Dystopic–sonnet, future, chiasmus

Dystopic

The warped boards of our tiny shanties
Are soaked, smelly and rotting in cold rain
I asked my poor sick Mother to grant me
A little more cooked, though infested grain

The skeleton of the once City, alive
Sits desolate and cold in the distance
Where wealthy lovely people were once thrived
Only maniacs go there to sit in

They sift through the ruins searching for peace
The ruins sift them–an unending toil
When will the misery and crying cease
A little treasure found eases their turmoil

The War was over One Hundred Years Ago
Tomorrow we will see snow in Tampa
The cold will seep in as rain turns to snow

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My Sanctuary–found poetry

My Sanctuary

My Sense and my Sensibility lacking

Led me to my part of Planet Earth

My Front of the park

I sat down by my outflow pipe

Alive and Well with water and Grey froth

My park, not for 30 Days, but for 30 years

…or so I thought…

A Book in my Pocket but not Dorland’s Book

Maybe a Bible, maybe even a Commentary

Just not too Strong

But usually a mystery or a forensic Medical grossout

For Mega Nutrition I brought my nachos, runts, and chocolate covered Cinnamon bears

I eschewed Dr. Atkins with revulsion

He can keep his New Revolution

I never counted the time nor the pages

Of the Book I read

I had a complete refreshment at at my park

A break from the Satans of this Earth

I felt alive and real

My park has been invaded

My herons and my goose couple “Agnes and Albert”

I see no more

At the Bottom of the Bottom–object, ode, apostrophe

At the bottom of the bottom
Of my third hand chest of drawers
Lay two portraits of my mother as a departing daughter

I was the last one in our home of 30 years
“Go through the house” my father ordered
Right as we were to leave forever

There you were:  the last thing in the house–nearly overlooked

Now you sit stuck in time
Under my long johns, old t-shirts and decommissioned lace curtains
Encased in stiff manila covers

Clad in your Jackie O copper sequined dress
Black hair set in a style of yore with perfect makeup
Long white gloves and a short veil

In one photo you look down chastely
Like a teen bride
But you were nearly thirty-three

In the other photo your eyes are diverted
Half open, melancholy
As if you were being sold, not married

Your hands were primly clasped on a chair
Not knowing the future
Looking as if you didn’t want to know

Your hands were firmly grasped
On that chair
You did not want to let go…

Goin to the Food Bank

The hot dogs sat in their plastic casing.  They were always the same kind.  Long pale fingers of chicken and pork.  Food for the underpaid.  Unheeded they sat in the back of the freezer until the “end of the month”.  At last the little package of plastic with the pink fingers is taken out.  They defrost quickly and cook even quicker.  They are cooked and eaten in silence.  The aroma is the smell of overt poverty but you eat them anyway.  The beans are always last, ‘cuz they give you gassssss.

Shattered (a ballad)

Shattered Glass spreads itself in Swords in the dirty alley behind the apt….

Once upon a time in Hell Town
There was a chubby lonely lass
Who looked to a rock hero
And got hooked in fast

The girl finally met a boy
Who seemed nice but was a monster
But she still pined for her hero
And the boy had started to look like a loser

II

As we sat there thirty years ago
I told you I was leaving town
You told me we were done
And that I was all alone

Over hamburgers and fries and drinks
At a now defunct hamburger chain
You told me all your friends hated me
And never to call you again

My Mecca called and I had to go
I was leaving on a bus
I was going to live near my hero
And be a groupie so I could lust

You told me not to look you up
If I came back
I said I was not worried about you
Your soul suddenly seemed black

I went to my Mecca to see my hero
A dumb chubby lass
Little did I know that
It would all turn into shattered glass

I traveled through the lovely autumn
Progressively getting warmer
Down we went where the trees were still green
And you didn’t need cold weather armor

I first stayed at a cheap hotel on the beach
That I had been to before
Soon it became a weekly room
Very bare and poor

Shit jobs were easy to find
Working barely paid the rent
I suffered day by day
While all my money was spent

One hot day I made it to the concrete haj
Where my rock hero worked
Along came a very overgrown girl
Around our haj on a bike she lurked

I asked her if she was one like me
And she said yes
She showed me her tiny room
Plastered with our rock heroes in excess

I was lonely and miserable
And visited my friend  always at my initiation
We hung in the tiny dirty room
To share our rock hero fixation

One hot day we walked and walked
To go see my hero
The groundskeepers taunted us cruelly
And mangled my precious ego

Finally he appeared with his wife
Upon a ten speed bike
At least he was polite
He resisted my outstretched hand:  me he did not like.

He disappeared as soon as he appeared
And it was over
We left after a photograph with him
I had gotten to see my imaginary lover

That fall he was going to a ball
But I had no ticket
They were giving them away on the radio
But I was caught in Depression’s thicket

My friend went to the ball in the fall
In a Goodwill dress
The tickets were three hundred dollars
But for attire she spent far less

She was whisked away into the night
In a Porsche convertible chariot
With a few other fans from the haj
Oh! How fair it was!

She waxed poetic the next day about the ball
I sat in agony over opportunity missed
There was dinner and a concert
And she met all our heroes on the list

She said I might meet my hero’s brother
But I had to work that day
I was broke–no money
I did not know God would soon take him away

I was miserable and alone
Except in her company
We walked the beach and went to the mall
But I was missing something

Home, home to go home
Where my family was
And not to be alone!
I prepared to get on the next bus

Instead my folks flew me home
Right before Thanksgiving
It was 85 degrees when I left
My folks bragged it had been sixty

The airline lost my bag from the army store
It was delivered the next day
My friend had given me a glass clad picture
When I opened the bag–broken into shivers it lay!

III

I felt Conscience calling my name
That this was the end
I needed to stop following my hero
And say Goodbye to my fan friends
Shattered Glass became Swords

A vague horror attached to me
As I threw the shards into the trash
I had gone tilting at windmills
And my hopes had been dashed
Shattered Glass became Swords

I should have grown up and made some goals
But to follow my hero was my life
My Conscience was screaming
But I turned a deaf ear to the inner fight
Shattered Glass became Swords

Years and tears followed my sour trip
Yet I went on living in a fantasy
The world was just a dead place
Oh, if I knew my fallacy
Shattered Glass became Swords

I went to My Mecca again
A fat, grown woman
Invited by another infatuated friend
I should have never gone–no man!
Shattered Glass became Swords

One by one my fan friends dropped off
She was to be the last one
I was led into a disaster
She was rude and hateful and now all was gone
Shattered Glass became Swords

Years ago, another time in Teen Hell
I had forgotten my private war
Now in despair I pined
Not to be called anymore
Shattered Glass became Swords

At the bottom of the barrel of darkness
I found “religion” and new hope
Or so I had thought
I went to church to try and cope
Shattered Glass became Swords

Church didn’t work out
I would be a Christian “on my own”
It worked a few years
But soon I would be dashed against stones
Shattered Glass became Swords

It was New Years Eve five years later
And I felt despair
Everything I had been promised by false preachers
Had faded into the air
Shattered Glass became Swords

I thought of my hero again
My forgotten idol of yore
I gave up on life again
And reopened the old festering sore
And Shattered Glass became Swords

Two weeks later lightning struck
A terrible tragedy close to my hero
The shards of glass followed the hearse in a spiral
My trouble I could not fathom:  or I would have feared, Oh!
Shattered Glass became Swords

Down Down I went
On the road to perdition
I rode on the winds of my obsession
I had lost my life to fiction
Shattered Glass became Swords

One day in raptures of fantasies and stories
I woke up for a moment
To discover I had become again that teenage girl
Escaping from her peers’ torment
Shattered Glass became Swords

A few years later my hero died
I barely mourned him
You want to know the reason why
I had asked God to look for sin
Shattered Glass became Swords

I wanted to know what my hero was made of
Turned out he was a zero, not a hero
Not even fit to hang out with
For Thirty-Two Years my eyes had been closed to what was a fool
Shattered Glass became Swords

Now I’ll pay the eternal price
For God has robbed me of all peace
I’ve tried to repent and reform
But there’s no reconciliation or release
Shattered Glass entered my heart

PS…..and in ultimate IRONY I believe my fallen “hero” had become a ti close to his premature death.

Betrayal by Broken Heart Emo Published Sep 14, 2009

“Betrayal”  by Broken Heart Emo

So this is it….
I finally found out the truth
Never expected it from you! ! !
I thought you were my friend….
But you weren’t….
You were just using me just like you used all the other people…
For your own selfish reasons…
I always thought those people who left your friendship were wrong! !
But no, what I thought was wrong! !
I’m never gonna forgive you…
Nor will others! !
Because you are a person of betrayal…
No one can ever trust you…
You betrayed once… so you can betray again…
One day everyone will find the truth…
And you will be all alone…
Begging for forgiveness…
Then you will realize your behavior! !
N regret
All you have done…
And come apologizing back…
But I know you
You are as stubborn as ever…
And you will never do that…

Because there is one thing you are good at
And
That is
BETRAYAL

It has been 30 years since I was in school studying poems so I’ve forgotten most of them.  I remember the authors–some of them–but have forgotten particular poems.  So much has happened since then.  This is a recent poem I found on a web site that states my feelings exactly right now. The only line I disagree with is “never forgive”.  People are flawed creatures easily influenced by others and this person may have been influenced.

I think the author above states my emotions well.

http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/betrayal-89/

Back in the Day–Foggy Memories

In the last days of my misspent youth

You entered and left my life

Skinny English Toothpick

Sent to this town called Hell

From the mists of the North

You arrived in this desert

Your brain had turned on you

Forcing you to live far below your worth

At first you laughed and joked

And talked about music

You like to joke with me and tickle me

You’d flirt even.  You were way out of my league.

Androgynous and unsure

Cute freckles and blue eyes

Then the depression fell on you

The woman who took her life that we knew,

You wanted to know where did she go?

You dragged me along to clubs where

I didn’t belong

But a loser isn’t a chooser

Then there was that night

Right before your 22nd birthday

When a man took you aside for a chat

You came back and sat

And all life left you

You came back to the table

Silent

We tried to cheer you up on your birthday later

Nothing worked

You called and asked me questions

About things I could not answer

Is there a Heaven?  A Hell?

I missed all the signs.  I chose not to see.

In a cruel irony I got to take a trip to your country

The final blow?

When I got back I received the news

That they found you

Your brains blown out in a seedy rooming house

At age 22.

I had even visited your hometown on my tour.

There was guilt lurking.

All there was was a tiny bit of ash of you

Put into a tiny vault into a pavement.

Your name birth and death.

That’s all.

22.

I used to sometimes visit when I lived in the neighborhood

Wondering if the news you received that night

Sealed your fate.

Did you weigh the way that you would die?

Or did I guess wrong?

You took risks with your life and treatments were scarce

Back then.

A long painful death after such disappointment in life

Was too much.

You still sit in your little vault

An ash called despair

Aged 22.

I’m a lot older now and have suffered

Now facing getting old alone

Nothing panned out:  all came to nought

Hope fades,

I wonder if I should have been as you

22.

Rage

For years it sits dormant
Then the spark is lighted that you can't stop
it's forming into a hard hot ball.  A creature unto itself
roaring to life inside you.  You try and calm it and douse it but
it comes anyway.  You say you are too far along to give way to Rage
but there it is exploding out of you!  Fists clenched, teeth gnashed,
the creature you thought you got rid of is right there again. You want to
kick the wall or break your dishes.  Screaming would be just fine. You push Rage
back down and it calms again.  When will I be past being angry?  Am I doomed?  We are all
sinners you say to yourself:  Why can't I get rid of anger and rage towards this person?   Is there righteous
anger?  Or is it all sin?