Prison and Pane

The light through the window splashes the office wall.

Photons crash against and melt into painted cinder block

revealing imperfections - bathing, softening, dreaming.

A siren’s song. A bright reminder of what lies without.

But, the vertical blinds cast shade

                        thick, cold bars against the warmth.

Segmenting the sea of sunshine,

                        the wall forced to realize its purpose.

A fantasy shattered by shards of shadow

                        A stark reminder of what lies within.

© Jeff Wilson, 2012

 

This Will Hurt Tomorrow

Written at 3am. I have to leave for work in three hours. 

Nothing good happens after 2am

except the fevered metaphor of insomniacs

longing for an empty ocean

of darkness behind heavy lids, just out of reach.

Sleeplessness attacks.

Mesmerized by the motion

of the clock measuring

loss by the second.

Treasuring memories of dreams

from nights prior.

To that retired state aspire,

they beckoned.

It’s not the first time this whale has beached,

this bloated consciousness, washed up on the sand

gasping for air,

painfully aware,

that it can’t push its way back into the water

because it doesn’t have hands.

Sleep, she eludes you,

no matter the hours you have sought her,

and Dawn dances just over purple-black horizon

lifting night’s skirt like some strip club tease.

A vicious circle that cannot be undone,

killing me by degrees.

© Jeff Wilson, 2012

 

Not Finished Fighting

The warrior sat. Curled. Fragile.

Wrapped in blankets and headdress.

Gaunt from the long siege. Cold in recovery.

The warrior stood. Straight. Thin.

Draped in small victories and defiance.

Weary from battle. Ravaged in body.

The warrior moved to the fire. Slowly. Smiling.

Swathed in warmth and peace.

Vigor from vulnerability. Sword in hand.

She shook off the chill of the morning

and the emotional chasm of the chemo,

To her afflicted bosom, clutched the moment

and lived in it. For herself. For her boys.

Because you cannot leave behind

that which you refuse to let go.

© Jeff Wilson, 2012

 

Extended Meta-Two

Two poems from 5-10 minute extended metaphor exercises in the 8th grade Cre8iveWriting elective:

I Don't Do Dishes

I have been used by you time and again

Moistened by your tears, rolled up and then

Wiped across your life and smeared

With your selfishness. To others, I appeared

Sullied and wrung out, yet of my devotion you’d brag.

Fold me gently. Smooth my corners.

But, I feel like a limp dishrag.

Life On Track 

I am a train barreling down the track

Without reverse, no going back.

Occasionally slowing to feed its tanks,

Then regaining speed to rejoin the ranks

Of similar engines unable to turn,

No matter the fuel - just burn, baby, burn.

Fated to rocket down pre-determined path,

Unaltered by ecstacy, depression, or wrath.

Passengers hopping my cars as I pass

Some riding coach, others first-class,

Some left at the station, some attended with care,
All of them part of the ticketed fare.
Straight down the track to some final reward -
Enjoy the scenery. All aboard!

© Jeff Wilson, 2012