This is a house of lies
I guess that makes me liar-in-chief
Chief Supporter of Delusions
Chief Enabler of Foolishness
Chief Promoter of Farces and Falsehood
Can I put that on a resume?
Sir, do you have mess that needs hiding?
A jalopy that needs a selling?
Then, I’m your gal.
At least until you want the Truth
Ain’t seen her sorry face around here in years
Not sure I’d even recognize her.
Yell, if you see her coming
Tell her I’m in the house of lies
The one built of walls with no footholds.
But like a rock face in the sun
The cracks hold promise:
Maybe Truth is a climber
She woke up to find her happily ever after had morphed;
This version had hard edges and harsh fluorescent lights.
Like a cruel joke where someone rips the pillow from beneath your head,
Twas a rude awakening, indeed.
Each morning, she recalls anew the series of unfortunate decisions:
She never planned on forever but somehow fell head first into this cesspool of mediocrity.
She gave up on feeling celebrated, regal, and cherished,
Sold the dream for a one-way ticket out of the present.
Fear looks a lot like bravery when you’re fiending for a change.
Now that brave face stares down a road of unending strife;
Those brave hands wring resentment from the party clothes that mask her pain.
And each day ends with tear-spiked tea and little less of her soul.
Meet me in Montauk.
No, I’ve never been
But I hear it’s where you go
to pick up pieces of yourself,
Pieces of a life once dreamed
Where you go to fish memories
from the ocean of time
And stitch them together like a patchwork quilt
A soggy patchwork,
I don’t know if the sun shines eternal or what shoes you should wear
Just that I need you to catch the dreams
that have slipped through my fingers,
through these sieves for pockets,
and left a trail of dust in my wake
A trail of half-living, easily blown into the abyss of history
The ethereal evidence of my consciousness
Lost to futile strife for a spotless mind.
Memory-fisher, Dream-catcher, Consciousness-finder:
Please, meet me in Montauk.
(Photo credit: Wolfgang Wander)
Wanna do something
I think I’ve forgotten what that means
in this time of sickly comfort
and mobile fortresses.
I’m craving something
that can get my
heart pounding, blood rushing
to oxygen-hungry grey matter
and oxygen-deprived red,
something to jolt me
out of this sober stupor,
something that can seed a
or a “Can you believe…?”
Something to sustain me after
the mind is mush and limbs are listless.
What do restless people do?
Can I be reckless with you?
I am woefully behind on my NaPoWriMo posts and am trying to catch up but I liked today’s prompt and was already working on something that would fit.
Thrust back into the concrete jungle
my nerves are inundated by the cult of busy.
It all seems so unnecessary and
everything is strangely offensive.
How long before it all feels familiar again?
How long before I feel a part of the machinery
and apart from my place of origin?
In this moment, that connection feels urgent
and nourishing, a matter of life and death.
But over and over again, the cord must be cut.
Over and over again, farewells must be dispensed:
one, then two, then all at once they spill
from the bottle of my heart.
Goodbye my love, adieu.
This poem is meant for NaPoWriMo Day 25. I wrote it for a friend’s wedding which took place yesterday!
When first I beheld the happy couple
I was coming off a roller coaster,
Still unsure of my bearings.
But in their cocoon of loveliness,
There was a spark, a hope, a promise
That the world would steady itself
If not for me, then surely for these two
And steady it did.
On steadied ground, they began their dance
And I’ve been in the audience
As they’ve swayed under starry skies,
Through crowd-filled streets,
In hotel lobbies and with the sea lapping at their feet.
They seemed to breeze past those awkward first steps
Those frenzied moments when fear throws everything off-kilter:
Fear of loss, even before gain; fright even before there is a stage.
They breezed past fear of sore toes right to the sweet spot
Where the dance is everything:
Where the steps come naturally,
Really though, there are no steps – just grooving
There is no audience – just friends,
No spotlights – just highlights,
And no unholy scorecards – just time spent in bliss.
Just the joy of moving in harmony
Through syncopated beats
To Terry Fox Runs;
Through soca and swing
To Canada’s east coast;
Through sweet surprises by waterfalls
To all of us here today.
On this very special day, my hope for you is this:
That you’ll make your own music;
That you’ll carry each other’s hopes and dreams
On the rhythm of your heartbeats;
That you’ll never stop dancing,
Better yet, dance like there’s no tomorrow.