When It’s Time…

When the love dies
there’s this miasma which burns
from a broken heart – 
The grief manifests itself in many
forms & fashions unbecoming, yet
all the while, the ghost hovers…
haunting us day & night, our every move like a ligature bound tight with a mighty grip – 

At first we live crippled in the various
stages of psychological babble, yet in fact, our existence is numb, lost in limbo we accept this purgatory before the next transition as wounds begin to fester, bleed, & eventually begin to scab over.

However, I can take things a step further…
Deeper I fall & down the rabbit hole I go –

I lick my wounds and ponder…ruminate
spinning, 
searching for answers
over & over, 
aimlessly, 
a vicious cycle –
Who?
How?
Why?
When?
Where?
WHERE does the love go to die?

I allow myself a ridiculous amount
of time to wallow in this
silent triage, embraced by the delicious melancholy & 
exquisite torture I so desire –
In darkness I pick at the already picked over scabs, then whether it be from shear exhaustion or the sounds of solace I discover in the silence
I can sleep.

With a start, I’m awakened at daybreak from this “love death coma”
aphonia afflicted & drunk from sleep
I feel somewhat bound
and gagged by a strange lump
stuck in my craw – bitter & sour, its taste reminds me of spoiled milk – 

I’m rendered to tears as I attempt
to rid this toxin – choking, coughing up years of self-inflicted memories, manipulation, past lives, & broken promises – 

I’m left breathless & struggle to
come up for air, yet this is the time…this is my time to exorcise the ghosts – time to purge, cleanse, & live open to possibility & opportunity to love again.

 sleep

Fruitless

He wanted her
So he took her – willingly
She gave herself to him fully
Blind, deaf, & dumb –  ignorant to
Warnings, she denied him nothing 
Since that fateful day she held out
Her hand & fed the paper tiger
Setting the precedence, manipulated
By the game he knew how to play
All too well.

In time, life choices prove detriment
Fueled to inflict pain & chaos,
He did as he pleased, while she bore
Shackles, a prisoner of domestic war
Morphed into a shell of someone else
Morphed into existence non-human.

She was his, but not to love
She was property, to be used
Bruised, squeezed, eaten alive
He feasted on her skin, flesh, & core
Masticating each bit, he left behind
Only seeds, picked out from the soul
The passion fruit core, eventually
Even the seeds he chewed & spit out.

With belly full, his expressionless eyes
Scan the quiet aftermath
Methodically, as if in familiarity,
He gathered used, sticky utensils,
Leftover scraps & debris tossed 
Into the sink – then, just as the whir of
The garbage disposal filled the air &
Began to inhale refuse, he peered in…
As if to make sure all was cleansed, 
Free from DNA contamination, free
from all tangible existence, free…
From her, he finally exits the room
Satisfied, sans remorse, yet he is sadly
Mistaken…& far from ever being free.

Oblivious to spiritual life force,
A life source beholden of the core
Ingested earlier – her core – her life
Ethereal in every purpose & justified
Her truth reborn in karmic fashion 
Navigates his path of mortality as
Appropriately deemed, tis painful –
The truth hurts, so now it’s her turn
To force regurgitation guttural core
This, her payback – ultimate vendetta.

She wanted him
So she took him – as karma dictated
She gripped hard, unbeknownst to him
She owned him til the end, conquered 
Her soul reclaimed in spirit, validated
An existence fruitful, now can rest. 


 

Chasing Youth

Futile attempts fail to fool
The reflection in the mirror –
The regime remains, unwavering
In search for youth or fantasy – 
French toiletries, serums, &
Creme de corps lie scattered across 
the vanity in little boxes wrapped,
No…”swaddled” in tissue paper –  
Pretty packages declare, proclaim
Beauty, restoration, & renewal, so
We soak, scrub, slather, &
SPEND more monies on 
new emollients & elixirs 
Wrapped in perfumed promises
To mask the pricey ruse.

by MPP: 9/2017
Photo image: Edie Bouvier Beale (Maysles documentary, 1975)

Perception ~ Ode to a Panic Attack

This poem is dedicated to those who understand the struggles of living with anxiety & panic…you’re not alone.

b8db1-bc1gvcacmaerjodI began writing “Perception” a few years ago, revised it once, yet never truly finished it.  Well, for a variety of reasons,  I needed this poem to be done & gone!  So, I did a little more editing and have HOPEFULLY “purged” it here as cathartic relief.   The effects when going through anxiety & panic attacks are exhausting & can have a disastrous impact on the mind and body.  For some people, these episodes are often debilitating and difficult to control.  Anyone who has dealt with anxiety/panic knows exactly what I’m talking about.

 

Wildly nervous, unhinged with
Anxiety inescapable & surely obvious
Others who stare in curious observation
Of this crazy woman’s mania, but no…
At this moment,  I think they all see,
but they don’t, can’t see what I feel…
Self-conscious perception of
Reality exaggerated…

My mouth dry, as if gauze filled
Affected by self induced effects –
Words muffled, struggling, yet stuck
Fidget, picking my cuticles in a
Strangely hypnotic, self-soothing
Trance…I survey surroundings
In search for retreat, an
Escape, release…

Heart races – constricted in my chest
Breath shallow…such hard work to
Focus, to remember how to swallow –
Complete chaos, a freak show
Ridiculously on display, my internal
Combustion, a solitary meltdown
Invisible, exhausting…

 

MPP 2012

Destiny at Daybreak 

From slumber she wakes
With a start, yet oddly calm
Ready, as if planned
By dreams design this
Destiny, a long time coming –
Whispers call out her name
Softly, yet with yearning tones.
Sleep still in her eyes,
She rises from bed in lucid silence –
Even so, each movement
A prelude perfect –
Rhythmic in body & soul, &
Finally, she feels free.
Oh, the delicious reveal of
Daybreak, to bask in dewy
Color, a morning glorious –
Golden sunbeams cast a
Spectrum, a dusting of light
Perhaps Pixies & their delicate
Fingers appear to play, to
Brush away stray wisps of her
Blonde hair, a tousled muss
Across her face…free.

ELEGY FOR A MOUSEKETEER (tribute to Annette Funicello)

I wrote this the day she died in 2013…

 

I didn’t exist…not quite my era
when she smiled –
donning black felt mouse’s ears
black and white images, perfection
personified on Zenith television sets
around the world, as millions watched
dining on TV Dinners
adored in happy homes
this all American girl from
next door – a member of the kiddie club.

I didn’t exist…not quite yet
when she smiled at Frankie,
donning swimsuits on surfboards
colorful, sunny images where
dreamers & movie theaters
around the world & millions of
hopeful teens saw sweetness,
goodness admired, this girl next door
now a member of the boomer club.

I met her after school…and on Sunday evenings –
Together, smiling in the Magic Kingdom
as re-runs of black felt mouse’s ears
immortalized the epitome of
charming innocence, beach blanket fun, &
panorama-vision with colors which made my
Sony television set alive.
This  was a moment of design –
To be healthy,  hopeful, &
forever youthful,  albeit a momentary
fantasy…covered in pixie dust –
Years passed before news, diagnostics, &
the realization of this disease debacle, then
I too had become a member
of a club like no other, a club whose
membership roster continues
to grow like wildfire.

I couldn’t yet comprehend the pain
which lurked behind her smile while
donning leg braces in chairs with wheels –
black and white or color filled
her life on television sets
viewed by millions
confused by the disease, distraught these
boomers & future generations;
mouseketeer wanna-be’s unable to
identify with or relate to
members of the disabled club.

I feel…I think…I know her well these days –
as sisters & strangers with multiple scars
our badge of honor or initiation into the MS Club.
My smile now hides the pain
others can’t comprehend, but with bittersweet resilience, this smile holds the beauty & the power instilled within that of a MSketeer.

by MPP 6/2013 ~ edited 4/2017

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