Tag Archives: death

…as the…

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…As the anger coursing through my veins

As I look across this beach foreign to me
As my guns carve the limit of my restraint’s lack
As I seize the day for another’s sovereignty
As my brothers at arms fight at my sides and back

…As the hunger crawling over my sin

When I think of the shade of certain someone’s hair
When I think prose of its owner quite a distances flight
When I think once again how life’s a tutor of the unfair
When I try not to think of her smooth skin that night

…As the crier of my resolution’s wane

On this sand far from my home’s grassy hills
On this life bewildered by what’s come to past
On this soil dyed crimson with this war’s kills
On this day bullets destined to be my last

…As the last prayer given beneath my skin

For the medic who sighs at what he sees
For the home I go to, just not where I used to play
For the glass like calm that washes over me
For the final trip now only two closed eyes away

…White… as the anger coursing through my veins

…White… as the hunger crawling over my sin

…White… as the crier of my resolution’s wane

…White… as the last prayer given beneath my skin

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dVerse ~ Poets Pub | OpenLinkNight – Week 100

Welcome

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.
.
Traded as payment for overdue wage
She knows, though it’s gilded, it’s still a cage
She’s yet to see sun
Shipped from place to place, displayed on a stage
To those whose tastes prefer ones underage
For sick sense of fun

She’s told back home no one’s missed her absence
She does not believe in their evidence
But bows to their might
Forced to do things against her conscience
Knowing what they do to those called nuisance
Flees into the night

Thunder rolls, storm clouds brew:
It was the sound of His measure of her trouble
It was the sound of His dread for her plight

Bloodied to a near pulp from being beat
In deepest fear of the oncoming feet
It was much too near
Oblivious to the filthy concrete
She lays prostrate in the dark on the street
It’s all she can hear

Brought to this new land for a tidy sum
From a land she never asked to leave from
She was their plaything
Smelling of cocaine, and cheap stale rum
She lays there waiting for death to come
She hears them calling

Lightning strikes, raindrops pelt:
It was the sound as His anger mounts
It was the sound of His tears falling

Glass grinds into her already raw shin
The pain raises a moan from deep within
They hear her outcry
A tear is slowly sliding down her chin
As they plunder through her most tender skin
Knives do not ask why

As each breath she takes become more shallow
Smiling, she knows she won’t see tomorrow
Her end has begun
She’s raised from the filth in which she wallows
A shining light eases her deep sorrow
At last she sees sun

Dew drops, Sun rises:
It was the sound as His arms open
It was the sound of His words of welcome

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dVerse ~ Poets Pub | OpenLinkNight : Week 93

And Yet I Know…

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I smile as flowers start to grow
But yet I know
The season holds bittersweet sting
Every spring
The air hints warm, yet brings scant bliss
It’s you I miss
These moments when I go through this
This woe is never long to last
And joy of longer days come fast
But yet I know, every spring, it’s you I miss

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Welcome to the Oviellejo

The Oviellejo is an Old Spanish verse form (derived from ovillo, a ball of yarn). A stanza consists of 10 lines, with a rhyme scheme of AABBCCCDDC. The second line of each rhyme scheme, Line 2,4,6, is short line of up to 5 syllables. The last line is a “redondilla,” a “little round” that collects all three of the short lines.

Open Link Night ~ 91

‘Till Next Time

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Each morning I wake up begins with a stare
An urge to see who’ll be staring back at me
Life’s hectic, I’m moving, yet going nowhere
Adrift in life’s ocean, yet so lost at sea
My jammed nerves so frayed to the point of threadbare
Dark circles don’t lie to the mirror I see
I usually manage, to give all my best
The effect of make-up hiding lack of rest

Most days, I can get by, with little fanfare
I’m trying to live past the title of wife
But some morns, like this one, just too hard bear
The last place one think I’d go, to release strife
I’m gallantry trying to right the unfair
When breathing without you, just cuts like a knife
I fall to my knees; bowing my head in prayer
So strong in the love that came so late to life

Sweet serenity falls down on me in there
And I stand now slowly, still with upturned palms
Your presence surrounds, like church bells in the air
Its notes resonating; yes I’ve found my calm
My favorite music, only I can hear
Alone at your crypt I am relieved of fears
I leave and the sun finds me through clouds above
A kiss to the heavens “’till next my love”

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Today’s form is technically three forms into one poem. Welcome to the Sicliano, Romagnulo and Toscano types of the Strambotto.

dVerse ~ Poets Pub | OpenLinkNight ~ Week 84

At All

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I go through the motions, put a smile on my face
Oh I’m just fine to those who call
Only one could pull me from this dark space
But you’re gone,
So I don’t care at all

Every time I think I’m doing better
The pain holds me in tighter thrall
And I know you’d hate that I’m like this
But you’re gone,
And I don’t care at all

I know I should be better off than I am
But I also know I just don’t give a damn

When it’s all about “Tis the season”
I still hang garland from doors and walls
I once loved the holidays without reason
But you’re gone,
So I don’t care at all

El Sol churns out yet another day,
The flowers bloom, then leaves fall
Luna glows oh so marvelous they say
But you’re gone,
And I don’t care at all
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dVerse ~ Poets Pub | OpenLinkNight – Week 76 – Holiday Edition

Arlington

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I walk the rows of the garden
Whispering voices the only sound
Passing by the stark white blooms
Rising from the hallowed ground

And I gaze upon all the blossoms
Row upon row to infinity unknown
Fingers lightly touch this newest bloom
Here in the garden, garden of stone

Each bloom marking lives young and old
Lives that eventually have stilled
Some blooms have seen many an age
Some are as fresh this grave just tilled

A flag waves softly in the wind
Today at half-mast flown
Standing for the one who no longer can
Here in the garden, garden of stone

Scattered about these many blooms
Are others who are here like me
Honoring their own seeds fallen
Into these blooms for eternity

Hand slanted to brow, we are all together
Hand held over heart, yet each all alone
In laughter and tears and memories
Here in the garden, garden of stone

For they are children far too short
To appreciate their own youth
Their spirits grow old far too fast
To live and die with that cold truth

Thus mourning comes, as sure as dawn
In the 21 guns of honor shone
For we who are left behind still grieve
Here in the garden, garden of stone

Arlington Memorial Day

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dVerse ~ Poets Pub | OpenLinkNight Week 69

30/30 – 24 | Shay

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Shay slowly looked over to the empty side of the bed and arose softly. His spirit was still there, even if his body would no longer be. Very gingerly she pulled the pillow from his side of the bed towards her, as is trying not to disturb the person whose head still lay upon it.

She wrapped her arms around it tight, inhaled the lingering scent of his body still trapped in it and began to slowly rock. She still could not cry.

That worried her.

She knew it was coming. She felt it building up within her. It felt like being trapped on a shore watching the tsunami of all tsunamis come towards her. There was nothing to protect her from the oncoming devastation of it. Above all she knew when it hit, it would be ugly and there wasn’t a damn she could do about it even if she wanted to.

This was how Reese found her an hour later. Slowly rocking on the bed, holding on to the pillow with her husband’s scent for dear life. Reese closed the door gently behind her and watched her. What the hell is wrong with me!? She thought to herself, suddenly overcome with envy. My best friend is in PAIN, and I’m feeling envious? But she knew why.

Twenty-seven years.

Twenty-seven years Shay and Carl had been together. They had met in college. They were joined in spirit long before they were joined as a couple. Older, wiser people saw it, predicted it. Shay, Carl, Reese and all the rest of the younger generation who hadn’t lived long enough to know, were bemused by the elders prediction of longevity. Still, even their friends could see there was something in the way they related to each other that was special. Ten years into it, watching all their friends drop in and out of relationships, Shay and Carl started to believe. In their fifteenth year, they finally believed enough to get married themselves. Twenty-seven years, eight months and sixteen days, Shay told her yesterday.

Reese knew why she was envious. Deep down she wished that someone had loved her enough to be in the pain Shay is now. This level of sorrow could only have come from reciprocal level of love. Having been her best friend for the past thirty-three years, Reese was among very few people who knew just how deep the well of love between Shay and Carl. For Reese, losing Carl was only like losing your favorite brother. Shay lost so much more. Reese’s heart went out to her.

Shay held out her hand, but didn’t look at Reese or stop rocking. Reese sat beside her best friend, holding the offered hand. Reese knew Shay knew it was she. Very few people would dare just come into her bedroom. Turning to face her best friend, Shay couldn’t help but smile at the look of concern on Reese’s face.

Shay squeezed Reese’s hand, “It’s coming, but I’ll be all right.”

For a morning that started out dreary, the afternoon sun was more than apologizing for it. Ben watched her as she stood at the patio doors watching the autumn rays bounce off the water in the pool. Condolences are the last things she wanted right now, and she’s being gracious to everyone who comes to her, but she’s not there. The music from the party going on was physically only ten or so feet behind her.

Emotionally, it was worlds away from that room.

She honored Carl’s wishes with the party as she had with the service. It may not have been as short as he’d have preferred, but it was fun! Who else but Shay or Carl could turn a memorial into a roast!

Ben stood next to Shay at the patio doors and started humming the melody of the highly inappropriate song that was Carl and Shay’s wedding march . She nearly choked, as much from laughing at the sudden memory, as from Ben’s acute timing to her thoughts. The only thing funnier than the memorial had to be their wedding. That alone brought a faint, but fond smile to her face. It was nice to see an honest smile on her face again. It had been a while.

Shay half smiled, taking some comfort in his being near. They’ve been good friends for about twelve years now. Somehow, he made it to be one of the few people she called her “2am friends”. The type of friend you could call at 2am for anything without a second thought. At first Ben thought she was just being polite to him as Carl’s new friend. As time passed, it was Shay who received the first phone call in the middle of the night when his own mother passed three years ago and the true meaning of the phrase hit home. He hadn’t even called his girlfriend at the time until two days later. Not surprisingly she was soon his ex.

Ben lifted Shay’s chin up, the honest smile from a moment ago already fleeting into the plastic smile she had been using for the past few days. Damn, gone already! Shay shrugged, her heart gone from the room again. The only clue he had that she was still aware of his presence was her hand on his arm. They both stared out into the backyard, their separate thoughts anywhere but there.

A sharp pain in his arm brought him back to the moment. Shay was thanking a woman he didn’t know, but the pressure of her fingers in his arm increased. It dawned on him that the pressure had been increasing for the past few minutes. It was only now to the point of causing pain that he noticed it. He called her name gently as the woman walked away. The expression on her face as she turned to him that got his full attention. It was the complete lack of expression in her eyes to be exact as the pain in his arm increased more.

Someone else came up to her and she was responding. Shay was reacting completely by route. It was amazing to watch. Ben was probably the only person in the room that knew the extent of Shay’s emotional state at that moment and realized the only thing keeping her going was the death grip on his arm. He could feel his arm starting to go numb where she gripped. Shay was literally drawing strength from him and he knew the moment she stopped, he would lose her.

It was finally the stiffness in Shay’s own fingers that brought her attention to grip she had on Ben’s arm. She wasn’t even aware she had touched him, let alone held on long enough to cramp her own fingers. It had to be hurting him, but he wasn’t saying anything. Shay opened her mouth wanting to speak, to apologize, but nothing was coming from her. Ben, who had been speaking with someone on the other side of him, turned to her quickly when she released his arm.

Ben quickly grabbed her hand trying to get her to grip his arm again. It was too late.
Shay was suddenly aware of all the music, all the people, all the – everything, around her and the room spun. The last thing she heard was Ben calling her name, catching her before she could hit the floor.

30/30 – 14 | Precipice

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She stands at the precipice.

The dark blue of the ocean stretches out before her, so calm and deep.  The first whispers of the breaking dawn, in the far off horizon. Even the Baracelanra wind, usually brisk this early in the season of Karisnaan, is gentle on the many cuts and and wounds that mark her.

Far off sounds, hidden in the early morning mists of the Asiv forest, loomed nearer.

She couldn’t decide which was worse.

The nightly terrors of the forest, of which she had never encountered before this waning night, the known dangers of the same untamed, dense forest in the daylight, or the far off sounds which she knew better than her own heartbeat. The heartbeat only now beginning to ease to normal levels.

She breaths deeply of the air, heavily scented of the Marlesh blooms native to the nearby mountains.  Even in the near dark, the presence of the Lanig could be felt.

For centuries, her people had attempted to cross over the near razor sharp edges of the mountain; all who tried have died in the attempt.

For centuries, her people had attempted to pass through the mountain; all who tried have  died in the attempt.

For centuries, her people attempted to till the land at the foot of the mountain; all flora and vegetation except the Marlesh died in the attempt.

For centuries, her people have since learned that the Lanig will not be crossed over, passed through or tilled on.  Yet, the Marlesh thrives.

She listens again to the sounds, breaking the quiet of the dawn.  She has time yet to enjoy this view, and slowly, painfully lowers her achinng body to sit on the still dew damp grass of the precipice.  Her feet mere inches from the sheer drop to the ocean below.

She had been born on this precipice.  She had frightened her family to no end during her early youth, with her constant wandering to this place.  At least until she grew older and they were certain she would not go over its steep edge.    Here in the Second Coming of her Etol N’gavet she still cannot fathom her attraction to this place.  Like the Lanig – it just is so.

The once far off terrors of sound are now fully upon her and she slowly rises to face its source.

No words are spoken between them.

The time for words had long since passed, when she tore through the horrors of the Asiv itself in her attempt to escape the inevitable.  The expressions exchanged between them however spoke volumes.

Submit!
Never!
What choice do you have?!

She glanced at her surrounds.  The ocean, an unnaturally brilliant blue in the rising sun of this new day, is to the right of her.  The Lanig, to her left with it beautiful flowers and fierce jagged edges, glinted in the sunlight. The Asiv behind her? She had barley survived her flight through it is trying to reach this precipice.  She knew she would not make it to the terrors of the forest this time, let alone through it again.  And finally, that which she could not escape, unabashedly enjoying this moment of triumph, waiting patiently to claim her.

What choice did she have? The alternative was equally final and eternal as far as she was concerned.

Sighing deeply, resignedly, she feels her soul depart from her body as she takes the final step towards her fate…

..And leaps.

She relishes in the screams of frustration coming from above her as she sails through the air to the rocks and ocean below.

She couldn’t help but smile.

It was a beautiful place to be born.

And a beautiful place to die.

30/30 – 13 | Rule

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The Morgue Makers took over two blocks of Hellraiser territory and are finally seeing a profit in the couriers. It usually takes about two months to see steady profits in the trade, but we managed to pull it off in just over a month.  Little Frankie’s personal cut was over $300 and Frankie is the laziest of our runners. Britch, as Brian is called in the organization, raised an eyebrow when told of Frankie’s take. That meant over $3000 of product passed through kid’s hands that month. Brian shrugged it off as part of the business norm, but when he looked at me, I knew.

Kids.

Frankie’s clients were middle school kids. It was fucked-up and we knew it, but that is the ugly part of the game.  Fuck, it’s how he and I both started out.  Who the hell would’ve guessed two snot-nosed MFers like Britch and I be running the damn show years later? But here we were doing just that and as long as our rules were followed every thing was copacetic.

All organization have their overall commandments. In addition, warlords will have commandments unique to their rule and Britch had his:  you do not deal to anyone 12 years of age and under. Twelve being the unofficial biblical age of accountability for our sins. But that’s Brian, pulling arcane shit like that in the midst of a business like ours.Eventually everything evened out to normal profit levels, but it was hardest on some of the younger runners who lost some serious profit in the beginning.  They learned to work around it, because we all knew anyone caught doing so was going to pay a a nasty price in warning for the first offense and worse for the second.  Anyone who doubted Britch’s rule on that just had to be reminded of one thing…

Mike Bennet.

Britch occasionally sets-up his own stings to keep his people in check. Mike was busted once, had his arm broken, lost a month of runs and warned not to ever do it again.  The asshole was busted again a week after getting his runs back. Britch called a liberty meeting in the back alley behind Kelsey’s restaurant.  Liberty meetings meant you were at liberty to miss the meeting at your own risk.  In other words don’t fucking miss it.

In front of the entire Morguer assembly, Britch called forth Mike and questioned him on his activities.  Of course, Mike denied doing it.  Britch brought forth a video camera and showed it to Mike. He still denied it.  Finally, Britch called in the kid he dealt to who turned out to be one of the Morgue Mama’s son.  After paying the shorty $100 bucks for his service, Britch had Eddie Long, who at thirteen was the most junior person in both groups, was allowed escort the kid home while his mama stayed for liberty.  Then Britch had Mike gagged and tied to a chair.

Britch explained once again to everyone present that no one is to ever, ever deal to anyone under twelve. If you were not sure of your client’s age, don’t fucking sell it to them.  Mike had sold crank to a ten year old, who looked younger.  It was a personal thing with Brian and he did not give a shit if anyone else didn’t like it.  He was Warlord, that was his law and it would be followed or else.  When he reached the word, “else” he was standing directly in front of Mike and held out his hand to me. I gave him the cellophane and watched along with everyone else as Britch simply held the straw and the powder to Mike’s nose.

Mike was gagged so that he could only breathe through his nose.  When he tried turning his head, Britch called Jacks to hold him still. Then he had Tagger hold a straight razor to Mike’s throat.  Every Warlord needs a stone cold killer and Tagger was ours.  He would kill on command for Britch and Mike knew it.

Mike was going to die, it was his choice how.

So he chose.

The disappointment in Tagger’s face was as clear as the fleeting pleasure on Mike’s face as the gag was removed. Before long, the pleasure of the drug was quickly replaced by the demands of that much pure product on the human body.  At least one Morgue Mama lost it as we watched Mike go into seizure, but none of us were crazy enough to leave. Britch stood behind the newly lifeless Mike and looked each Morguer in the face with one final order for the group: to not make him have to do that to anyone else for that reason.

What really made it hit home for the group was we all knew that Brian actually liked Bennet.  We had hung out a lot when we weren’t conducting Morgue Maker business, but a Warlord can allow no one to blatantly disrespect his rule.

No one.

That was the last time Britch had to do such personally to make his point.

It was enough.

30/30 – 10 | Picture

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He stares at the spot on the wall.

All around it, empty geometric shapes, where the sun had faded the wallpaper, marked where photos, plaques and knick-knacks once were.

He stares at the spot on the wall.

Somewhere subconsciously, he acknowledges movement around him as the remaining odds and ends of their life are carted out of the house. He knows he should be helping; doing something constructive. Hell, doing anything other than what he was doing at the moment.

He stares at the spot on the wall.

His sister, passing by the doorway at the time, thought she may have seen it, but the now familiar melancholy that had become his normal expression of late was back in place so fast she was sure she was mistaken. She let him have a quiet moment alone and walked away.

He stares at the spot on the wall.

When she returned twenty minutes later, he still had not moved. She entered the room and stood next to him as he stared at the spot on the wall or more precisely at the sole remaining picture on any wall in the house.

The framed oil landscape, not more than a few inches square, was in that exact spot when he and his wife first moved into the house. He thought it was the most hideous thing paint was ever wasted on. She, of course, loved it. She joked about it being removed over her dead body. In the beginning he felt she kept it just to spite him. After a while it became just a part of the décor. They occasionally forgot neither had purchased it in the first place when asked about it. Since both liked the wallpaper that was there when they moved it, neither had touched the walls in five years. It dawned on him that it was highly possible that neither of them had ever touched the painting except to dust around it.

His sister shook her head in confusion and made a move to take it down. He grabbed her by the shoulder, a little more forcefully than he intended. It all showed in his expression as she backed away from it.

She watched as he gently took the painting down. He felt something unexpected on the back of it, turned it over and burst out first in laughter, then in quiet tears. He peeled the yellow paper from the back of it before handing the painting to her. She returned the picture to its spot on the wall. Let the new owners decide. With a long deep sigh, he handed her the note he had removed from the painting.

I had better be so dead if you’re taking this down babe! read the Post-It Note.

She smiled a bittersweet smile; it was so like her sister-in-law to leave such a note.

She gestured towards the front door and he nodded, picking up the box with the last of the belongings as they stepped out. For the minutest span of time it felt like the very first time they opened the door as the new homeowners and the first thing he saw was the painting on the wall. He took one final sad look around, the painting being the last thing he saw before closing the door and stepping over the yellow and black tape of the police line.
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