Jessica McHugh's Blog, page 17

A Moment on an Overturned Chair

A Moment on an Overturned Chair

(6/10/11)

"Take my kindness," she says

And hands me a drink.

"Embrace a small dance

And a passionate think.

Ignore the phat beats

To an extent, at least,

And let Lady Danger

Embody the feast.

Borrow Inspirado

Till the morn wreaks your pain

Till the bottom drops out

And top welcomes again.

See the chick with the whisky

Making poor use of her smile?

In a lengthy grin's company:

The raucous crocodile?

See him breathing down her neck

And draining the good sense she has left.

Don't let it be you.

Don't let it be true.

Let the lady fill your quill till this solo is through."

The After is Ours

The After is Ours

 

Times like these:

They call up cackles that tackle the hours

When we're apart,

When the art of us is on pause.

Together, we revel.

We rollick.

We riot, roll, and thrive

And enjoy the sun's dive into night's jaws.

We lounge,

Sometimes in silence, sometimes in song,

As if in the night is where we belong.

All of the daytime grudges are gone,

Weeping for mercy out on the lawn.

But we do not hear them;

Not over the din

Of joy upon joy without and within.

We leave them to die,

As we live, as we cling.

How can we refuse a spring-induced dance?

How can we neglect the chance

To hold on a little longer

Before the hours again rise?

Before the cruel sun takes to the skies

And plucks us, yawning, away from our nest.

Away from rest,

Into arrest.

 

They are only hours,

Only crumbs of the day.

Longer than hours,

(the After is Ours)

We have, love, to play.

Insomnia Sundays

Insomnia Sundays

 

Insomnia Sundays go too far.

Denying my sleep tests heart and mind

With tricky plots I've yet to find,

Characters I've yet to concieve,

And lives my pen would like to lead.

They come during sleep's strange inbetweens,

Teasing me with waking dreams

That strip me of relief come Monday's call,

And when I rise they're not there at all.

They've fled: those notions,

Those people, those plots

As if only Summering in my half- slumbered thoughts.

Just a brief stay,

Now miles away.

Like I,

Detesting of a working day.

Her Kiss

Lady Danger's wanton kiss:

A bloodbath bouqueted with bliss.

She knows no difference twixt tongue and fist,

Or the inky flick of the writer's wrist.

Shoulder Angel (circa 2004)

An old poem i just found (and love). I believe it's circa 2004. I brilliantly only wrote 10/25 on it. :roll:

He stopped his humming and strumming,

And his sighs became a breeze.

Down he sat, my shoulder angel,

With his head upon his knees.

I asked, "What are you thinking of?

What is snacking on your brain?"

He said, "I just can't quite decide

If I should go out in the rain."

"It's so cozy here with you,

Out here on the edge.

Please don't make me disappear

From your body ledge."

 

So I welcomed him to my table

To sit awhile and bask,

But when his head hit his knees again,

"What's wrong?" I had to ask.

"Well, it's about your beverage," he said.

"All that's left is a tiny drop.

And I just can't decide whether

I should drink it down or not."

I tipped my chalice towards him

And poured the ale in his mouth.

Then his head hit his knees again,

And I said, "What you thinkin' bout?"

"I will confess my thoughts to you

Since it seems we're on a roll.

You see, I can't decide if

I should smoke up your last bowl."

My face began to redden,

And he sensed impending doom.

I snatched up that shoulder angel

And heaved him across the room.

Thank you, shoulder angel,

For helping me when I'm in need.

But nobody, save me alone,

Smokes the last of my weed.

Feeding the Mire

Feeding the Mire

Four soldiers in shoddy armor beg to go to war.

After all of the bloodshed, they still know the score:

That peace isn't even in my periphery.

And yet, they plead with me and pledge their troth.

They say, "Twist us out and quench us both,

Oh Captain, Oh Lady, Oh Danger, Oh Pride.

How does it feel to be warring inside?"

And I answer:

"It feels like the devil on the first day of school.

Or like a spider heavily spooled with candy cotton,

Ever aiming to snag the forgotten:

The biggest flies of all."

It's no surprise I obey the call to go marching,

The call to play,

The call to make of me a longer day

In which I may strategize the plot.

In which we weave.

In which we rot.

In which I bewitch the truth en masse:

The soldiers were always dead in the grass.

Spilling out.

Drinking in.

War is truly the most splendid sin.

Sing a Song of Thunder

Sing a Song of Thunder

 

Sing a song of thunder.

Do a dance for rain.

Let the flash of anger crash

Through the house again.

 

Strip the trees of wooden dress

Until yours is the only bark.

Snuff out sun and moon and stars

And leave us in the dark.

 

Throw your little tantrum

And knock us off our stilts

Until the world and all upon

Are nauseous from the tilts.

 

Choose and lose who you will,

If you've got the nerve.

But don't be shocked if the world is rocked

And we're still standing with our verve.

 

Make your judgments quickly,

Because we have some of our own.

You can blow our houses to the ground,

But it won't force us to atone.

 

Sing your song of thunder

And I'll sing of summer days,

Of vineyards and vitality

That penetrate the haze.

 

No brimstone could ever touch us,

Not those who know the truth:

That if you live, you live to give

And not to wreck us at the roots.

 

But those who believe you're coming

To strip the sinners bare,

Are also the ones, you will find,

Who never learned to care.

 

Not about the world you made

Nor of its many faces.

Not for the ones they judge themselves

To negate your diverse graces.

 

You gave us all potential

To think beyond what we were told.

To investigate, to illuminate,

To live our lives in bold.

 

So who cares about some thunder?

Bring on the rain and hail.

We'll knock them back as emphatically

As we knock back our ale.

 

And if you're really watching,

If you do, in fact, exist,

Then take this as love note

And each insult as a kiss.

 

Because I get you, Brother.

Father, Mother, Pal.

I know you're laughing just as hard

As the realists are right now.

 

A sin is too subjective

One day, a lie could be the truth,

No water on an infant's head

Is no reason to tie a noose.

 

All you want is goodness,

And for the most part, so do we.

Except for judgmental sheep herds:

Your superstitious devotees.

 

They want to take your teachings

And twist them into hate.

A small mind never sees big love

Beyond a stubborn gate.

 

As for me, I welcome your rainstorm

And all the songs you sing.

I welcome your judgment because

I lead my own reckoning.

Someone to Need (#FridayFlash)

Someone to Need

Among the billions of dreams about ballerinas turned battlers and striving to be anyone but herself, there was only one in which slumber's magic left her untouched. Usually, she surrendered the real Rosie when sleep took her by the hand and opened a wardrobe of possibilities. She could be or do anything. She could realize every hidden desire and sink her teeth into them, whether playing the prowling wolf or the child getting its first taste of a peach.

This time was different. She felt so...normal. But even with normality, she was somehow able to interrupt his stroll with a simple glance, halting both him and his Shetland Sheepdog. He looked at her like he needed her, like he wanted her to care for him, and she couldn't help but agree. He started towards her, but something held him back, and before she could reach him, the quietus of the dream broke them apart. The sorrow was there, but it wasn't strong enough to survive when a text message blasted away any element of the dream that sought to linger. She forgot the man with the Sheltie who'd stopped at her glance and made her feel so alive in normality. In that moment, he had shown her exactly what she was missing.

 

But she didn't remember.

 

Not when she was en route to find him, not when she saw his face, and not when her adopted Shetland Sheepdog laid down on her lap for the first time.

Lady Danger Rides Again

Lady Danger rides again:

Faithful foe, fearsome friend,

I was waiting for your kiss again.

Let us Pen & Sword till Mighty ends.

A Safe Yield (A Mother's Day Poem)

A Safe Yield

A harsh winter cleared the field of all but a single stalk.

The last hope in a dwindling yield,

The stalk had to be safely harbored.

Hence, the fence.

It allowed the sun to feed the leaves

And gave stripes of shade during hotter days.

It kept the rabbits away and crows at bay.

It sang songs with the wind's aid and made of an empty field,

A symphony.

As the stalk grew, so grew the fence.

Its planks stretched to the heavens,

Bending forward to block rough rains

And backwards to let the leaves fully unfurl.

When harvest time arrived,

The fence, weakened by the elements,

Started to fall.

And the stalk, no longer a helpless seedling,

Bent to shield its guardian.

"You can no longer stay in one place," the fence said wearily.

"And I can no longer stand."

"You don't need to stand," the stalk replied.

"My seeds are spread far and wide along the riverbank,

Safe from harsh winters,

But the waters are rough between each ridge.

What we really want, what we really need

Is a bridge."

Fresh lacquer strengthened the planks to stretch from bank to bank.

There, it watched over the seeds

Its child stalk had sown:

A stalk that, if not for the fence, would not have so safely grown.