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The
Poetry Of James Spoonmore
Blink
While walking near the shore one eve
of an isle fabled lost,
A fledgling sprite appeared to me,
on wings still wet with frost.
Stricken by the fascination,
I wondered if some witch
had placed the little apparition
in my way to twitch.
I stared on for a moment long
as rites of passage came.
A little voice inside me said
To tell the thing my name.
Not within a moment more
Than I could find the word
The little creature leapt away
before my voice was heard.
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A
Modal Sacrifice
It is a night like this one when the mind
chooses to embolden itself.
Standing up, as if to say, "I am ready for a challenge".
It stupors for a moment in the hallway of eventualities and stumbles,
Into a corridor of dark-shined rock, protruding edgy glass-like
fragments of sharp, coal black.
They are works of nature, God, the universe, consciousness or
science.
Whatever we are calling it now. Our senses. Our hope. Our purpose.
Illuminated by a fabled lamp at the end of a tunnel that is hoped
into existence.
Its rigid walls shining a purple-tinted ebony, slick like raw
black onyx waiting to be tooled.
A cool breeze howls a chill of another time as it crawls and
floats through the damp air.
The hunter, the watcher… the observer, inside, can taste
the warmth of the walls.
A light, a flicker or torch, perhaps even a campfire out there…
in the dark.
Oh, for a moment we may be as kings and famous thinkers, and
if we are lucky, renowned.
Living to fire passion into our work and breathe creativity into
our life.
Like kite flyers, tinkersmiths and meddlers of all types.
Striving to become a legend, polymath or philosopher… a
musician, writer or artist.
To be aspired to, even if we do not know so while alive.
Dying to be inspired even once and remember it with unconditional
awe.
If we are lucky, perhaps we become a free, selfless being who
finds happiness and love.
Alive and well to reap all the spoils of what comes with such
victories and successes.
Determined to remain humble in repose and confident in action.
Ready to play our part and perpetuate our precious miracle.
If we are persistent, perhaps we will see reality.
If we are brave, perhaps we will live our dreams.
If we are honest, perhaps we will find strength.
We cannot deny that we need something.
All may seek it.
We must witness it.
We must do so without fear of conscription or excommunication.
Without pressure from irrational conglomerated mindsets.
Free from the fear of losing our place in the progression.
I can bear this burden of elusive, devilish knowing… this
anchor, for you.
I will find it.
All I ask for is a little help, a little guidance and a lot of
forgiveness.
I am only human.
I seek nothing else, but to be so and to be.
We may choose between chance and fate.
Our will is our freedom, and aptly provided in our consequence.
Freewill is our ponderous reward and punishment.
We are simply a simulacrum for ourselves while our shadow is
a distraction.
It is nothing more and nothing less.
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Legacy
Minus
These catacombs are not victim less
That I face in depraved darkness
A mind like a claw foot bathtub in a dirty abandoned apartment
Sitting on black and white tiles
Like a giant chessboard with only one move left
Marooned in puddles of black liquid
Water observed without light
The pattern of some mid-century fantasy discarded
Left now to black and white photos
And happy homemaker recreations
Black and gray mold covering the ceiling
With a leftover impression of pale green
Just underneath the white foamy autonomous society of spores
A culture indeed!
Swollen up like the belly of some evolved organic pregnancy
Fertilized by a lifetime of neglect, gathering
About to give birth to a bubble of polluted liquid
Hanging down like the pod of some strange creature's nurturing
Festering, waiting for the culmination of its purpose
To burst
About to loose a deluge of acid rain into the tub
And leave behind a torn open hole
Surrounded by a hanging picket fence of ceiling tile fragments
Forming a circle around the hole
Illuminated by a flickering light bulb
Dangling on a frayed wire in the middle of the room
The pinnacle of our determination
Radiating danger and instability
Like cancerous concrete on Her
Glowing warm in a damp corner
Long slooping drops of water
Falling with a rubbery, wet and high-pitched echo
click-Bloip! click-Bloip!
Some analog ping pong ball
Bouncing eternal binary in the wake of trauma
In this dilapidated place
Nothing but the decadence of imagination satisfies
The requirement for infamy to be lost
And sought in redemption of an Earthly oasis
In some alleyway of scoundrels
Angels in disguise over the door to Annwn
Taking up needles for swords at a legion of barbarian demons
A quest never rationalized
To defend their kingdom of boxes and tents
Hiding Avalon by campfire
And in this streetlight moment wearing a trench coat
By the barrel fire
In my mind
In the lowest depths of possibility
Just before the shackles break
I turn
My back now to some lonely road as I walk away
And you know forever
Who I am
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