feed his fatuous conceit.
Set him ablaze and run away,
brushing straw from your tangled hair.

The tin man was one hard bastard,
with an inhuman, empty soul.
Just let him rust, to save yourself,
throwing your apron to the ground.

That scaredy cat you tangled with,
would browbeat, just to feel so brave.
Screw up your courage once again,
and put your best red high heels on.

The “Great One” gave you bad advice,
to keep you slave to his desires.
No wizard, he's a charlatan,
be brave and make it on your own.

At Home (BTP prompt)

 ( I just love the negative, yearning emotions pictured in the old advertisement above)

 I used the non-fiction best-seller “At Home” by Bill Bryson.  Just finished reading it and BOY do I recommend it to anyone who is interested in the history of how we came to live the way we do.  (I could not put it down…)


Relaxing at home
in your mortgaged "McMansion"
with a big screen TV,
espresso machine,
and monumental refrigerator,
under forced air conditioning
that keeps you quite comfortable
no matter the weather.
Nearby the dishwasher sloshes,
although it’s half empty.

You sprawl so contented
on your leather recliner,
while drinking yet one more cocktail
as you hear the ice drop in the
constantly cycling
stainless icemaker.
The pantry stands bulging
full of tasty but plastic
non-foods so convenient
to just pop in the microwave.

The computer screen’s glowing,
The cell phone’s recharging,
as you snuggle down deeper
in your adjustable mattress,
thousand count sheets,
and fluffy down comforter.
While you lay there contented
do you ever much wonder
the cost so profound of
this gluttonous plenty?

Meanwhile the rest of the world,
(no matter what country),
confused by our excess,
shake their heads sadly,

(or beat their fists madly)
as they claw for their dinner.
Try as they might, they can’t
begin the consumption
that we take blindly for granted
as our right and our privilege.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 (I'm just as guilty as anyone...)