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
23rd May 2014 8:59pm
23rd May 2014 8:59pm
The Day Before Tomorrow
Today I husband hope--
sugar in a time of war.
It's past noon and,
for those scoring at home,
trusting yesterday's cream in today's coffee
counts as my ranking test of faith.
I am (de?)composing in bed,
un-showered and unshaven,
an old warm-up suit my one concession
to burning daylight.
The day marches on
less and less in the shadow
of Parkland Hospital.
"Euthymia trumps relapse."
Perhaps I will write tomorrow,
less self-indulgently,
with more vigorous hope.
Perhaps I will feel less
like a...
sugar in a time of war.
It's past noon and,
for those scoring at home,
trusting yesterday's cream in today's coffee
counts as my ranking test of faith.
I am (de?)composing in bed,
un-showered and unshaven,
an old warm-up suit my one concession
to burning daylight.
The day marches on
less and less in the shadow
of Parkland Hospital.
"Euthymia trumps relapse."
Perhaps I will write tomorrow,
less self-indulgently,
with more vigorous hope.
Perhaps I will feel less
like a...
596 reads
1 Comment
SELF POEM
Published
21st May 2014 00:21am
21st May 2014 00:21am
Percy Lee
Snatched up with his good left arm,
I fluttered with fear.
That he suffered was plain enough.
But "stroke" was beyond my grasp.
To my child's mind, Percy Lee
was a man of two halves,
sewn straight down the middle
by a cruel seamstress.
I learned to leave my left eye unfocused
for, on his left side, he was the grandfather
any child would wish for.
But he was not half a man,
and the whole of him frightened me.
As if formed by wax, the right side of his face...
I fluttered with fear.
That he suffered was plain enough.
But "stroke" was beyond my grasp.
To my child's mind, Percy Lee
was a man of two halves,
sewn straight down the middle
by a cruel seamstress.
I learned to leave my left eye unfocused
for, on his left side, he was the grandfather
any child would wish for.
But he was not half a man,
and the whole of him frightened me.
As if formed by wax, the right side of his face...
594 reads
2 Comments
SELF POEM
Published
16th May 2014 4:38pm
16th May 2014 4:38pm
Note To Self
It's a peculiar knife you've wielded.
You've come at a thousand wrongs
done you.
But while you've whittled at the hurts,
what of the harms
you've done?
You've abraded the initials
carved into your trunk.
Yet you've left untouched
the countless leaves shading
your transgressions.
When the target
is the unwept wounds you've made
where is your righteous aim?
You've come at a thousand wrongs
done you.
But while you've whittled at the hurts,
what of the harms
you've done?
You've abraded the initials
carved into your trunk.
Yet you've left untouched
the countless leaves shading
your transgressions.
When the target
is the unwept wounds you've made
where is your righteous aim?
584 reads
2 Comments
SELF POEM
Published
9th May 2014 11:49pm
9th May 2014 11:49pm
Mist
version 2
Heading to her room I pass
a petrified forest of sickly limbs,
air heavy with sleep and solvents.
"Will Taylor be coming?", mother asks.
"Yes," I confirm. Again.
"I don't remember much. Don't try to."
My childhood is among those things she does not recall. Or try to.
The loss is mine. There are words I would like to say, but to whom, bones I would like to pick, but with whom.
As I search her face for a face from my past, her eyes catch mine.
"Will Taylor be...
Heading to her room I pass
a petrified forest of sickly limbs,
air heavy with sleep and solvents.
"Will Taylor be coming?", mother asks.
"Yes," I confirm. Again.
"I don't remember much. Don't try to."
My childhood is among those things she does not recall. Or try to.
The loss is mine. There are words I would like to say, but to whom, bones I would like to pick, but with whom.
As I search her face for a face from my past, her eyes catch mine.
"Will Taylor be...
662 reads
0 Comments
SELF POEM
Published
7th May 2014 9:08pm
7th May 2014 9:08pm
Faith (new version of Orbit of Disorder)
New Version
Faith
How I find myself aboard the Soyuz
is the least of my questions. In any
case,
all the answers are scripted in Cyrillic.
From this low earth orbit I can see everything
and nothing. The earth appears an
ornament,
without any sign of swarming souls.
Gravity binds me to the earth, which sums up
my faith. I do not feel its soundless
embrace.
I offer no prayers to compel its grip.
The reentry module is my tacit
salvation.
Is it a question of pushing buttons
in...
Faith
How I find myself aboard the Soyuz
is the least of my questions. In any
case,
all the answers are scripted in Cyrillic.
From this low earth orbit I can see everything
and nothing. The earth appears an
ornament,
without any sign of swarming souls.
Gravity binds me to the earth, which sums up
my faith. I do not feel its soundless
embrace.
I offer no prayers to compel its grip.
The reentry module is my tacit
salvation.
Is it a question of pushing buttons
in...
561 reads
0 Comments
SELF POEM
Published
22nd Apr 2014 10:42pm
22nd Apr 2014 10:42pm
Forgetfulness
the full week passes
before memory's low tide
just half-remembered
before memory's low tide
just half-remembered
574 reads
1 Comment
SELF POEM
Published
31st Mar 2014 1:17am
31st Mar 2014 1:17am
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.
In truth, I asked for nothing,
beckoning across the Acheron.
Still, there was no promise in your eyes
that nothing was the only thing in store.
So I wait confirmation
to reach me from that eidolic shore.
Honor my body like a temple, while
the devil resides in the details.
when they pulled me ashen from your arms.
I did not ask to be delivered
from the endless evening to the dawn.
In truth, I asked for nothing,
beckoning across the Acheron.
Still, there was no promise in your eyes
that nothing was the only thing in store.
So I wait confirmation
to reach me from that eidolic shore.
Honor my body like a temple, while
the devil resides in the details.
551 reads
1 Comment
OBSERVATIONAL POEM
Published
22nd Mar 2014 8:03pm
22nd Mar 2014 8:03pm
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.
Yet, 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, with 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...
I'd known him for many years, yet
the pale mortician's skill had created doubt.
Yet, 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, with 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...
627 reads
0 Comments
SELF POEM
Published
16th Mar 2014 9:45pm
16th Mar 2014 9:45pm
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 reassembly of these dusky...
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 reassembly of these dusky...
691 reads
4 Comments
SELF POEM
Published
12th Mar 2014 4:50pm
12th Mar 2014 4:50pm
Shadow House
Most current version:
_________________
Outwardly passable, this house
has known better years—
seen more visitors
and much fairer weather.
The Cimmerian presence
is pernicious. Even pestilential.
It waits in the caliginous corridor
on the upper floor. The room
where they do the ECT.
Ashen hues at hallway's end
on architectural sconces long
in disrepair—I stare down
the length of that hall. Sight
narrows. My pupils constrict.
From here, all warnings forgotten,
all is dark except for the...
_________________
Outwardly passable, this house
has known better years—
seen more visitors
and much fairer weather.
The Cimmerian presence
is pernicious. Even pestilential.
It waits in the caliginous corridor
on the upper floor. The room
where they do the ECT.
Ashen hues at hallway's end
on architectural sconces long
in disrepair—I stare down
the length of that hall. Sight
narrows. My pupils constrict.
From here, all warnings forgotten,
all is dark except for the...
459 reads
0 Comments
OBSERVATIONAL POEM
Published
10th Mar 2014 10:15pm
10th Mar 2014 10:15pm
In-Box
Mail and magazines,
marked "URGENT,"
trying to impress.
Fat chance.
Gatecrashers,
the lot of them
uninvited, unexamined.
Coasters for coffee.
The stack grows, a
ponderous beanstalk, down which
a fearsome giant descends.
Like your texts.
Shrill alerts, a
Cacophony in Blue,
rock the foundation.
The Sound of Muzak.
Pocket vibrates.
Smartphone against thigh.
A seismograph of guilt,
registering on the Richter Scale.
Trounced by notice alone,
text...
marked "URGENT,"
trying to impress.
Fat chance.
Gatecrashers,
the lot of them
uninvited, unexamined.
Coasters for coffee.
The stack grows, a
ponderous beanstalk, down which
a fearsome giant descends.
Like your texts.
Shrill alerts, a
Cacophony in Blue,
rock the foundation.
The Sound of Muzak.
Pocket vibrates.
Smartphone against thigh.
A seismograph of guilt,
registering on the Richter Scale.
Trounced by notice alone,
text...
612 reads
1 Comment
OBSERVATIONAL POEM
Published
7th Mar 2014 9:49pm
7th Mar 2014 9:49pm
The Riders of Contagion
Last words bled from his mouth.
"See she's rubbed and fed."
Jake, an admirable horseman,
died a passable preacher.
Living in tiny clusters, church
members were stitched together
by needle thin men who sold
bibles and hymnals on commission.
Francis Asbury and Thomas Coke
shared a vision of traveling clergymen
spreading the Word by horseback,
exhorted in fields, barns and frontier homes.
The bishops matched circuits to riders:
"Does he know and keep our rules? ...
"See she's rubbed and fed."
Jake, an admirable horseman,
died a passable preacher.
Living in tiny clusters, church
members were stitched together
by needle thin men who sold
bibles and hymnals on commission.
Francis Asbury and Thomas Coke
shared a vision of traveling clergymen
spreading the Word by horseback,
exhorted in fields, barns and frontier homes.
The bishops matched circuits to riders:
"Does he know and keep our rules? ...
543 reads
0 Comments
DU Poetry : Submissions by dfwtinman
