Poetic Punishment

The mind is a trap, you told me,
We can’t escape it.
We will rot here in this dungeon
Our Alcatraz.
We are held to a high standard -
The expectation
of those who want their thoughts
put into words.
Slaves,
Like Hebrews in Egypt.
Find your own straw,
scrape the ground for clay.
I’m getting out of here soon.
If the Sea won’t open up
I’ll have to walk right in
and get my skirts wet.

(c) Tasha Chinnock 2006

Comparisons

All we do is different.
We change.
Our fantasy and ambitions
Off-ramp to Otherwhere.
How to return
Escapes.
Looking cross-eyed and churlish,
We sit still and stubborn.

Quality, quality
I look for it repeatedly
Seeking plump or sturdy,
Genuine.
But I can’t tell
The wax from the marble.
I’m a fool in this gallery.
I’ve turned you over
Until I hate what I see.

(c) Tasha Chinnock 2006

The Ridicule

Jester.
Unkind heckler,
Cruel mimic
Callous buffoon.

Mondays come and go
Winter is creeping in
I’m sickly and slow
Crying, catching my breath
While you spook me.

Hoarse and hairy
Your groggy voice
Is hurtful, hushed
A caustic joke
It is not, not
Funny.

I can’t laugh
Or cry or scream
I am plain as yogurt
Terrible, cold viscous
Unsweetened.

You are between me
Like a squatter.

(c) Tasha Chinnock 2006

Mystery Man

Tarzan, Superman
Squishy-eyed priest of our clan
I’ll never walk a mile in your skin
The vaults I have collected
Are grown-up, closed off
separation
Blank of pain and shame
Your soft white garmented heart
pale dough of skin
hair too thin
knobby knees that I clung to
giant fingers, big as hands
Images of a man disconnected
from affliction, guilt and grief
secrets you must keep
hurts tucked away

I have traced your origin
Wanting to meet you in
wormy bald seclusion
To comprehend
the disgust of whorey kin -
that “dirty slut” you hurled at me
when I was sixteen
was saved up over the years,
withheld from its intended
To observe the dark
fear of being found out
with beer in the fridge
or real filth on your lips
or in your hands
or your secret hideout
along with the bird guts
but salt-aired suburbia
held stunted trees
and powdery, clicking artifacts
nothing real
none of you there

I return repeatedly to a day
spent with three old hags
Wrinkled witch faces
and growling voices
breathing fire over their cards
They told me nothing
I don’t think they ever knew you
and what you knew of them
was slightly askew
their spells were cast before you
their love was taken and given to you -
the last hope; chosen one
Has to be one in every dozen

Beneath the antics
did you watch like a boy
in the dark theater
as your story rewound
and started anew
a new cast of goofs
but the old, tattered script
a noir so surreal, but
cleaned up as a show,
sweeping it under
the same old rug.
Your complacent horror
at passing on this birthright,
Doesn’t compare with
the relieving surprise
of discovering its emptiness.
Your strings are unraveled
You just go along
in your bleak repetitions,
a man I don’t fully know
Who I achingly love
in spite of the mystery
because history can remain,
the known will suffice.
Perhaps you really did
keep us safer, happier
than you ever were
We can thank you
for that, at least.

(c) Tasha Chinnock 2006