Featured Poet: Eric Alder, winner of humorous poetry contest

One Stop Spotlights Eric "Bubba" Alder
 

Welcome to One Stop Poetry. Dustus here to introduce today's guest, Michigan blogger Eric Alder—winner of our Humorous Poetry Competition!

As you may recall back to when I hosted Week 22 of One Shot Wednesday, I introduced a Humorous Poetry Contest. Many brave poets submitted poems to be read on a future episode of The Arts Web Show —written, filmed, and edited by artistic blogger Richard North (aka Kseverny). Unfortunately, there can only be one winner, and for this contest Richard chose Eric Alder's narrative poem entitled A Fine Kettle of Fish. As a result, and in addition to providing the link to the video clip presenting a reading of A Fine Kettle of Fish by Eric Alder, I am pleased to both feature Eric and spotlight three of his excellent poems.

Eric "Bubba" Alder

About Eric (in his words)....

"I got started writing in a college Creative Writing class. I had to keep a daily journal and write something (anything) every day. I did the 'dear diary' thing at first, then started writing funny stories. As I learned more about them, I began trying other types of writing.  (I got an "A" in the class) ...I've always been a reader.  I first got into science-fiction—still my favorite genre. About ten years ago I decided I wanted to read more of the 'great books' of literature. Then, five years later I got into poetry, which opened up new creative vistas for me.... I started blogging in November 2007, on my now defunct Windows Live Space, which has since been migrated to WordPress."

Eric's Sense of Humor...

There have been many instances where I have visited someone's site during One Shot Wednesday to read a comment by Eric that is both timely and extremely witty. And when it comes to his poetry, whether it shines through his words overtly, or lingers subtly between his lines; his sense of humor is ever present. However, as you are about to discover, Eric's attention to precise writing implements humor as just one aspect of many quality features that comprise his work.

Following my favorite poem of his that was dedicated to his wife (Perfect Enough), Eric shares with us both his personal favorite (Earth Mother's Song) & his poem that received the most comments (Curse You, Sylvia Plath).

**********

Perfect Enough
(for my wife Tammy)

You wonder why I love you so
You just can’t understand
My love for you just seems to grow
Each time I hold your hand

When you look in the mirror
You don’t like what you see
I can’t make it much clearer
You’re beautiful to me

You note each imperfection
And notice every flaw
I tell you with affection
Those things I never saw

I look a little deeper
And see the good inside
I know that you’re a keeper
That cannot be denied

You think your hair is just plain brown
And sometimes out of place
I like the way that it hangs down
When you’re kissing my face

The prettiest eyes I’ve ever see
They look so blue they twinkle
But then again sometimes they’re green
Perhaps it’s some new wrinkle?

But most of all I love the way
You always show you care
Even on the roughest day
I know that you’ll be there

The truth is plain to see indeed
It shouldn’t be too tough
Our love is everything we need
And that’s perfect enough

**********

Earth Mother's Song
 
I’ve seen a broad field awash in fog,
gray-blanketed like a misplaced pond.
That same field, one dark summer morn,
lay a-twinkle, festooned with bright fireflies.

I’ve seen a great horned owl appear,
alighting atop a tall pine, majestic and wise.
Resting briefly, then silently swooping down
to disappear into the dark woods.

I’ve seen a pine martin stealing along,
dipping between the fallen birch and cedar,
popping up unexpectedly in a new spot,
red eyes glowing in my flashlight beam.

I’ve heard a tom turkey’s questioning call,
seeking to uncover this brash imposter.
A slow, hidden funeral procession
bursting forth to claim their roost.

I’ve heard lake echoes of spring frogs peeping
seeking mates among the green reeds,
the surrounding din of a million crickets creeping
on a hot August night, throbbing with life.

I’ve heard thunder roll along for miles
'til a blinding white flash strobed silhouettes
of stark, stiletto tree shadows all around
and the deafening clap froze me in place.

I’ve smelled the sweet, pine-scented winds
that blow through the north woods, thick
with undertones of green moss carpets
and ferns inexplicably bright in the shade.

I’ve smelled the musty down of a grouse
that loudly took flight at my approach,
unseen through the yellow aspen boughs,
revealing this visitor clumsy in his ream.

I’ve smelled an oncoming storm
blowing in from the west,
deepening the sense of isolation,
submersion in a still-wild place.

As a child I learned Earth Mother’s song
and it still sings deep within my heart.
I learn a new verse each time I venture
into those places where she yet dwells.

****************

Curse You, Sylvia Plath

Curse you, Sylvia Plath
For making me care
To love your words
Words that nail and rail

Tearing up-down walls

Curse you, for your daddy
No one else could have been
Lady Lazarus in a bell jar
Life, a lie, alive

Hiding behind perfect Arian features

With clean, fashion-sensible shoes
You walked on big city streets
Wet and dirty and litter-strewn
Sweater warm against the cold wind

You would have blown away like a bright kite

I want to fill you on your hospital bed
Watch your cheeks flushing red
With blood the ghouls will later drain
Blood you’ve already tried to let flow

Flowers wither and wilt, unwanted

Why wasn’t I a tulip
Born that much sooner
Just to be yours for awhile
Another unloved lover

Sacrifice sung, then eaten

But you moved in other circles
Traveling about your world
A cold world I can never know
Except from what you tell me

Inscribed in indelible black

Feeling the world too deeply
Drowning in too many seas
While the desert inside
Left your soul arid as

Your words seeped out

Could I had saved you
From yourself, the world
To just be a ragdoll, limp
Would I even care then?

Or do I care because I did not?

Curse you, Sylvia, my dearest
For drawing-out knives
Sharp-tongued words
That break and cut skin

Bleeding as real as now

 ****************

Check Out Eric Alder's main blog: Bubba's Place

Eric also maintains 2 other separate blogs on Blogger:
Haiku blog: http://haiku-koo-koo.blogspot.com/
Photo blog: http://bifocalunivision.blogspot.com/

*Come watch the Video Clip of Eric's winning poem, as performed by the various characters of Richard North over at The Arts Web Show

Cheers,
dustus

One Stop Poetry Featured Poet: Shân Williams

Shân Williams

Friday Feature on One Stop Poetry!

Today my guest is Shân Williams, and her excellent blog is called Musings and Smatterings.  I've been following her work since last year, including the past weeks of One Shot Wednesday, admiring clever lines and dedication to craft. To my surprise, I discovered recently that English is not her first language. As you are about to learn, Shân's Welsh roots influence her English poetry, along with her studies in biochemistry and penchant for avid reading. 

Shân's Homeland...

"I began writing at a very early age, mostly in Welsh, as it is my first language. By the time I was 17, I had two eisteddfod (welsh cultural competitions) chairs and was published in Welsh magazines and in a small English anthology."

"What made me write originally was a love of my Homeland, and a vivid imagination. Also my roots, as my father is half Arabic, and there's quite a story about how my grandmother came to Wales in the first place. To put it lightly if it weren't for illegal immigrants, I would not be here! Most of my early works are based in the horror/sci fi/ fantasy genre. I still very much enjoy writing these types of work. I was influenced by Welsh poets such a Taliesyn, Ap Gwilym and later on R.S.Thomas and Dylan Thomas. I read Poe, Emily Dickinson, Sylvia Plath and Carole Ann Duffy in English. I'm a bit of a bookworm, if I'm not reading then I'm writing."
 

Shân's Academic Background & Teaching....

"...I made a decision to study Biochemistry at Liverpool University, and my writing got lost by the wayside, until 2007s, in fact, where I got an itch to pick up a pen once more. What I found that I was an ok erotica writer, and that the short stories that I penned at the time were enjoyed by a number of readers. I wrote now from an older perspective, and more emotionally than before. Having traveled extensively after Uni and taught children from very poor backgrounds I had an insight into injustice, and this is one of the main reasons I write now. I have more confidence now as a 33 year old that my words will hopefully reach people, and be appreciated." 

Life & Writing....

"Life experience has changed my writing, and I like to go with the flow. An enquiring mind always asks questions, and it's always good to put those questions out there. Politics is another passion, so I tend to highlight the class divide with other poems. And of course I still write about the stunning, striking mountains of home!"

Shân's Sense of Humor...

"Saying that I have an evil sense of humor and enjoy liberal use of irony in some of my poetry, I classify myself firmly as a newbie in English. I'm learning, as everyone does, and brand most of my poetry as bad poetry! I'm more than willing to laugh at myself and don't take myself too seriously!"

**********

And now 3 selected poems from Shân Williams

Exploration

Under the bare bones of the apple tree

A frigidity swept over me

A coolness that bore me to the bone,

The loss of a friend, the one I called home.

As winter ravens cackled in grey British skies

And white snow-filled clouds burdened by

Ice tears formed in my eyes

As my feet followed the path of trodden earth

We used to walk in days of mirth.

On automatic pilot to the hard stone wall

Where keystones had scattered

Hand placed, they fall

At my small tired feet.

The smell of winter, old oak and pine

purvey into this empty mind.

Thinking of a world without a spring

Empty words, in my mind ring

As I search for reason

In this manic silent world

Without you.

**********

Ignorance
 
The mockingbird screams its final tune

As mayhem ensues.

Dark eyes watch the carniage

Burning wreck, insolvent individuals

Running to and fro, hands in hair

Charred with ash, gravel, dirt.

What is this Earth?

What is this humanity?


The Raven watches entranced

Awaiting its last macabre dance.

Anticipaiting its final meal.

Rest assured it will be fulfilling.

Black eyes peruse,

Unfeeling of the situation,

Of the pain and the emotion,

Only carrion here

Where brother fights brother, kills sister.


Lest we forget


Fundementally 46 gene pairs

make us the same.

“Belief structure” makes us different.

Holier than though-than whom?


The starling above,

Makes no reference to the burning and bellowing below.

Continues its flight

No hesitations.

Not caring for warring nations.

****************

"What I want to create with some of my poetry is a trip into the senses. To transport my reader to places and paint them a picture of what my words want them to see. If I could paint, I would!"—S.W.

****************

New Old Fashioned Romance

  Back in the days of black and white,

It was all cut and dried,

All it took was the shock of an ankle bared

Red hot lipstick, a shared cigarette,

Melodious harmonies created on the big screen,

Ingrid Bergman, James Dean,

All they had to do was smoulder up there

A Marilyn wiggle of the derrier.

Now in the world of match dot com

I sit here thinking-where did we go wrong?

Where’s the electricity, the passion, the innocence?

They had on the flickering screen? The Presence?

It’s just a story of boy meets girl.

Does it happen in this modern world?



 ****************

Check Out Shân's Blog Musings & Smatterings @ http://repressedsoul.wordpress.com
Follow Shân on Twitter: http://twitter.com/Awdures

Comments & feedback are always appreciated!

Cheers,
Adam

Monday Feature - Guest Hosted by Gay Cannon - Hector Gutierrez

Mondays are traditionally Brian Miller's day but he is taking a much needed rest. I ( Moondustwriter) would like to introduce Gay Cannon. I featured her on Moondustwriter Thursday on November 4th, 2010. Please visit the archives to read about Gay. I'm excited to announce that Gay will be joining One Stop Poetry. As the site grows, we want to maintain quality and offer additional aspects for your writing needs. We will be announcing her project soon.

Hello everyone,

I'm Gay Cannon known to many of you here at One Stop Poetry as Beachanny. I've been invited to guest host One Stop Poetry this Monday so that I can introduce you to my very good friend, mentor, and fellow poet Hector Gutierrez. I have known Hector since we were both participants in a writer's workshop in the Dallas-Ft.Worth area in the 90s. An eclectic group of writers, eventually the poets splintered into a monthly group dedicated to poetry only. Even after that dissolved for many of us, the poetry group continued by e-mail hosted by Hector in a group called Poetry Express. There we continued to share work, critique and encourage one another. Hector's work is very fine and has influenced my approach to poetry in countless ways. I asked him several questions for this interview and here are his answers.

Who and what influences you in writing poetry?

My fascination with poetry started when I read Carl Sandburg’s “Fog”. Something in the words, “on little cat feet, ” made me actually “feel” the silent movement of the fog as I read the poem. The feeling stunned and fascinated me, and it left me wondering how the author could put together words that could produce such an effect on me. I’ve been trying to unravel the secret of that magic ever since.

What journey have you taken that has brought you to your current approach?

Early on, I came upon “The Raven” and “The Bells” by Poe, and my lifelong commitment to structure and rhyme began. As I worked to maintain an intricate structure or a rigid rhyme scheme, I developed a mental approach that occasionally discovered surprising relationships between words. As a result, my efforts to create pivoted in a particular way that led to my writing style. I have written some unrhymed poems with loose structure, but the verses that called for a challenging structure or rhyme scheme seemed to draw the most out of me.

Do you use traditional structures like the sonnet, or do you experiment with new forms?

I’ve written several sonnets and two villanelles that worked out well, but I have also tried many experimental approaches to structure and rhyme. I have a few poems that I wrote in what I call the framed couplet, for lack of a better name. I began with a rhymed couplet in iambic pentameter, but I decided to rhyme the initial syllables as well as the ending syllables. To add emphasis to the initial rhyme, I decided that the initial syllable must be accented. So I ended up with nine syllables per line instead of ten. “Minor Strain” is written in this form.

Part of the fun has been to try to “hide” the structure or the rhyme scheme, so that the poems appears to be free-form while still allowing me to work in the particular mode that works best for me. For one poem, I took a favorite line of verse from another poet and used it as a template for a new set of words. For example, “The Red Wheelbarrow“ by W. C. Williams“ starts with “So much depends / upon / the red wheel / barrow.” My line became “His mush descends / upon / the red tongued / sparrow.” I wrote two poems using this approach, which provided a well-hidden structure while producing a line that seems to flow freely. Some of my approaches have been less ambitious. “The Boy’s Tree” is simply a sonnet with the rhyme removed except for the final couplet. “Bourbon Street” focuses on varying the metric patterns to simulate the dancing and the music that the poem is referring to, while the words that rhyme with “Muse” act like a recurring base drum beat that provides a steady pulse to guide the syncopated rhythmic flow.

Short bio, publication activities:

With the guidance of an English degree from the University of Houston, I have been writing for more than 25 years. I have two self-published books of poetry with limited circulation. I published a periodic poetry newsletter, “New Winds”, for about five years, with participation from local and area poets, including a few college professors in Texas universities.

Minor Strain

Sinless child, your face turns back toward ten,

innocence bruised, strained by careless men.

Clothes that push you up toward twenty-one -

loathsome need in you; for them, brief fun.

Tension pushes, pulls, to fill a void

men’s abuse created; what’s destroyed

time can never . . . child, you must not tease.

I’m your friend, or would be. Stop! Don’t. Please

The Boy’s Tree

This tree ain’t lovely - never was. It looks

like serpents rising from the ground, that want

to play. Not pray. A tree wants to be climbed.

Each branch is hard like Daddy’s biceps, and

the bark will scratch you like his chin at night.

The leaves caress and tickle as you climb.

In gusty winds, they sound like ocean waves.

A tree ain’t nothin’ but a tree. That is,

until they cut it down. Then it can be

a cradle or a coffin or a carved

figure that looks like Dad. A pencil, or

a sheet to hold a poem or a truth.

Ain’t no use askin’ who can make a tree.

It is the tree that makes, it seems to me.

Bourbon Street

Ageless stones resounding Satchmo’s chops

that wail from the bars for the smiling Muse,

stones worn smooth by steel tapped shoes

still dancing for the Man,

timelessly keeping time

to the jazz and the rhythm and blues,

while the strippers and the booze

bark their intent from the fringes

and the pallid crowds refuse.


Thanks to Gay and Hector for another look into the world of poetry. At this time Hector does not have a blogsite to visit. We may cox him to post on One Stop periodically.

Photography Attribution:
73 year old treehttp://www.flickr.com/photos/turtlemom_nancy/2298821513/
Bourbon Street:http://www.flickr.com/photos/stuseeger/213350144/

Friday -One Stop Poetry Featuring Poet Jessica Kristie

With the holidays in the States our schedule is a bit askew. Adam Dustus is off shooting ducks or something so I'm (Moondustwriter) standing in with some fabulous poetry by Jessica Kristie
Just wanted to point out that Jessica is another talented lady who I met on - Twitter. If you aren't there, you should be.

Can you briefly tell me when you first started writing?
I began writing when I was about ten years old.  I was always a very emotionally in-tune little girl, and at an early age searched for some sort of outlet.  I believe I found this venue from a school exercise, then realized immediately it was freeing and very healing.  I wish I could say I have written continuously since then, but it has been off and on with a more consistent run the last five years or so.

What inspires you to write?
I have many inspirations and “processes” for writing.  There is certain music that rings to me as poetry. I play those songs to get me in the mood, and the place I need to be to write. Being a stream of conscious and emotional writer, the flow often needs to be stirred.  I have learned through the years to capture it better and even trigger it more than I was able to in the past.  I also find great inspiration in others writing and will often become inspired by even just a word.  Those moments I love the most and always hope I have a pen and paper close at hand.

What are your hopes and dreams with your poetry?
I just finished putting together my first collection of poetry.  It contains 50 poems and 5 prose poetry works.  I am submitting it to publishers along with a children’s book I wrote, that is currently being illustrated.  I also have a very exciting collaboration I am doing with a photographer. We are collaborating to bring to life a poem I wrote in 11 parts that tells a story.  It is more than just doing a photo to match the words; it is bringing the words out in a unique way. We hope to find a great venue to make it available to the public once it is complete. I am already working on a second manuscript of all prose poetry with hopes to also have it published in the future. 

What is your favorite genre?
Classics always seem to catch my eye from Frost to Neruda, but also find myself attracted to such wonderful poets as Maya Angelou. I continue to find that it is always the romance that pulls me in the deepest. Often it is darker, but romance just the same.  I do hold a place in my heart for the more humorous side of things. It always does me good to laugh and I try to - at least ten times a day.


While e-mailing Jessica,we discovered that we grew up relatively close to each other. My father lived in her home town until his death. We may just have to do a road trip to my favorite city (well one of them) San Francisco. Please enjoy Jessica's fine writing.

Tragedy’s Room

Today I want to put skin around my words

Turn sentences into limbs

And reach across the seas

Finding my way to your door

My blankets of consoling will never do this moment justice

History has been broken

A tear in life’s time table

“Why” lingers at the footsteps you watched from birth

Hands by your side that can’t seem to bring enough healing

This time

Trouble feels so beyond

What you can mend

Warmth can roam

Beyond our flesh

Far past aching bone

It will make its way back

Where darkness looms

Where loss and heartbreak

Now claim this room

Bows break future moments

Pausing time

Covering moons

Lingering in our present

Floating in the in-between

But hands do breathe volumes

When crashing into tragedies door

Look now and know

What strength they hold

Your grip

Your reach

Barriers breaking as we speak

This next poem is inserted into prose that Jessica posted. If you want to read the entire piece, please enjoy it on her blog.

~Nothing~

What poetic justice I weep from my pages

Yet I feel no sense of peace

Painting clouds with my finger tips across
an empty palette

A canvas that mimics hope yet whispers
only dreams

You can’t speak of change

When I Look at you and see the same

You can’t speak of love

When I can’t feel you break through me

I remember when

You speak of nothing

No words

No hope

No difference from one day to the next

Mediocre in this questionable decision

Maybe the hope is within a dream

Or maybe the needle has passed through

Now seamless

The two pieces have become

I remember when you told me

You would not give me up without a fight

When I walked away

You laid down so easy

And still you speak

Of nothing

You can contact jessica @jesskristie

Her blog http://jessicakristie.wordpress.com/

Photography:

Derek Tyson

http://www.flickr.com/photos/derricksphotos/189815067/

Ian Munroe

photograph//www.flickr.com/photos/ian_munroe/4059831412/sizes/m/in/photostream/

One Stop Poetry Featured Poet: Shewriting

Welcome to Dustus Friday on
One Stop Poetry!

Today my guest is shewriting (aka Sheila Moore). Her poetic intentions and reasons why she began writing prompt me to reconsider the powerful creative outlet of poetry. Sheila's posts on the She's Writing Blog and for One Shot Wednesday, in addition to being lyrically emotive, are clear in tone and presentation. Through varied line structuring, and effective use of imagery, shewriting composes lines to which many readers relate.

A Poet's Journey...
"I started writing when I was ten years old as a way to express and process my feelings. Writing was the only healthy emotional outlet I had for a long time and it continues to be one of several that I have now....

"At age eleven, I attempted to write my first book. I had just returned home from a week-long Girl Scout camping trip where I met several girls who were dealing with serious life issues such as addiction and eating disorders. I felt compelled to write, to make sense of the confusion and sadness I felt for these girls. However, I became discouraged as I quickly realized that I did not have the perseverance required to write a book. At this point, I believe that my poetic muse was born."

Shewriting's Motivation to Express Emotions....
"As a writer, I feel successful when three God-given assets are present during my creative process. These assets are inspiration, passion, and skill. For me, success is not solely dependent on positively touching another person’s soul, although when this happens I consider it a precious bonus. My best inspiration usually comes from life experiences that elicit intense emotional responses. My passion for the written word stems from a need to express difficult emotions such as anger and fear in a way that makes them less foreboding and to record pleasant emotions such as joy and love in a way that makes them everlasting."

"As a musician uses notes to compose symphonic masterpieces or a painter uses colors to create breath-taking portraits, a successful writer uses words to construct poetic oeuvres." —shewriting

And now 3 selected poems from shewriting...

she writes LOVE on her arm

she wants to live a long lovely Life
but demons whisper under their breath
daunting words abuse her sanity
and evoke menacing thoughts of death

she wants to be open to other Options
than those which hopeless perspectives create
for in making the ultimate sacrifice
all truth and goodness are lost to self-hate

she wants to unveil a vast Void
that people, places, nor things can fill
her ego claims it can save her
while her spirit cries out for God’s will

she wants to expose ego’s Exploits
all its fallacies and empty lies
for some who come to believe in them
fall victim to unjust suicides

****************

"For me, skill is the most challenging part of writing. I equate it with putting together pieces of a jigsaw puzzle. Inexperience or even impatience in some cases can cause me to force together pieces that somewhat but not perfectly connect. In the end, all of those pieces that only partially fit together cause the puzzle’s picture to appear incomplete, distorted, or unrecognizable."

**********

Hold My Hand

A warm summer breeze blew strands of auburn hair across her soft, youthful face.
He held her hand and offered the ring. She answered with a fierce embrace but thought…

Will you hold my hand when dark clouds move in and a storm brews up above;
When the anger in our acts and words overshadow our sweet love?

Will you hold my hand when lightening strikes and tears fall down like rain;
When lovers’ quarrels burn like fire and affection flows down the drain?

Will you hold my hand when dense fog sets in and we are blind to the other’s care;
When bills pile up and time slips away and the kids are all that we share?

Will you hold my hand when strong winds whirl and a tornado touches down;
When good health is in peril, jobs are lost, and devastation is all around?

Will you hold my hand when hot days turn cold and sickness ferments our pride;
When fear freezes time and for us to survive, our love can no longer hide?


Fifty years later, a warm summer breeze blows strands of silver hair across her elderly face. He holds her hand and offers a ring. She responds with a tender embrace and listens…

We have weathered life’s storms, the squabbles, the bills,
The jobs, the kids, and all of the ills.

My lover, my mate, and my best friend,
I hope you knew I would always…

hold your hand.

****************

Willingness is the Key

  Where is the key
I cried earnestly
I need the key
to be happy

Look under the bed
someone said
behind the bed
or out in the shed

I dropped to my knees
begging God, please
I’m on my knees
full of dry heaves

I fell to the floor
they called me a whore
I laid on the floor
‘til they walked out the door

I stood up in the room
mesmerized by the groom
we danced in the room
and ingested the ‘shrooms

I sat in the chair
and tried not to share
the cards dealt to my chair
a royal flush, no a pair

I pulled up to the table
and ate ‘til unable
to stand up from the table
I belonged in a stable

The key, the key
I want to be happy
I need the key
please give it to me

The key that unlocks
where happiness docks
the lock of all locks
that humanity mocks

Wasn’t found hiding
under my bed biding
no action, just hiding
from life’s daily tiding

It was not in the shed
with the car, shiny red
nor in the weight that I shed
or in the people I wed

I did not find it in ale
nor in any male
drugs caused me to ail
gambling, too, did fail

There wasn’t enough
food I could stuff
nor was money enough
why was it so tough

To bring happiness here
in what’s not seen in a mirror
right here, right here
where there’s pride and there’s fear

Only after the fall
as I do recall
first I had to fall
to know at all

About the key
I could never see
because the key
you see
was inside of me

"A skillful writer knows not only how to find the right pieces or words to use but also knows how to fit those words together in a way that creates the clearest, most meaningful portrayal of his or her message. I think that skill development comes from practice, studying others’ writing styles, formal training, more practice, constructive feedback from others, good mentoring, and more practice. God willing, writing will be a life-long endeavor for me, which brings to my spirit much excitement and gratitude. "—shewriting 

 ****************

*Photo of girl with Love on wrist by Cat

Check out She's Writing Blog @ http://shewriting.blogspot.com
Follow shewriting on Twitter http://twitter.com/Shewriting

Comments & feedback are always appreciated!

Cheers,
adam dustus

Bloodletting Fees, A Poem by Adam Dustus

 Happy Halloween! Trick or Treat?

Bloodletting Fees by Adam Dustus

Vomit smells dominate
Amid holding cell fermenting wait
After intensive fuzzy interrogation

Zombie hostage
Mid-life crisis situation

Being escorted to precinct station

A detaining cauldron

Squirming bacteria

Seething sticky cement
Sardines sit benched
Stench sweat

Scrambled yellow blocks mental

Self becomes mere guess
Seeking tricks?

Nobody could know
Not expecting his wife

Soon told him so
Disbelieving

This Halloween

Bloody horror
Silly string

 
 Subconscious mistake, regret

An additional mortgage dis—
Pence
Over the counter 

To in jest

Rigamortis

Starting over
Numerous bad choices
Wasted welter of cruel nagging voices

Sign glares at eve

Sunken so low
Swimming arms sway
Within long flannel sleeves

Russet plaid pajama-clad
Half-life scene for so long, too bads
Sleepwalker wandering
Mumbling sad


Through sordid shadows
Skidding down row

Neurochemical mystery flows
Proving illusive for restive intentions

While still denying abusive
 dimension

Downed

Ambien

Set 
in 

Mind—moved

Matter

Programmed

Steps

Right


Left
Undead
Down town home stairs
Out front door fled
Led by gutted shadows
Twitching flounder
Beneath sinking sail

Squinting moist cataract veils
Shimmering city light
Impactions byte
Nothing registers 

Skin itching, sour milk smelling, market rot

Pulsating neon beer signs, marquees, double parked lot
Inside boils oblivion steam

Blood flow still being one
Warmth through knock out routine
Lying fetal, cheek to porous curb
Eyeballing shoed casino herd
Shapes pass emitting coronas
Under lamppost an eternity
Listening to the earth's beat
Trembling underground


Buzzing throng, blurry people
Clacking along sidewalk

See through sequin chemise
Each painted face
Sheets, capes, tails, hidden life
Costume heroes
Clashing toxins

Boasting revelers drunk

Living sleep
Fortunate waking up

Perhaps it karma
Or dumb luck
Someone tossed
A quarter at him
The well wished
Taking pity
Near the forest green
Bulk dumpster
Stray meowing
Hungry kitties chewing onion rings
Tongue garbage lapping
Before assault happening

He was mistaken for a deaf beggar
By two different versions of GaGa
Adjusting broken chandelier hats

Spilling candy out plastic pumpkin heads
Chugging Pixie Sticks
Joking they would never pick up death
Still helping him out anyway
Yet alone he's left
Unaware blood drips
Into a shark stalking tank

Violent brood of collective vampires

Aiming for wallet and wrist watch

Thwarted, foot stomps forced open his hand
That had instinctively held clutched to his wedding band
Assailing barrage, strikes and insults
Battering life, smashing somnambulist mien
Laughing, a farewell kick to the nuts
Field goal thud, imaginary crowd roar
DB blocks

Count Dracula's punt
Thieves off with the ring

Man screams again
He can't understand
Almost breaking through his coma
Time's broken hour-hand
Froze forever held
No awakening instant
Except when heart melts
What's lifted

Disorderly conduct disturbing peace
Chin trickles red from broken front teeth

Resisting arrest, billy club beaten,
Struck over the head
Seal like squealing
Ear drums pounding 

Arms behind cuffed, siren sounding
Cursing 3 glasses of vinegary wine
That smooth cap-sized pill for sleep
Future ending in divorce
Bloodletting fees
Feeling tricked
Through poison means

*********

Cheers, Adam