The Scary Red Man

The scent of Mellissa raises graceful in the air,
minty white nectar lemony-effervescent hangs among the rows of candy and sweetmeat.
The hall is quite and chill
and the fire in the furnace boils away the remainders of the hearty boars-hind.
The stars, ever-pining away the child looks towards them in hope.
Sleep comes and dreams wake to celebrate the sheer.
 
Cold and echoing, bold and joyful;
is the silence in the early morn whet he comes to play.
Decked in red, dyed fur and shadowy figment black.
He shines glory in white.
No need to use what isn't there;
Climb down the chimney with care.
 
No sound is made: no thump or brush.
No laugh is sounded…it only gets quieter.
A gift is laid down with care in front of the dying fire.
A final toy stuffed in a stocking with glee.
Blessed quiet…
And the house is empty.
 
It's eerie how the sound echoed,
and the Cheshire grin on his horrifying face.
He who resides in the silence of that morn
A spirit with fire in his eyes.
I looked into his face and saw my death and that terrible smile…
And he all but disappeared... faded into memory like the air…

 

ISA

Merry Christmas.

4th Hour (The Writer)

Yesterday daydreams bleed away
Writers' blocks
And nascent birds fleeting at the brain.
An author throws his lasts work in the bin
Preparing himself to begin again.
 
Does he get up to glance at that old oak in the distance
And it's older ghosts smiling on in melancholy at the newest addition
Of a menagerie building timeless in the sunset
Of ancient souls whispering?
He thinks so, going back to work
 
Mauling maudlin ideas, nay,
He rests destined for the rocks,
A fan and the pain
of peeling skin,
typing on a laptop on a needle pin.
 
A comfortable bed and a sleepy stance
Weary with one of the many false smiles and broken thesaurus diction
Groaning and moaning in that unpleasant ache, a bet
To sleep in peace staring, turning
He looks toward that food and knife and fork.
 
Waking in torrential rain
Who could move for the cold and pain?
Grimy, grungy, that book stays in use…
Paper trails surround the author
Of fortune.
 
'Dreams again…
How long since he's had them?
Years that ripped and tore
Hardly ever dared or bore
Any sign of times good and past.'
 
Moving from a stopped point in the ache
Never seems to stop the quake
In his limbs, fuge
Of ideas spew onto the thick mud,
Torrential and opportune.  
 
'Does it do good to lend
Aid to one who's been naught but thin
For all that's worth
The mirth,
Drowning in a casks?'
 
Wantless needfuls ' restless in the din of passing crowds
A gambler in time, sitting in a back alley
That no-body notices.
A slight awning does nothing to keep him dry,
And the ink's about to run out.
 
By and by, a useless shroud
Covers little and protects less than the abbey
That no-body notices.
There's no material that can light the fire
And the walls are crumbling in.
 
~Little useless perygryn
Old and young, and so divine
Sits in a corner all by themselves
While all that surrounds them;
Poisons and motives~
 
An old coin plops in front
From an old lady who's already gone
and sits in his hat,
His writing askew
As he lays his head to rest.
 
 
ISA

3rd Hour

Cold and wet  in the mourning rain
Desiring freedom though restricted;
Old sailors that used to be,
Long since have died.
Work, work,
Break the stones of
Monotony of building a new world.
 
Crack the gravel,
Shift the dirt,
Cart the steel,
Place the bricks.
There's nothing more,
Just endlessly pacing, bodily placing,
Adding to a changing world.
 
New forms for old delivers.
A man and a woman
Old and with children
Add to the oak from the gran-fathers' day.
Sitting, waiting,
Drinking old wine and watching the clouds
Whilst waiting for a greater world.
 
Freedom is here yet not what they want;
Everybody wants more.
Committed to the old,
None can reach out and sacrifice,
Embittered, enchained by the group,
Cynics and fighters are grounded
By vain society's world.
 
Going home at the end of the day,
Still raining, still in pain,
Head to the barn
Where home is born.
There's naught like a cold drink
In an old room
To feel the breaking of the world.
 
Do  you need a distraction from the emptiness within?
Emptiness waking on a fruitful morning repeating dreary rain…
It's not as if a comfortable bed
Exists to take the work away
In the warm company of memory
On a bench in a park
In the world of what hasn't been.
 
Repetition of labor
Sinking stones in a mountain of gravel.
Glassy beach of steel memory
Recalling
Red lines.
Should have worn a hard hat today
In light of the world that is.
 
Dreary. Closer.
Stormy. Closer.
Boring. Closer.
Old. Closer.
Changing. Closer.
Light. Closer.
Pain. CLOSER.
OH GOD, I DON'T WANT TO DIE.
Dark.
Still alive?
Opening eyes to a sparkling new world…


ISA

2nd Hour

Tomorrow brings
A Dried up,
washed up
Has-been
Of dreams unseen.

The old fool under the tree
Lazily drinking his whisky -rum -wine -drink
Could not recover from the brink
That life sent him.
He goes there the second the first light rises with memories of yesterday.

Today is grey.
It's not odd: the existence
Of gray stormy Saturdays.
Though the dawn rises
Still comes the rain.

Stone is eventually received from meager earnings
It's shaped,
It breaks,
It falls apart.
And the young boy sent off, goes out to seek more.

It's a long journey.
Through slums,
Through sewers,
Through wide streets paved with gold.
It's a long journey for boys with less than more.

Dangerous rocks fall from high above,
Steep cliffs with hidden dangers,
Paths not fit for those of
naive dispositions
Litter steely landscapes.

Words have little meaning for a third of the journey.
Actions mean less.
It's not what can give,
But what can be taken
That brings the boy falling down the Cliffside.

Found by a lady
In yellow stripes
Light as a dove,
And just as nice,
A boy awakens.

The boy has forgotten. What did he seek?
Distracted, he loves…What made him so meek?
A transformation. Wild forgotten; changes.
Grassy forests of steel and glass…
In schools learning, teaching class.

Freedom chooses from a land of men,
What can be lost, what can be binned.
Rule is filtered through piles of trash,
And young ones are gelded into a
Womanly mash.

They dance and create.
Crude gravel becomes stone.
The world becomes paint;
Fragile and broken.
Real and False.

Soon stone becomes marble,
And beads become diamonds.
Freedom shatters,
Bound in chains for paltry satisfaction
In a designed distractions.


ISA

1st Hour

Went out to sea one winter eve
To fish for stone,
 to replace a wall,
Of bitter feelings
for those left and lost.
Met a pool of poisoned birds,
Shrieking to not hit the curbs
Though there was
Nothing left of the well within,
They scream for help
And did nothing but sink.
And though dawn is on the sail
Rotting logs bare yellow stains
And the stones we passed yell "Nothing to gain".
Questions sank and the boat goes under.
 
Next we saw some friendly sharks,
Asking for help to turn curiosity's spark
And to help them lead their babies away
From a terrible man with a terrible plan.
We passed them by and asked them questions but the man said:
"The newborn sharks need not pass the time
Looking in books for forgotten rhymes.
Reason's great big ugly head
Killed off dreams before they were dead."
He spat and hissed from within the ball
Cut off his arm just to see them fall.
And though there is hope in all life
They can't seek what's left of him
If they've no hope at all. And they go on, die out
Starve…and disappear, ruled by hands that chained them.
 
Jet black patches rolled on the waves
Kept safe and sound by lords of sin
Who want nothing more to kill again.
Left dry and wanting under the earth,
There isn't anything that won't bring their mirth.
Those disgusting blackguards wet their throat
And with cruelty bloat.
They moisten their loins on creatures' remains
Seeking endless thrills and gains.
They deprive deprave and with nothing to lose
Spend not but a penny, take away your gain, and supplement it with the cheapest of booze.
If no one's left to make sure they croak
The amphibians poison
will make sure the lever's broke
And we'll continue on the waves.
 
The man of the sea turned the boat around.
Head for port and harbor we found.
Not an hour away the nightmares left
To seek out younger, fresher flesh.
The memories of our day at sea,
With sailors, sharks, and dark daydreams
Quit our heads to head for some drink
To bring ourselves back from the brink.
Who knew when we left for cobblestone,
We’d find trouble before trouble'd gone home?
Not that captain, not the leader before the fray
Who sits in the corner drinking away his day.
With the bartender's money and his cups in his hand
The drunken sailor headed out for dry land,
And sat beneath the tree with a thousand bands.

 

ISA

Lost

They do not reach beyond the gate

Those words without voices left to speak.

Questions without answers bait

the curious to eke

out their existence in empty lines

of lawn and pine

Manufactured by the leftovers

Of those who brought light and dreams…

And those who died, felled by the whims of fancy.

 

A world without shadows is a lonely place

To any wayward soul.

There are no wheres to hide, no hidden grace

And weapons old.

Imagination is dead, buried under broken wings

Of forgotten people, places, proper things.

No corners to enter worlds beyond the scopes

Of already imagined ideals.

We conform and the world dies…

 

Forget the years, the people, the places, the objects of power

In our deepest memories of times lost under the scrutiny of disbelievers.

God? A word used no longer for hope, hanging lofty from the bowers

Of castles, defiled by deceivers.

H…o…p…e… slow typing trying to develop a sense of wonder and love

Non-existant as purity in the eyes of one turtle dove

Without it's mate in the seas of delirium.

Lo, we are lost.

 

 

ISA

Ridiculous Thoughts

Waking morning,

Day to day.

See the price it takes to play;

"Have a care, now hurry dear."

Leaving home: it takes some tears.

 

Running rampant down the street.

Running just to beat the heat.

Running just to trip and fall

Into stress's overalls.

Run to the left

"Got to make it just in time"

Run to the right

"Can't be late: It's not alright!"

 

Closed the door,

Didn't make it.

Angry at it;

Hate it, hate it.

No respect from the passing crowds;

Enough to scream it louder, loud.

 

Blow apart like the atom bomb:

Danger to others, sis, bro, and mom.

Wouldn't be a problem, but that's alright

Let's treat the angry like neophytes.

 

 

ISA