Submissions by dfwtinman
POEMS AND SHORT STORIES
Poet Introduction
65 yo and I have taken up the pen (key pad) after a long hiatus. My focus in writing now is on having a clear intention and then realizing that intention.
SELF POEM
Published
3rd Dec 2022 8:48pm
3rd Dec 2022 8:48pm
Percy Lee
newest version
Percy Lee
As a small child, I was scared of many things, and damnably prone to crying. I had been crying one day, and Percy Lee could not stand to see me suffer.
He snatched me up with his good left arm.
I fluttered involuntarily with fear.
His suffering was plain enough,
but the full impact of his stroke
was beyond my child's grasp.
Percy Lee was a man with two halves,
sewn straight down the middle
by a cruel seamstress.
On his left side, he was the grandfather
any...
Percy Lee
As a small child, I was scared of many things, and damnably prone to crying. I had been crying one day, and Percy Lee could not stand to see me suffer.
He snatched me up with his good left arm.
I fluttered involuntarily with fear.
His suffering was plain enough,
but the full impact of his stroke
was beyond my child's grasp.
Percy Lee was a man with two halves,
sewn straight down the middle
by a cruel seamstress.
On his left side, he was the grandfather
any...
#kindness
#TimeHeals
#gratitude #emotions
#gratitude #emotions
134 reads
0 Comments
SELF POEM
Published
3rd Dec 2022 5:14pm
3rd Dec 2022 5:14pm
Time and Reminiscence
I've lain here for some time
trying to locate an old wound.
I cannot gauge its depth, nor
trace the jagged edges of its corruption.
Still, but for sepsis and fever
I would stand.
The failing sight of this mind's eye
holds out little hope for correction,
little hope for ablation of the growing
cataracts on my conscience.
But for sepsis and fever
I would kneel and pray for anamnesis,
for the...
trying to locate an old wound.
I cannot gauge its depth, nor
trace the jagged edges of its corruption.
Still, but for sepsis and fever
I would stand.
The failing sight of this mind's eye
holds out little hope for correction,
little hope for ablation of the growing
cataracts on my conscience.
But for sepsis and fever
I would kneel and pray for anamnesis,
for the...
#love
#TimeHeals
#emotions
234 reads
4 Comments
SELF POEM
Published
29th Nov 2022 6:53pm
29th Nov 2022 6:53pm
Electroconvulsive Therapy
newest version on top
Electroconvulsive Therapy
Spying exits, I contemplate my escape
as my wheelchair winds its way from
the ICU to the fifth floor psych ward.
I'm promised three meals a day,
served on trays that bear my name (a name ostensibly Top Secret on this floor).
Next comes the forced sharing of painful memories with other imperfect strangers.
A game played if we hope win our release.
Yet, there's no percentage in this slow attrition. So I go "All In" for the Gold Standard Treatment,...
Electroconvulsive Therapy
Spying exits, I contemplate my escape
as my wheelchair winds its way from
the ICU to the fifth floor psych ward.
I'm promised three meals a day,
served on trays that bear my name (a name ostensibly Top Secret on this floor).
Next comes the forced sharing of painful memories with other imperfect strangers.
A game played if we hope win our release.
Yet, there's no percentage in this slow attrition. So I go "All In" for the Gold Standard Treatment,...
#anxiety
#depression
#SelfHarm
#bipolar
#MentalHealth
306 reads
1 Comment
OBSERVATIONAL POEM
Published
9th Dec 2020 6:06pm
9th Dec 2020 6:06pm
Riders of Contagion
All over Appalachia bishops matched circuits to riders. "Does he know and keep our faith? "Do people cotton to his preaching?" Of most importance, "has he a good horse?"
Jake, a long time circuit rider, was an admirable horseman who died a passable preacher.
Jake's infectious smile helped carry his message. A half dozen weeks to complete the circuit, all he owned he carried in his saddle bags: a clean shirt, new bibles, and venison jerky.
Living in tiny clusters, Jake tended to church goers who were stitched together by needle thin riders who, like...
Jake, a long time circuit rider, was an admirable horseman who died a passable preacher.
Jake's infectious smile helped carry his message. A half dozen weeks to complete the circuit, all he owned he carried in his saddle bags: a clean shirt, new bibles, and venison jerky.
Living in tiny clusters, Jake tended to church goers who were stitched together by needle thin riders who, like...
#God
285 reads
2 Comments
OBSERVATIONAL POEM
Published
27th Nov 2020 8:07pm
27th Nov 2020 8:07pm
The Viewing
Didn't he part his hair on the left?"
I'd known him for many years, yet
the pale mortician's skill had created doubt.
The fact that he seemed to be
sleeping peacefully marked him for a corpse.
He never slept. Well, hardly ever.
A loop of 36 photos and 3 songs played
in a continuous time warp, both the
songs and the photos more than a decade old.
The two ballads I could understand, both sad
enough to suit the day, if not the dead man himself. But the hymn was definitely the mortuary's...
I'd known him for many years, yet
the pale mortician's skill had created doubt.
The fact that he seemed to be
sleeping peacefully marked him for a corpse.
He never slept. Well, hardly ever.
A loop of 36 photos and 3 songs played
in a continuous time warp, both the
songs and the photos more than a decade old.
The two ballads I could understand, both sad
enough to suit the day, if not the dead man himself. But the hymn was definitely the mortuary's...
#death
#separation
353 reads
3 Comments
DRUGS POEM
Published
12th Nov 2020 11:50pm
12th Nov 2020 11:50pm
message in a bottle
In a fetid BarcaLounger, he stubbed out an unfiltered cig, and took a long pull
from a short-necked bottle.
Each gulp warmed his windpipe,
as the amber-colored solvent
was taken up into his blood.
Worn toes of hand made, mud covered
Lucchese boots peeked above the bottle.
Loyal foot-soldiers in his battle with life.
Hard questions, that had been
chewing at the walls of his gut,
began to liquify and boil-up in his mind.
His eyes closed and the bottle slipped
from his nicotine-stained hands,
as...
from a short-necked bottle.
Each gulp warmed his windpipe,
as the amber-colored solvent
was taken up into his blood.
Worn toes of hand made, mud covered
Lucchese boots peeked above the bottle.
Loyal foot-soldiers in his battle with life.
Hard questions, that had been
chewing at the walls of his gut,
began to liquify and boil-up in his mind.
His eyes closed and the bottle slipped
from his nicotine-stained hands,
as...
#sadness
#loneliness
#heartbroken
#confusion
#despair
298 reads
0 Comments
UPBEAT INSPIRATIONAL POEM
Published
9th Oct 2020 9:13pm
9th Oct 2020 9:13pm
Finn
When fires and floods come and go,
each, in turn, driving news cycles,
as reporters jockey for the kill shot.
When politicians sharpen their polemics,
which, paradoxically, serve mainly to dull
the minds of their targeted audience.
When suddenly millions upon millions
know the meaning of "Covid-19," "N-95," "Remdesivir" or "social distancing."
When life offers up an over-large portion of the absurd, and the only sane response is to shrug and say, "It's 2020, what were you expecting?"
Well, as it turns out, a baby boy,...
each, in turn, driving news cycles,
as reporters jockey for the kill shot.
When politicians sharpen their polemics,
which, paradoxically, serve mainly to dull
the minds of their targeted audience.
When suddenly millions upon millions
know the meaning of "Covid-19," "N-95," "Remdesivir" or "social distancing."
When life offers up an over-large portion of the absurd, and the only sane response is to shrug and say, "It's 2020, what were you expecting?"
Well, as it turns out, a baby boy,...
#birth
287 reads
0 Comments
SELF POEM
Published
28th Jul 2020 8:53pm
28th Jul 2020 8:53pm
Madame Tussaud
It would take years for me to understand
what beauty lay inside my ill paternal grandfather.
After a series of transient ischemic attacks, or TIA's, a massive stroke
finally arrived, parting him down
the middle as if by a cruel craftsman.
I'm told I was damnably prone to crying. I had been crying one day when Percy picked me up in his one good arm.
His last breath saw him melting like some
Madame Tussaud waxwork.
But misshapen as he was, his love for me was whole and perfectly formed.
what beauty lay inside my ill paternal grandfather.
After a series of transient ischemic attacks, or TIA's, a massive stroke
finally arrived, parting him down
the middle as if by a cruel craftsman.
I'm told I was damnably prone to crying. I had been crying one day when Percy picked me up in his one good arm.
His last breath saw him melting like some
Madame Tussaud waxwork.
But misshapen as he was, his love for me was whole and perfectly formed.
#death
299 reads
0 Comments
SELF POEM
Published
5th Jul 2020 4:47pm
5th Jul 2020 4:47pm
The Undiscovered Country
Months since that stillborn morning
when they pulled me, ashen, from your arms.
I did not ask to be delivered
from the endless evening to the dawn.
If a list is made to place upon a scale,
will you refrain from fixing the outcome?
Upon the weighing, will you honor the result,
whether it be rainbows or rust?
If I close this chapter, and
lay my head in the Undiscovered Country,
will I...
when they pulled me, ashen, from your arms.
I did not ask to be delivered
from the endless evening to the dawn.
If a list is made to place upon a scale,
will you refrain from fixing the outcome?
Upon the weighing, will you honor the result,
whether it be rainbows or rust?
If I close this chapter, and
lay my head in the Undiscovered Country,
will I...
#suicide
#devil
409 reads
3 Comments
SELF POEM
Published
18th May 2020 7:23pm
18th May 2020 7:23pm
disremembering the dead
I have warm memories of my maternal grandfather.
Mother swears I don't.
"You're confusing old photos with reality."
Fondness. Fanciful, Mirth. Memories.
Lately, my memories do not answer
when called. They are tardy things.
Inconvenient. Incomplete. Transient. Torn.
Yet, why does mother insist so?
She has her own memories of her father.
Stoic. Steelworker. Widower. Weary.
I've no heart for this clash of memories.
So grandfather is no longer a fit topic. ...
Mother swears I don't.
"You're confusing old photos with reality."
Fondness. Fanciful, Mirth. Memories.
Lately, my memories do not answer
when called. They are tardy things.
Inconvenient. Incomplete. Transient. Torn.
Yet, why does mother insist so?
She has her own memories of her father.
Stoic. Steelworker. Widower. Weary.
I've no heart for this clash of memories.
So grandfather is no longer a fit topic. ...
#love
#family
#death #memories
#death #memories
348 reads
0 Comments
SELF POEM
Published
12th May 2020 8:47pm
12th May 2020 8:47pm
Pike County, Eastern Kentucky
On the day Maude was born,
a quicksilver fog pooled, the sun slow to rise.
Women tended to birthing wounds,
while coal-sooted men sat around the porch, swapping stories and moonshine.
Growing up, Maude often scrambled to the top of an east-facing hillside, peering crest to crest. Her daydreams more colorful there.
Maude lost two young brothers to typhoid. Then two sisters to flu. As she grew-up, men
hovered ‘round her like bees to a blossom.
Maude would become a schoolteacher and marry another, Percy...
a quicksilver fog pooled, the sun slow to rise.
Women tended to birthing wounds,
while coal-sooted men sat around the porch, swapping stories and moonshine.
Growing up, Maude often scrambled to the top of an east-facing hillside, peering crest to crest. Her daydreams more colorful there.
Maude lost two young brothers to typhoid. Then two sisters to flu. As she grew-up, men
hovered ‘round her like bees to a blossom.
Maude would become a schoolteacher and marry another, Percy...
#love
#historical
414 reads
4 Comments
LOVE POEM
Published
12th May 2020 4:10pm
12th May 2020 4:10pm
Treehouse Lost
I.
With small and trembling hands,
we climbed skyward
to our temple in the trees,
upheld by roots unseen.
We played while an amber sun
painted shadows on the leaves.
The sundown bell called out,
in mother tongue, "come home."
With shoulders squared,
we clenched our eyes and chose.
The bravest thing I'd ever done
was just a kiss.
II.
The paradise tree's at trail's end.
As it grew its heartwood formed.
This...
With small and trembling hands,
we climbed skyward
to our temple in the trees,
upheld by roots unseen.
We played while an amber sun
painted shadows on the leaves.
The sundown bell called out,
in mother tongue, "come home."
With shoulders squared,
we clenched our eyes and chose.
The bravest thing I'd ever done
was just a kiss.
II.
The paradise tree's at trail's end.
As it grew its heartwood formed.
This...
#love
#FirstLove
453 reads
2 Comments
DU Poetry : Submissions by dfwtinman
