Friday, August 28, 2015

I wake up
from a decades-dream
to discover
I wasn't sleeping.
Regrets swirl around in my head
like lyrics to an overused song.

A water color glass
where paint is added
bit by bit
until
it is all
muddy
          black. 

On a Bridge with Munch

Faceless
and voiceless,
I stand on the bridge
between yesterday
and tomorrow,
a cartoon figure,
fat
and flat.
I open my mouth,
but out comes
no sound.
I open my eyes,
but see nothing there.
The world is a Gaussian blur
of painterly impressionism.
I have
no
face. 


The promise
in an old photograph
is in the smoke-filled room,
rising seductively
from the cigarettes
perched precariously
on the side
of the coffee tables,
it makes me squint.
My vision distorted,
I see
what is not there.




Thursday, August 27, 2015

Hypocrisy after Emily Dickinson

The red and angry, swollen spot
cannot be ignored.
The reaching out
becomes a hiss--
instead of kindness,
sword.

What should be gentle
hides its shell
and prays for camouflage. 
The love, the helping,
doesn't bloom.
The grace, in sabotage. 


Tuesday, August 4, 2015

Nothing

There are a lot of blank spaces

as I look back

but

         blanks

                      are what I'm used to--

blanks

               are what we got a lot of

                                                     back then.

The story

                 has been filled in,

                                            drawn on,

                                                              made up

                                                                                as I went along

because fiction

             is better than

                                                     nothing.

Thursday, September 25, 2014

In a parallel universe,
children don't go hungry
and their parents don't run away
into themselves
into the bottom
of a glass
that shatters all around them
leaving them bleeding
and
alone.
Poems © Gemma W. Wilson