Who does she think she is?

She knocks on the door;
       she wants to come in.

I say, “It’s unlocked.”
There’s silence again.

She makes my lids drop;
       she teases me so.

Oh, how I’m aroused,
       I sigh.

                  She knows.
She whispers to me,
       “I’ve called you by name.”
Then laughs in my ear.
       “Don’t you hear me dear?”

My eyes are burning;
       I want to let go.
Madness is churning,
       rattling me so.

“Silly little child,”
       she says in a trill voice.
“Isn’t it time?”

“Time,”
       I tell her,
“is the enemy beast.
So much of it goes by
       without reprieve,
I’m aghast.” 

                “I know.”
She smiles back;
       her grin has worn thin.
“With arms wide open,
       I’ve invited you in.”

                  “That’s such a lie!”
Now I’m mad. I’ve had it.
She’s really whacked.

Energized once more,
       she knocks on my door.

"Sparked" to Life

Out of the ashes (of something even tragic)
she finds her will
Crawling through the cruel dirt
she climbs that dark hill
A run for her life; she’s gotta find self
The waters of life are consuming;
she must breathe for herself
Do you know where you’ll be in an hour?
In a Day? A week? Even a year?
Run, darlin’, run
Felicitous spirit overcomes the fear
A cry for help;
they don’t even see her. Can't hear
or be bothered in their zombie state
She’s all alone,
but she has her spirit
She’s tired and cold
but she’s taken hold of her fate.

Inspired by:

<object style="height: 344px; width: 425px"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/5ZWooHedsgk"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowScriptAccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/5ZWooHedsgk" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowfullscreen="true" allowScriptAccess="always" width="425" height="344"></object>

Within this glass bubble

Shards of glass under nails
Shattered
dreams
these snow flakes make

Fish cry
dies
Trapped
in this globe

Fists held high
These walls
run
deep

Day draws nigh,
no sleep

Stagnant air;
breathe to sigh
Misty morning
turns
dry cry

Where to hide?
Small spaces,
old places,
same faces

Tipped over,
upside down
New flakes
fall;
drown

Smile in place
masks
pain
from face
Yet can’t erase

Same small space
Rat race
sets
the rancid pace

Same bubble
Different Day

So He Has a Lamb

“Would you shut up already!” I say to the fiend.
If I close my eyes tight, maybe he’ll just leave.
“I can still hear you. I mean it: enough!”

“I’m just trying to help,” he explains in my ear.
His snickering scratches me, leaving a trail.
“Are you going to cower over a little fear?
I pegged you for stronger, my sweet little dear.”

I blink back a tear; my tongue has been tied.
Pulling the covers over my head, I just want to hide.
A moment of silence, the coast could be…

“So why aren’t you trying your very best?”
he mocks. “I mean, look at the rest;
some aren’t even writers and they pass the test.
Perhaps you should let that one sink in,”
he says with a grin.

Where is my voice? I want to respond.
How does he know so much about me?
What does he see that I cannot see?
Who does he think he is harassing me?
My thoughts are enraged; my eyes are inflamed.

“Cat got your tongue? That’s really a shame.
I had high hopes for you, my dear,” he says.

Those glistening eyes are a sight most vile.
If I could reach him, I'd rip them right out.
And that evil smile!

“Now look at that, I’ve really made you mad.
If you can’t stand the heat, you’d better think twice.
Take my advice; you’re wasting your time.
The ladder of success isn’t yours to climb.”

I’m starting to boil; I’m coming unglued.
Who the hell is this sinister dude?
Screw him! What does he know?
I’ve got a right to tell him exactly where to go.

“No one cares.” He throws his head back.
“Your words are in vain and they lack
a certain something,” is his smart alec crack.
“They fall on deaf ears if they fall on any at all.”

I’ve had enough! He’s plundered my voice.
Damn it already, where is my voice!
I want to scream, I want to shout. He's robbed me of choice.
I take a deep breath; I must get this out.
“Just shut up already. And while you're at it;
go to hell!” I manage to shout.

His boisterous laugh, so sardonic, it echoes.
Like the clink of a bell, it rings in my ears.
“Silly little lamb,” he shakes his head while he smirks.
“My sweet little dear, I am hell.”

Is it in the air?

This atmosphere is chilling to the bone;

a world of sorrow orbits all alone.

The air is heavy even though it’s dry.

The willow shudders, letting out a sigh.

Has Isothermal given up for good?

The ice is cracking where we both once stood.

I’m slipping as I’m also reaching out,

while chocking on the words I’d like to shout.

If things continue down this path of doom,

and emptiness leads pressure to consume,

what can be done to fill the empty air;

those pockets in between hope and despair?

I must breathe in and fill my lungs with hope.

A Century of Sonnets...Life in the Fast Lane: Sonnet 5

Longings Unfulfilled

These longings that I have go unfulfilled.

The pain runs deep; the scars won’t seem to heal.

Such mental grief; it makes me feel unskilled

and robs me of my peace and steals my zeal.

I wish I knew the magic of appeal,

or what it took to tell it where to go,

or how to work the sealing of the deal.

So many things I seek, yet still don’t know.

I spin my wheels but have nothing to show;

I put myself through torture – and for what?

The games that people play as if I’m slow

hurt the most; they breach the bonds of trust.

So here I stand alone and feeling lost,

still longing for while wondering at what cost?

A Century of Sonnets...Life in the Fast Lane: Sonnet 4

Enraptured

My soul is touched by melodies so sweet.

How intoxicating are those notes turned sound,

dancing through the air and all around,

while tickling each nerve with every beat,

and leaving in their wake a radiant heat.

Such passion from the artist when it’s found

can translate into powers most profound

even Apollo’s satyrs can’t defeat.

Each key turned note, each resonating tone

is spirit food; most needed nourishment.

Music comes in many forms and shapes:

Accompanied or handled all alone,

it’s wondrous ways behold such sentiment.

In my defense it’s how my mind escapes.

Confessions of a Pyromaniac

The Incineration of…


So often, leaving well enough alone is better said than done:
    No sooner has a fire been reduced to a smolder
    someone comes and scoops up coals from underneath the rubble,
    making a new fire next to the one near extinction.
And while that new blaze is being nurtured into life,
    hot air is blown in just the right amounts and tight places.
Not only does this new fire now take flight, but the one
    reduced to nothing is now flamed back into existence.


Now, two unwanted fires blaze with such glorious faces.
New kindle is added to this new conflagration:
    what a kaleidoscope of color this new monument makes;
    how entrancing are those flames as they greedily partake.
Such treasured family heirlooms are now burning at the stake.
One’s precious articles are added for good measure’s sake.
Followed are the items closest to fondest memories.
Why not add the forest to the mountain as it bakes?


A bonfire’s not complete without some added extra fuel:
    as the golden rule assures, just a drop or two will do.
Crackle, crackle, pop: fuming flames now grasp at hungry air;
    spewing their spawn offspring seeds into a fragile world;
    searing silken flesh as they unearth their common ground;
    branding their territory by marking where they now land.


Now, since the fire’s all-ablaze, glowing strong and bright
    I’d like to add my own things and lighten up my load…
       First are all the insults, they really have to go.
       Next comes all the broken things hidden from the light.
       Let’s not forget the hurtful stuff buried with the trash;
          the items next to bitterness and harsh cracks.
I think it’s time to lose those red-hot coals upon my heart.
Plus the boxes of regretted things forever tearing me apart;
    their contents overflowing like a pack rat’s treasure chest:
       with pride so high, it hits the sky;
       with things allowed to slip by;
       with acts so selfish, filled with shame;
       with pity’s gritty sand;
       with things I’ve said in fits of rage;
       with vanity’s so grand;
       with times I pushed to shift the blame;
       with haughty, dirty hands;
       with lies so stupid they were lame…
And even after all of this, those boxes still contain more,
    but for sanity’s sake, I’ll say no more!


Now the fire’s burning strong and bright, as infernos tend to do:
    Perhaps I’ll save myself a stick while I watch the blaze ensue,
        and over the open flame I’ll roast a marshmallow or two.

A Century of Sonnets...Life in the Fast Lane: Sonnet 3

Who Should Pay for Your Road Rage?

How funny he should pay for your mistake:

The one you made when you were playing chase;

while in pursuit of fair, for anger’s sake,

your madness left an imprint on his face.

A fine or two, and you were free to go;

the damages, for him, remain intact,

and daily he’s reminded of the blow

he suffered from your STUPID careless act.

No matter how he tries to make things right,

insanity’s his daily food for thought:

The nightmares aren’t exclusive to the night.

Yet with a check, your sanity’s been bought!

I doubt that you’d remember him at all

while learning such a lesson standing tall.

A Shakespearean sonnet

~dedicated to my belovéd~

2/11/10

A Century of Sonnets...Life in the Fast Lane: Sonnet 2

Please Give Me a Simple Dream

I want to dream a simple dream so sweet
of flower fields ‘n pebble-bottomed streams,
where canopied trees offer a retreat,
and healthy rays of sun burst at the seams.
I had a dream that died a weary death.
No matter how I clung to it, it died.
While stealing the last laugh with its last breath,
it mocked me with a smile: Still I tried
to want it bad enough for both of us.
What a fool I’ve been to think of dreams at all!
While I wished, the rest went out of focus,
and left me feeling useless and quite small.
Where are You, my Rock and my Salvation,
in the hours of my greatest desperation?

A Century of Sonnets...Life in the Fast Lane: Sonnet 1

Bizzaro World

This world I live in really is bizarre:

What’s right is wrong; what’s wrong is always right.

From day to day my mind is pushed too far

over the edge; the view is quite the sight.

The sun goes down: I’m left to deal with night.

If sleep’s for me, it’s not at my own will;

the nightmare finds me, looking for his fight.

Yet I endure my jaggèd little pill

like a good sport, I submit to the drill.

A disillusioned fool, I play along.

The glutton feeds, but never has his fill

of highs and lows, yet daily he grows strong.

Bizzaro world’s repulsive at its best:

The faint in heart would never pass its test!

My First Sestina

This daily grind is wearing to the bone:

My wheels are spinning while I run in place.

How many times do I have to be told
to guard my heart from growing hard and cold,
and bite my tongue or find myself alone;

just blowing out hot air in empty space?

Sometimes I feel I’m orbiting in space:

Somewhere out there; chilling to the bone;

Going nowhere; feeling all alone.

Quite unprepared to dress for such a place,

I bundle up. “This world is very cold

and ruthless in its ways,” so I’ve been told.

There are the times I wish I would have told

you how I feel about this stale airspace;

then instead of leaving me out in the cold,

now and again you’d throw me a small bone

to satisfy me in this stagnant place,

and make me feel as if I’m not alone.

I have this fear of being all alone;

it’s bottled up with other things untold.

Trying to fit in, I’m out of place:

just like the odd stone in a herringbone

design; it’s cut to fit into the space,

and then once changed, emotions are acold.

You break my heart with cutting words so cold.

Sometimes I wish you’d just leave me alone.

How can you say these things? I have a bone

to pick with you; and once you have been told

my thoughts, my mind and heart will have the space

to fill the new uncluttered, empty place…

Let love take over bitter’s prior place,

while freedom rules by purging all the cold

and dying things once hidden in that space.

“Life’s too short to go it all alone.”

These words of wisdom often I’ve been told,

yet living by them takes more than backbone.

Within this space, I know my place:

I’ll bruise the bone; I’ll bear the cold.

I’m not alone is what I’m told.

Living the Illusion

How would it feel to just let go?
       Would the sky really fall,
       or the earth cease to spin?
       Would anyone really notice
              in more than marginal proportions?

How can one survive while buried alive:
       Trapped within the nightmare,
       under the rubble of yesteryear,
       tossed with the run-off thoughts of today,
       composted with the accusations of tomorrow?

Can one really control the landslide
       as it brings down everything in its path,
       in selective and random ways;
       rendering even an iron grip powerless
              like putty in its wrathful reach?

Barely hanging on is a temporary solution…
       Would it be easier to crawl back under -
       into earth’s vile womb in submission;
       where repression effected one,
       yet spared a small nation of sorts?

Where’s the decision really?
       Isn’t it all just an illusion
       of the cruelest magnitude;
       teasing and taunting its prey
       to the banquet table feast?

Enigmatically Paranormal?

I’m beginning to think

there's something wrong with me

I’m a magnet for the unordinary

often attracting the unorthodox

in a dichotomy of formed imagery

Like Venus, half illuminated

come the beautiful things of light

while drawing from hiding

those things within the darkness

Two roads haphazardly coinciding

The sweet and the sour of it

It’s mind warping; utterly strange

Not as the fantastic meets the mundane

or unconventional breaks from convention

Rather the eccentric meets the insane

I’m beginning to think

there's something wrong with me

A concupiscent life (revised)...

And that Girl Phased Right Into History

I once was the girl they called Jeni
I’d race any boy for a penny
Every day I would plot
To find just the right spot
To blow their doors off for the ante.

Now over the years they still raced me
Or maybe it’s more like they chased me
How I never knew why
The boys called or stopped by
Is a mystery as deep as the sea.

And as I got older I could see
The game had become touch and feely
Where the “no” should have been
Toward these boys almost men
Was a senseless silence most eerie.

The lines that they used became silly
Or my being hip was more likely
How I’d turn them away
In the course of a day
While their eyes plotted how they’d get me.

I once was the girl they called Jeni
Who longed for a boy just to like me
How the time slipped right by
In the blink of an eye
And that girl phased right into history.

No longer a girl, now I’m Queen Bee
Funny, now there’s three girls below me
Now the boys come around
Seeking fun to be found
Now my motto’s “Over my dead body!”

A Mind Refined Steps Along Life Free (revised)

My mind is such a scary place to be
As time erodes, the space is closing tight
The light is dull; the way is hard to see.


Pursuit of finer things is life’s decree,
Yet life refined in excess hinders sight
My mind is such a scary place to be.


I know the way. Let courage be the key.
With staggered steps, I travel through the night
The light is dull; the way is hard to see.

My biggest fear: to be alone with me
The way is rough along this path to right
My mind is such a scary place to be.


Most lessons learned in life will have a fee;
Yet through it all, no thoughts of flee or flight
The light is dull; the way is hard to see.


I must step out and live as though I’m free
I spread my wings, with fear at this great height.
My mind is such a scary place to be,
The light is dull; the way is hard to see.

Revised Edition...

O, To Ever Understand Thou Poetry Terms

~A twist from Shakespeare's Romeo and Juliet, 1594~

O poetry, poetry, wherefore art thou complex?

‘Tis but thy terms that are my enemy:

Thou art thyself, though not prosody.

What's prosody? It is nor verse nor foot,

Nor line nor length, nor any other part

Belonging to a word. O, be some other term!

What's in a poem? That which we call prosody

By any other name would smell as sweet;

Ugh...the enjambment of brain cells

Thy meter of rhythm, no sense of closure

So poetry would, were it not poetry callèd,

Retain that dear insight which it oweth.

All is calm

So quiet,

the methodical

ticking of the clock

is like the rhythmic heartbeat

bridging the past with the present

A saccharine lullaby to a weary soul

therapy to a chaotic filled mind

peace to a restless spirit

Even the air is still

All is calm

Bask

in this peace

soak it into very fibers

replenish depleted recesses

rebuild the temple a brick at a time

breath in this air filled with radiant life

feel the very flow of blood shifting

as it rejuvenates poisoned veins

and revives an abused body

like living waters

baptize

Be refreshed,

renewed by this grace

Rehydrate every ounce of being

like an athlete after the longest season

Prepare ye for the new season approaching

Rest within these solitude moments

even the windows to the soul

need their respite

Just breath in

to sigh

Translation please...

Perso nella Traduzione
                   Lost in Translation

          By Jenifer DeBellis

Qui si leva in piedi una ragazza
                   Here stands a girl
perso nella traduzione
                   lost in translation
prova di spostare la sua mente intorno
                   trying to wrap her mind around
momenti di innovazione
                   breakthrough moments

timore in modo schiacciante
                   Overwhelming awe
domina questa arena
                   dominates this arena
Mentre sensazioni esaltate
                   While elated sensations
intera esistenza dell'inondazione
                    flood entire existence

Kissy-face Santa

By Jenifer DeBellis

Dedicated to Ricky and Suzie Young,

wherever life ended up taking you both.

I shall never forget the night before Christmas...

It’s not every day Santa makes special house trips to visit little girls and boys during wakeful hours. So the Christmas Eve Mr. Claus paid me and my baby sister a special visit was one I shall never forget. Of course, it was Santa’s peculiar behavior that has stuck with me for all of these years.

Being an Air Force brat stationed in Germany is a lot for a four and a half year-old little girl to wrap her always thinking mind around. As the holiday season neared the big day, my anxious areas of concern were how was Santa supposed to find us, and more importantly, how would he get into our apartment if we didn’t have a fireplace?

This is most likely the reason he showed up in our doorway that Christmas Eve in ’77. In the spirit of keeping the magic alive, someone must have made arrangements for this private little gathering. Perhaps it was my mom’s best friend, Suzie, who was with us when the doorbell rang.

At the sound of the bell, she bolted for that door like her life depended on it. After a moment of silence, Santa’s chanted, “Ho, ho, ho. Merry Christmas,” could be heard from around the corner where we all sat in the living room. Well, nothing sends young and old alike scrambling to the scene of action like a familiar sound from distant lands. “Could that be who it sounds like?” was the common awed response.

As I rounded the corner leading to the front door, I caught the most profound sight: Santa had Suzie dipped back and was quite passionately kissing her. I tried to make sense of this, while I drowned out my mom’s scolding in the background as she insisted that her friend knock it off already.

Upon seeing my bewildered expression, and unexpected presence (I was sure), Santa returned Suzie to her upright position. From the embarrassment of this awkward moment, his face was the darkest shade of red. Suzie’s expression, on the other hand, appeared to be more victorious and completely void of any shame. I took this all in with my quizzical stare.

My mom began pulling me back into the other room, and encouraged Santa and Suzie to follow us. I stole one more peak over my shoulder as we walked the short distance. When what to my wondering eye should appear? But Suzie smack-groping ‘ole Santa’s rear!

What was I supposed to do with this horrible secret? Didn’t Santa know Mrs. Claus was watching over the North Pole while he was gone, and she could see who was being naughty or nice? Or how about poor Ricky, my favorite pal; what would he think of this behavior? I guess even Santa Claus acted like a bad little boy at times. This was the only reference of peace I could draw from this moment.

My daydreams were interrupted by the small pile of presents sitting next to me with my name on them. The first present was from my granny and papa all the way in Florida. I sighed inward, withholding my disappointment at the sight of footed pajamas. Didn’t they know those things suffocated you? I smiled for the picture my mom was snapping with her new camera, mostly because I knew if I acted how I felt at the moment, it would not be good for me!

Without waiting, I snatched up the next gift. I didn’t need help reading the tag because I recognized the name Jimmy on it (as this is also my father’s name that I had seen so many times, it was committed to my memory). I guessed correctly that it was from Aunt Jane and Uncle Jimmy in Minnesota. Wow, I thought, Santa really had to work hard chasing these down for us. Maybe the guy in red wasn’t such a bad man after all. I ripped the paper off of that gift with lightning speed; I knew if it was from Aunt Jane, it was going to be spectacular! And it was. I now held a giant Raggedy Ann doll. A brand new one, not a hand-me-down, or knock-off version; but the REAL DEAL!

I sat squeezing my beloved new doll to my chest for the remainder of the night. From the cozy little spot on the sofa where I was curled up, I watched Suzie and Santa through slitted eyes. Can you believe Suzie sat on that man’s lap the rest of the night, giggling like a little schoolgirl the whole time?

The Element of Pain

Pain
Its poison weaves into one’s very fibers
wrapping, pinching, pulling every which way
sending out roots; those life giving veins
filled with the insulin of established authority

An all-consuming fire
it burns through the bone and into the marrow

Which is worse:
        · The physical, immobilizing form that takes one’s breath away?
        -or-
        · The mentally tormenting configuration that makes it hard to breath?

Either one will drive a mind wild
The world’s tools cannot always tame
the beast’s tongues of repression
as they lick and spew their venomous flames

The waiting game, once consumption takes root
is its own form of torture -
       (Thoughts bridge between erasing the ache
        and holding together until deliverance is made)

What about when these two join forces?
When physical and mental combine?
       · Will a bridge be able to hold their weight?
       · Will madness ensue; can thoughts flow at all?
       · Will the only thought be to hope that the poison works fast
          so the victim’s redemption can lead to a quick death?

Living in hell, this unbearable hell
makes an irrational fool of ‘em all
When the only thought one can form in this storm
is this torment must stop, and by any means mortal
Then the battle is set for defeat and the soul has sold itself out
       (An ebbing tide, it’s a thief in the night; so slowly it does erode.
        Will the soul be hollow before time runs out?)

Pain: man’s form of torture and suffering; degrees of distress are beside
         the point. Survival's dependant upon one’s faculty function; just
         how much can one man endure?

Exanimate’s Door

                                                  

Season Out of Focus

‘Tis the season,
it comes like a thief in the night
Robbing the cradle
of joy, peace and focused sight
How it sends us rushing
every which way but right

Long forgotten is the reason,
the heart of it all
We’ll race past the red bucket,
annoyed by the bell
While shovin' past the cattle line
entering the mall

Our focus on finding
the perfect gift to give
While people go hungry
and have no place to live
All the while in our pride
we claim we’re proactive

We shift the focus
debating over belief
While at the root of it all
births doctrinal grief
A heart for the oppressed
should focus on relief

One closing thought:
How will you ignite the spirit?
Will you turn deaf ears
and pretend not to've heard it?
Or can you receive the message
and revere it?

A holiday thought for MCC Holiday Halfbook by J DeBellis 2009

Full Moon Madness

I feel
disillusions bitter bite breaking skin
As I’m
racking my brain, while waiting without win
I see
Full Moon, pregnant with her illegitimate wrath
As she
washes over the earth with her spellbound bath
I sit
in this lonely place in time; 'tis so cold
And think:
Why’s it so dark under this grey light’s hold?
I hate
this aching in my chest, it’s like a hole
As I
wonder without end why I’m faint in soul