Poetry Ring – Poetry by Daniel F Mitchell

XV. Stumble

~Wisps~

Poetry by Daniel F Mitchell

XV. Stumble

Tower

A forlorn gleam of evening sun now glistens on the dew
Of maiden days and youthful haze when memories were new.
The windows, like deep sullen eyes, look on the world below,
Still seeking newer pastures where more crystal visions flow.
Beyond forsaken mounds unmarked, among the rank-grown weeds,
The voice of song and ancient tales of long-forgotten deeds,
A stalwart wind moans long and low across the gate stones there,
And pipes the tunes of summer nights when gardens grew more fair -
Spry minstrel chimes, and sweet perfumes, and tantalizing wine
Of dreams, and days, and destinies, upon a tendered vine.

Abandoned by the architects that gave the arches name,
To fall away to depths below, from whence the masons came,
Last taste of life, and love, and lust to watch the starlight pass,
And merriment in lily fields, and rapture on the grass,
So loath to go in silent dust with no one nigh to hear,
And take to ground in mournful turn without an offered tear,
Precarious upon the edge of end’s abysmal stage,
Besieged by all the fury of the elements in rage,
It stands against the armies of attrition, though in vain,
And holds to form for moments more, as none will come again.

Reckoning

Reckoning -
This I pray for,
But fear most.

The Waking Of The Ghoul

They take all that they can take.
But all fragile things were made to break -
A muse not of mortal making,
A colossal being’s undertaking.
Could sadism be the utmost core?
Pain the universal whore?
They all feel so confused,
All abused, so sorely used.
They have seen clearly
What it means to see,
Shudder at eternity,
Wondering if to be or not to be.
They have found no useful tool
To alter the endless rule,
To rend the great hypocrisy,
To end eternal misery.
Helplessly they watch the clock,
And mend their ever-fraying frock.
They want to forget their days,
Think their thoughts in sleepy haze.
They pity the newborn fool,
And loathe the waking of the ghoul.

When She Passed

She consoled me when I lost a coin in the grass,
Cheered my child games, though I lost.
She negated my fears,
Dried my tears,
Bore my conflict with me.
She was only a year my senior,
But she shouldered her responsibilities willingly.
She was all that a sister should be expected to be.
She was a fine friend to me.
And I missed her when she passed.

Silver Dreams

No sun in my head,
Frozen it seems.
All colors are dead.

My heart esteems
Green petals, instead
Of silver dreams.

Milk Of Rilke

Das glaube ich gern. Das blut ist schwer,
Manchmal glaub ich, ich kann nicht mehr!

I could use a dose of redress,
A goblet of succulent cheerfulness
To suckle my spirit’s gall,
Some crutches to prevent my fall.

But my heart, I fear, is beyond repair.
I bear the chains forged by despair.
I am too weary to fly anymore.
I think I’ll just lie here on the floor.

Ich habe trage flugel. Das blut ist zu schwer!
Of this I have become aware.

The Final Lines

"And the barbs and screws, the torture, is it necessary?"

"As I’ve said before, I ask the questions.
I don’t answer them."

"But, I’ve agreed to say anything you want to hear."

"There is nothing you could tell me that I haven’t already heard."

"I mean, you can compel me without the agony."

"Now you are presuming to tell me how to compel you?
I am in a position to do anything I want to do to you.
That should be evidence enough that I know more
About compelling you than you do."

"But why the chains and shackles?
What are you afraid of?
I can’t get away."

"Chains?
They are really not chains at all.
It’s just the way you look at them.
A stage has to have props, just as an actor has to have a script."

"But what’s the point?
I mean, a charade is a charade regardless of text.
It’s pointless, meaningless in the end."

"Perhaps that is true for the individual
actor, yes.
But taken as a whole, it’s a considerable show.
I’m quite pleased by the whole production.
It can be very amusing at times.
And my amusement is the measure, after all.
If you just play your part, keep things uncomplicated,
Be dedicated, follow the script, and don’t ask questions, it makes
for fine entertainment.
And what’s to worry as long as the show goes on?"

"For you maybe…"

"Sure, but it’s my show!"

"But have you ever considered that I
didn’t try out for the part?
What if I were to say that I didn’t want to perform?"

"Abstractions, distractions, so
delusional!
We have been through this over and over.
Just accept your fate!
You are what you are,
Regardless of how you choose to perceive yourself,
No matter what philosophical puzzles you invent
To amuse and confuse your silly fancy.
The bottom line is that it comes down to survival of the fittest,

One intelligence against another.
I just happen to be superior."

"I’m aware of that.
That’s why I am appealing to you.
I thought you might be fair."

"Fair?
What’s fair got to do with anything?
When you’re on top, you don’t have to be fair,
Because you get to decide what fair is.
That’s the beauty of being number one.
Still, I’ve always made it a point to deal as justly as possible,
Just as a point of professional pride.
There are values to uphold, you know?
Sure, I make the rules,
But I must also follow them, in order to appear…perfect.
Sometimes my part is in the capacity of duty.
I have to follow the script, too.
You might say, that in a way, I am an actor just like you."

"You’re not an actor.
You’re a demon playing at being God."

"That may well be so.
But in any event, I do have the final lines."

Sandman

The sandman sows the seeds of sleep
Upon a fertile field of eyes,
Thus piles up heaps of souls to reap.
It comes as no big surprise,

That the sandman’s final caper
Gathers up sleepy dust from bone,
Turns tender eyelids to paper,
And sleeping children to stone.

The Memoirs Of Susan Duncan Clark

‘Twas a bitter winter that year,
As severe as cold can be.
Some snows fall harder than others.

Uncle Mon started for the barn,
But stopped at the porch for a bucket,
Said to your mother,

This storm is bad, Martha.
I don’t think John will try
To come out of the canyon tonight.

And you only five, Susan,
So young to see an uncle’s prophecy come true.
No one should have witnessed
The scene that came to you,
In eighteen hundred and seventy seven,
When you heard Brother Brotrell whisper.

They are bringing him down the bench now,
(Two hundred men to dig him out)
So that his wife can view the corpse.
And you standing there on the porch,
Wondering why they had boxed him so.

Ah, but it was so long ago,
And the remembrance gone with you!
What could it all amount to in an eternal scheme?

Go to thy rest in peace, Susan.
Forgive the snow its trespasses.

The Best Of Worlds

What should one wear to the best of worlds?
Fanbenito is suitable, dear Candide.

Where should one walk if one could, pray tell?
Just go where they tell you to go, Candide.

What should one do with a gift of speech?
They’ll tear out your tongue if you do, Candide.

What should I do with this sweet young thing?
She’s dripping with pus from the pores, Candide.

How can one know what is right to believe?
Believe what they tell you is so, Candide.

Strike up the chorus and sing along,
la la la,
la la la,
la la la la.

Light up the incense and vanquish wrong,
la la la,
la la la,
la la la la.

Round and round it whirls and whirls,
la la la,
la la la,
la la la la.

That’s how it goes in the best of worlds,
la la la,
la la la,
la la la la.

Welcome To The Arena

Welcome to the arena.
You’ll not get out alive.
You belong now to Athena.
You’ve taken a perilous dive.

You’ve joined the hoard.
They’ve taken you in.
Take up your sword.
But don’t hope to win.

They’ll take your head,
And roll it away.
They’ll see you dead,
To see another day.

Welcome to the arena.
Just try to catch your breath.
With luck, perhaps Athena
Will give you an easy death.

Terah

Welcome to Terah.
It has been waiting
for millenniums to receive you.

Step into this stagnant underworld,
beneath a canopy of tangled
branches woven to keep all
but the darkest rays of sun
from shining through.

Join the unholy ghosts,
incomprehensible life-forms caught
in a primordial struggle.
All are prepared
to embrace new contestants.

Enter swirling mists of stench
your predecessors bubble up
from diseased algae crust.

Try to discern which is water
and which is not.
Ebony roots will little ease
your choice to step here or there.

It is all one, passive or active.
Death is the essence of life.
It is written
upon the rank and corrupted air.

In this world,
your culture is useless.
The accumulation of wisdom you master
is no match for antediluvian patience.

From far-off lagoons, reality remarks
in lugubrious-croaking refrains,
a mocking dirge to your passing.

Did you think there would be kindness here?
Did you really expect mercy,
now that you are no longer at the top of the food chain?

A Shallow Grave

The wanderer descends a rocky track to begin the end,
must keep to the rocks, taking care not to fall in between.
In between there are things ready to bite and sting.
All wanderers must be ready to fight and not deny.
All wanderers must depend on wit as a friend and guide.
And what of the needs inside? All will pass in time.
The wanderer must leap from one high point to another,
discover the way with his myriad facet eyes,
balancing again so as to avoid the fall into the ravine.
He gags at the stench of decomposing matter,
supposing that he is different,
feeling the heat coming off the rotting excrement,
seeing the heaps and heaps of rotting excrement,
hearing the buzzing swarms feeding, breeding, teeming,
the squirming foul splendor of collective being,
the half-eaten creatures lying and disintegrating,
perceiving old wine bottles as glistening-jewel security.
There is an old ale cask burst asunder and forgotten,
with no markings anywhere to explain the purpose.
Thrusting his foot back to catch his weight,
he pushed against a skull black with decay,
and crushed the shape into dust,
then turned fast away, trying not to recognize it as such.
And much to his dismay, he discovered more horror,
and no gloves to protect his mind from the touch.
But it gave him incentive to climb faster, even risking a fall.
He took a deep breath, and went on with apprehension,
finding the answers not at all to his liking,
finding only a fine line between the sane and the depraved mind,
finding his course winding back to the first desolate yearning,
finding no water to quench his burning thirst,
finding life is viewed best from a shallow grave.

Earth’s Shadow

My sight is sullen.
The bright god is red.
The night has swollen.
Apollo is dead.

For Lorca

Wrong conspired at five o’clock in the afternoon.
It was conspired at five o’clock in the afternoon
To spill a poet’s might,
To kill a poem outright,
Without reaping a moon.

The moon is weeping the wrong -
Pale silver light.
The moon is contrite
For the loss of a song.

Aubrey

Aubrey,
I’ve come for mutton stew,
Found some rot gut
In the dirty hut
Of a warrior I once knew.

Aubrey,
What happened to you?

Billy

Billy pushed the weak ones to the wall.
Billy struck the fear into us all.
Billy feeds the worms beneath the crest.
Billy felt the cold truth rend his breast.

Hunter

Once, I shot a mourning dove,
And watched its mate circle above,
Like a lost cherubim,
Unable to go or come,

A soul wandering away,
To perch on a wire,
As if to inquire
Why her love should stay,

With tremulous breast,
Equating her sorrow
In song dark and melancholy,
For her mate there at rest,

To mourn her grave fate,
Or mourn my damned soul,
My murderous hate,
My cold-blooded toll.

Silly, Silly, Me

I saw a place where hate was fun.
Who are you to speak of pain?
I saw a man bury his son.
Who are you to speak of pain?

I saw a girl step on a mine.
Who are you to speak of pain?
I saw a gray grandmother pine.
Who are you to speak of pain?

I saw boys killed in foolish wars.
Who are you to speak of pain?
I saw a life with gaping sores.
Who are you to speak of pain?

I saw an ancient widow mourn.
Who are you to speak of pain?
I saw a newborn baby born.
Who are you to speak of pain?

I saw a man blow out his brain.
Who am I to speak of pain?
Silly, silly, me!

Rag Doll Clown

Danger he scorns
On a rodeo ground.
Ride those bull horns,
Rag doll clown!
Round and round,
Up and down,
Blow my mind,
Bones to grind!
No stopping the ride
With life inside.

A boy in the front seat
Is watching the rising heat
Flowing red from limp meat.

Poor Thin Ferris

Poor thin Ferris,
Poor tired man,
Felt one last kiss,
Then it began -

The final sleep
As cold as frost,
A wife to weep
A long life lost.

Funeral For A Crone

A crone fell in the snow,
And whether softened by the blow,
None shall ever know.

But the softhearted ones crooned low,
Lamenting notes of sorrow,
That she was gone, and they tomorrow.

Maria

She ignored her mother’s warnings
Of talking to strangers in the market place,
Staying far away from the bull,
Never to play near the fence -
The dangers of large animals.

She was complacent, let her mother
Wash her face, without complaint.

Her mother brushed her hair,
Laid her best dress out on the bed.
She tried to form Maria’s mouth into a smile -
Made her appear happy,
While her lips were still pliant.

Myung Ji

She sat in class
tranquilly.
But I saw
a razor blade
pass between her lips.

The text said
those who cry for help
don’t really want
to die.

But sometimes
they try,
and succeed.

I’m sorry,
Myung Ji.

Good bye.

Alligator Doll

I once saw a girl
fall
beneath her kindergarten bus -

While her mother looked on,
a tire crushed her head
like a gourd,
left tread marks
in her brains and blood.

And she still clutched
an alligator doll,
lovingly in her grasp.

Shattered Purpose

Adulterated is this glass
Set on a grim table.
Demise alone spills
From these broken seams.
How now shall I salute life?
What drink can drown my anguish,
What hand return the wine to this vessel?

Box

Substance of maple, alder, oak,
Bone of shelter, heart of hearth,
How cold thy bosom now,
Beneath this frosted earth!

Hand Of Justice

Society, have I repaid thee for my deviation?
Oh, master, why hast thou made me, this blemish?
Lead me away, swift away, to reconciliation.
Vanquish my trespass against the rule.
With triumphant roar spread the news.
With raucous cry lead me to the gallows.
Yours is a case for justice, a cause justified
To spill blood for, more just than my cause,
More just than causes gone before you.

Exultant conqueror, thou hast prevailed,
Reaped thy justice with a tumultuous sweep of scythe.
Was your grip tremulous on the blade as mine was in my passion?
Did you glean some satisfaction that I did not find in killing mercy,
To appease conscience, offer a bitter cup or last supper,
Paint the blame upon a sacrificial lamb or monster?
But your golden daughter is violated, slain, and dishonored.
Who has deflowered the vine of compassion?
It is not I alone. It is not my debauchery.

Vacuum

How shall we fill
the empty spaces
where we all
used to pretend?
How shall we all
chart our places?
How shall we
define the end?

We are all
just dust specks
spinning
round and round.
Now who’s going to
save us
when we fall
to the ground?

The Magic

I have seen magic
Yield a mysterious light,
Illuminate the day,
Animate the clay.
And it seems tragic
That I cannot wield its might.

Broken Soldier

Broken Soldier, the war is over.
Lay down your arms.
Set aside your scars.
Your march is done,
Your battle never won.
Broken Soldier, what do you aim for?

From Where The Sun Stands

I have seen my final battlefield.
I’ll go quietly as a sheep.
The hills I thought to be my shield
Turned out to be too steep.

Surrender is my last endeavor.

I will fight no more, forever.
I shall hide my face, and weep.
The courageous ones, sweet freedom’s sons,
Now, all have gone to sleep.

Mirage

Out on a lost and lonely road,
Across a desolate stretch wandering,
Parched, and pithy, and pitted,
Driven by thirst for an oasis,
At the head of a spring bubbling
Upon the mossy rocks,
Finding refreshment from the journey,
On a green-grass bank reclining,
On crystal waters drifting freely,
Pining for the blue blue sky,
Flying on a fleecy cloud, floating
In timeless and exquisite repose,
I stare down at the stars,
Hoping for a mirage.

No Going Back

A fairy has fallen from grace.
A fawn has ingressed mortal space.
Pure was innocence, unravaged by years.
Peerless was her fair face, now wet with tears.

She now walks a dark track,
Black trees where elfin lawns were.
Meadowlarks cry for her,
But there is no going back.

From The End Of The Hall

I’m down here at the end of the hall.
At last, I can read the writing on the wall.

I see you behind, not embarking yet.
Listen very closely to my echoes of regret.

Seek a different corridor, one with dimmer light,
One where all the hues of truth will not be quite as bright.

Find a hall that’s not as straight, with lots of side ways showing,
That twists and winds about, so you won’t know where you’re going.

Take the one that people take who claim to have found the door,
Even though they bear fake maps, and have never been there before.

Walk a hall that branches out in wild, digressing, ways.
It should keep your curiosity occupied, searching through the maze.

But this hall that I have taken, there’s nothing here, my friend.
I’ve journeyed here most arduously, and found only the end.

How Shall I Teach Them Horror?

How shall they learn wisdom in paradise?
How can they gain knowledge in bliss,
How then obtain omniscience
In the blindness of nirvana?

With a slight of hand I will delude and enlighten,
With illusion make truth clear to them.
I will show them pain,
For a while, and an end to illustrate forever,
A clever guise to deceive them,
A trial of sanity,
A total absence of rationality.

I will cast them in a prison dark and dank,
Corrupted as the foundation is laid,
Corrupted and corrupting,
And the all of existence for a time,
Sentence them to mortality,
Exile them with endless space
Traversed only by elusive twinkling possibilities,
Offer no security,
Remove all surety of emancipation,
Let them decay
Yet fear to shed the rot,
Beg to stay,
To eat and be eaten,
And always fear.

I shall cause mystery to weaken their dogmas,
Give love to mock them,
Unsatisfiable passions
And wrath to kindle and burn irrepressibly,
Quench all lasting affection,
Suppress joy with despair,
Offer no hope to surpass the wait for demise.

I shall give them reasoning but no
answers,
Direction with no impetus,
Seasons with no certainty,
Despondence as they witness
Their existence waxing wane,
Youth wasted then longed for,
Until they can bare no more,
Until they abhor the composition,
Until they see the struggle is in vain.

How shall I teach them horror?
I shall ignore their prayers,
Answer with tragedy,
Make them go friendless and alone,
Give them an end
So they might appreciate
A beginning.

A Rabbit Prayed

A rabbit prayed to a lion one day -
Lord, Lord, save me from the fray.
Make all the eagles go away.
Bless the grass to be green and sweet.
And give me a bit more clover to eat.
Make thistles grow without any briars.
Protect me from snakes and prairie fires.
Limit the encroachment of man.
I guess I’ve been as good as any rabbit can.
I have kept all the rabbit laws.
I’ve wiggled my nose and licked my paws.
Make my warren a fine place to hide.
But the lion gave no answer, just smiled inside.

All The World Shall Never Have Been

The king casts away his crown.
The neighbor puts away his frown.
The drowning sailor reclines in repose.
The dew drop dries on the withering rose.
The canary sings no more in her nest.
The madman finds a gentle rest.
The ocean accepts the sky.
The mourning mother stills her cry.
The stars are all wiped away.
The night embraces day.
The philosopher no longer wonders why.
The soldier sits down to die.
The cancer eats away the pain.
The wind washes away the rain.
The moon blots out the sun.
The poet sees the poem is done.
The lamb and lion lie in peace.
The hopeful prayers all cease.
All shall rest in a meadow green.
And all the world shall never have been.

What’s In Your Head?

What’s in your head?
Does your memory fail?
Unbury your dead.
Tell me a tale.
Weave me a song
Of your happiness and strife.
Sing of your life long.
Relate all of your life.
Bring out the memory.
Yell out the history.
Oh, what I would not give
To once more live.
I ask you to show
From your death bed,
All that you know.
What’s in your head?