Sonnet 10: Restless Spirit Roams

My mind is cleared. My soul is not at rest.

An empty mind is tempted with this test:

What will you fill me up with once I’m cleared?

Will you replace the clutter with what’s feared?

Or be sparked by Prometheus’ veiled fires

     and stock it with the things of heart’s desires?

Perhaps it’s time to build on solid ground

     with truths and tribulations proved most sound.

Selection is a process, not a task;

     it's not a time to form another mask.

Importance should be placed on choosing wise

     and balanced thoughts – not fantasies or lies.

I’m standing at the door; I’m looking in.

I’m really still not sure where to begin.

Alone Space in this Cold Place - To be Published in the BAC Street Journal

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?

I’m blowing out hot air in empty space.

My mind’s a mess; I’m orbiting in space.

Just floating out there, chilling to the bone;

I’m 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.

So many 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,

you’d be with me. Yet here I am 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.

They break me down. Can’t you 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…

Can’t love take over bitter’s prior place?

Let freedom rule 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,

but 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.

Room with a View Meets L=A=N=G=U=A=G=E Poetry

Season Fade and So Do They

Here for a season, or so, they “come and go talking of Michelangelo.” [1]
Never rooting, just tilling – never planning for a harvest
Here today, gone tomorrow, leaving a breadcrumb trail of sorrow
Heartstrings snuggly connected. Were they not detected?
Over plucked cords are soon rejected. The grass is surely greener,
brighter, full of new life on the other side of the horizon
I guess there’s nothing more to say. Their words disappear,
picked up and carried away in the winds of yesterday
Why’d I look back? I’ve learned that lesson the hard way
Now rooted, a vibrant and healthy soul. Do I stay or do I go?
The cycle of rebuilding and starting again has grown old
It’s so cold without the comfort of their warmth. It’s so cold
The weeping willow shudders, folding in on her solitary darkness


[1] From Eliot's "The Love Song of Alfred Prufrock"

There for the Picking

The stem of eVery rose has a thorn
It’s a wonder I’ve survived so many pricks
A renewed wOund heals slowly, if at all
An empty souL is really full of spent blossoms
Trusting is scAry business, if it can even be done
To be safe: a Thing both desired and extinct
Willing...imagIning my no meaning no. Plucked; undone
Fallen petals On overgrown grass is this
disappointmeNt in its many forms of bloom

You Stopped that I’d Take Notice

Silver flash of light
     the sky’s in bloom today
How graceful in your flight
     a grey and white delight

Symbol of peace: blesséd watchful eye
     Purity. Sacred
     Spirit of love and hope

goddess of the Morning Star
     riding grace she calls her own
     The pet she can’t confine

You are mine, while I am yours
     A cageless soul-to-soul
     bond in realms unseen

So divine; your spirit fills the air
     your spirit is the air
I breathe you in and eat you with my eyes
     I am full. I see you, and I know
My eye’s on things above
     sweet spirit of the Dove

Room with a View (Within Glass Bubble revised)

Glass shards under nails
Shattered dreams
snow flakes make

Solitary fish cry [1]
dies
trapped in this glass
Fists held high
These walls run deep

Day draws nigh;
no sleep

Stagnant air;
breathe to sigh
Misty morning
waxes dry

Where to hide?
Small space:
old places, same faces

Tipped over, upside down;
flakes fall:
drown

Smile masks pain
Yet can’t
erase           yesterday, today,
tomorrow

Same small space:
rat race
Rancid pace preserves


[1] Taken from Wolfgang Borchert’s Do Stay, Giraffe

Vortex Portal

There’s an internal drawer
I’ve recently discovered
I can’t tell you where it is
that would be cheating
Its contents remain a mystery
The journey to its discovery
has left an interesting impression
I could tell you what’s in there
but where’s the fun in that?
You must find it on your own
if you dare
Only the adventurous need apply
The four-dimensional stuff
can be found near the front
The rest must have slid


to the back of the drawer.

Maladaptive Minute Hand

1 

reason: Voice of

2 

Solitaire sophisticate

3 

Pep-talking fool

4 

Pathological rationalizer

5 

Target turned

6 

soundboard

7 

Lightbulb

8 

turns the key

9 

Victory?

10 

Reason

11 

Rewind

12 

and hit play:

1 

reason…

Volatile Vacillator

He was dead, alright.
I should know: I killed him,
then rejoiced that it was finally over.
Yet
he always came back for more.

That smirk of his
ignited my fury; fanned my flame.
“You’re dead,” I said.
“Like that matters. You’ve killed me before.”
“But I watched you incinerate while I dodged your daggers.”
“The ones that pierced through your heart?” he asked
with regret. “Oh no, I made sure they hit their target.”

That look! How it shifted the coals upon
my heart.
Fire
blazed
passion,
killing all shame.
Desire now coursed my veins.
Such rapturous Fire!

We put down our weapons;
the killing was done.
Doing what we did best,
we became
one.

After seeing this in print, it almost felt poetically entertaining

                                    Found Weekend To Do List

 1. Audit receivables to get hubby off back
 2. Reconcile bank statements to avoid further “banking fees”
 3. Take kid #1 to dermatologist to avoid being “the worst mom ever!”
 4. Remember to pick kid #2 up from second night sleepover
 5. Paint kid #1’s bedroom, after:
 6. Ride kid #3’s butt to get rest of crap out of old room
 7. Attack mountain of laundry that is now yelling back in disgust
 8. Prepare for Monday’s tax return appointment without panicking that
     books have been neglected since August
 9. Clear from great room the abandoned crap from kid #1’s old room
10. Go through two weeks worth of mail and try not to cry
11. Cleverly find funds to make minimum payments and mortgage on time
12. Work on homework and submissions
13. Remember to eat, and drinking might be a smart addition
14. Meet hubby’s needs and expectations
15. Random pile of patching and other tasks unforeseen
16. Keep optimism that there might be time left for me

***Note to self: soccer and softball practices start on Monday

This Beautiful Mind is Bright: A Mirror Image of Gertrude Stein

A tribute to Stein’s “If I Told Him: A Complete Portrait of Picasso”

by Jenifer DeBellis

Sunshine, hey sunshine, sunshine hey;
you’re bright. You’re bright sunshine; bright sunshine you are. Are you?
You are.
Does little Johnny Nash know he’s bright? He’s bright; bright he is. Is bright Johnny Nash, Jr. still little?
No.
Not little?
Little not.
Not.
Not odd odd not.
Not odd. Not. No?
Arithmetic adds subtracts numbers. Integers are problems. Problems are integers: numbers.  Subtracts arithmetic, arithmetic adds. Adds and adds and adds and adds. Solutions; sets of values.Values set the solutions. Values set, set you see. See you seeing you seeing me.
You see me?
Set.
Value you seeing me.
See values.
Set.
Values of set solutions. Society’s set of values…do they satisfy the set of given inequalities?
Inequalities.
Given inequalities.
Inequalities given John Forbes Nash, Jr. Johnny Nash given inequalities and inequalities given sum. Sum of the parts must equal the whole. Whole, the equal must part from the sum. Sums and sums and so and so, parts are whole. Whole inequalities are summed. Summed up as a whole.
Brilliant!
Brilliant sums the parts. Whole parts can’t sum the image. Image image and image of image.
Image sum can’t part; its whole parts can’t sum image. Image is brilliant. Brilliant is that
image sum. Some parts whole, yet whole parts none.
None.
One.
Not one.
Two.
Two for one.
Then none, or one. Eleanor: one, was one; two. Two one was, then one was three. Three can’t be, can’t be three. Three! Three’s an inequality. No sum. No sum is three. Three can’t be. Be three?
One.
Silence.
Formulate.
Formulate formulas. Formulas formulate formulas, so formulas can formulate. Must formulate so formulas can formulate.
“Formulas first.”
Who said formulas first? He’s after him, he is. Is he after him? He is. He is is he after him and after him is he? He?
Who is he who’s after him? Who’s after him? They’re after him; they’re all after him.
After him they are.
Are they?
Silence.
Sweet silence.
As silence is sweet, silence is.
As winter sun.
Has winter sun. Sun winter has. As winter has sun. Sun has.
As winter sun.
Brilliant.
Brilliant and bright. You’re bright sunshine. Hey winter sunshine, you’re bright.  Allow me to say what’s in a beautiful mind. A beautiful mind.

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:

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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?