The Brush-Off

Horridly it strikes me
Right between the eyes:
You did my dream,
yet still denied me.
I am rejected again
by your apparition.
You came so close
but gave me nothing,
not a pittance.
At a casual call
I might have silently begged.
On your appearing,
engulfing me in heavenly shock,
you know I would have
rolled right over,
Lapped up your gorgeous arrogance
like mothers milk.
I am tortured to see
your unaccompanied ubiety.
I think you must relish
the shameless guilt
of creating a jealous illusion
without even the grace
to involve my worshipful heart.
But this bold promulgation -
a flinty jab -
Made public, but oh so personal
is worse than your maiden offing
more painful and ribald,
And still I would suck up
All you have to give.

(c) Tasha Chinnock 2007

Cycles of Something

See how we fracture time
With our little worries?
Hammer and pick.
We struggle upstream.
We chase the old scent
With coalescent uncertainty.
It is a strenuous loathing,
A dark choking madness.
It comes on in a sneaking ambush of despair.
What creeping flame ignites
The soul to deviate from right?
The spark of Hell
Leaves, breathless and troubled,
A belt-bound heart.
You ring me and I come up short.
I can’t find in me the change
To buy some time;
Cheaper than truth
And decidedly prettier,
But out of my range, nonetheless.
You can’t see that?
The loathsome shudder -
Hell seeping through the cracks
in the floorboards.
I gather my stuffy ears
And, hunkering onward,
Forget I was there
In the Old Country,
Senses invigorated
By laughter and breath.
Breath.
I almost remember
Breathing in and out,
A leisurely indulgence.
I complain through my teeth
That my precious sorrow left me;
And somehow I am rushing
Back again to the darkness
Where I breathe easy
The fresh air of sadness.

(c) Tasha Chinnock 2007

Found Within

I guess I wasn’t ready
For your attitude.
Not smug, but satisfied.
There was a face of hate
in my dream.
So blank and calm
but hating as a mongrel
For two nights
it sat in the dream corner
soundless and still
not frightening
I was not frightened
I knew it was you.
Your harmless contempt
Has become my familiar.
And I don’t run from it
I just turn away.
Back to my dreaming.
I must not satisfy
Your silent desire
to bring me to nightmares.
Go on dreaming
dreaming, dreaming
Don’t look
don’t shudder
don’t fear or submit
to the hate
the placid menacing
of that dream face
gargoyle you.

(c) Tasha Chinnock 2007

Purchased

She flutters helplessly
leafy limbs and
feet of floss
Tell her, tell her
what she missed
what crinkled her papery
thoughts
what crusty pinching
sold her out
Her dreams are more real
than today, than home
yet roughly they cram her
full of truth
But heaven heard the shackles clink
and tramp her swimming bunch
of petal parts
Deeming it all
injustice and falling
she was blown dry
and dusted for soul remnants
and dropped from the highest peak
to start again.

(c) Tasha Chinnock 2007

The Struggle

Held down by an unseen fist
suffocated and oppressed
I chose to make an effort
a defense, however lame
I dragged myself out,
hair clipped and lip-sticked,
willing joy to come.
When it doesn’t I scream -
my throat so scratched
that swallowing lends to retching.
These screams are real
not silent, not inner.
But they only empower my oppressor.
No, I must quietly conquer.
I must try again.
To my feet and forward -
force a smile, join in.
I gain figurative ground
until a literal boot
connects with my nose,
pain shooting up my brain
to my spirit cell.
So at last, I am still prisoner
to the unseen push.

(c) Tasha Chinnock 2007