THE LADY OF BLUE GLASS

this is my response to Wednesday's wake-up call at NewWorldCreativeUnion

She stood with arms raised high

In morning’s gentle hue.

Not a ghost in white at night

But midnight’s sable blue.

Her nameless face and faceless name

Gave curiosity’s rise.

Why’d she visit me this day?

Appear before my eyes?

She stood as still as statues will,

A specter thin as glass.

I covered my head, curled up in bed,

Thinking this would pass.

When next I dared to open an eye

And peek at her again,

She stood as silent sentinels do,

Ne’er moved from where she’d been.

What then came forth from trembling lips

Seemed but what a fool will do:

I’d dare not ask her “who?” or “why?”

I babbled out, “You’re blue.”

As sun rose higher in the sky,

And poured its warmth on me,

As sunlight twinkled through her hue,

She told my fate to be.

T’was of the faceless ghost I heard

Her voice inside my head.

T’was not her voice but her sharp words

That filled my heart with dread.

“Tis fool who thinks at night He feasts,

“To think Death has no day,

“Enjoy the last sunshine you'll know:

“I’ve come to claim His prey.”

I rose and crossed the room to touch

The glass-like wraith of blue.

Cold, she was. . .”Unfeeling bitch!”

She chilled me through and through.

“Come what may, you’re His today

“You’ll die a violent death.

“Your nights are ended; days are done;

“Prepare for your last breath!”

I smelled it first, the tell-tale smoke

That wafted to my room.

It grew and spread until was naught

But choking on gray doom.

The flames burst through my bedroom door,

A crackling fiery Hell.

The window beckoned me to come

Ten stories I would fall.

I perched upon the window’s sill

Like some pigeon’s roost.

To burn or jump, no options left.

She moved, and I was pushed. . .

                                    --Monty Wheeler

I give my thanks to those at NWCU
  and Angie for her glass works of art

ALL THE WAY (bit of prose poetry)

My response to NewWorldCreativeUnion's Wednesday Wake-up Call




            They thought me crazy; I’ll show them. 

That stupid shrink in his bright white coat, I told him I was sane as his coat needed color.  They didn’t chase me; they didn’t bother. 

I’ll show them how sane I am.  Laughter. . .perfect music in my soul; a crazed one’s cackle they might say, but this dark night I’ll turn to day.  By the gods, by George and Jim, I’ll not be a one hour whim. 

How cold this night and hard this bench!  And I’m alone in this park’s stench.  Tomorrow, they’ll be everywhere, people in their sad little lives of mockery and fear, but I. . .I will stand—alone—right here.

They’ll all walk by and wonder, “why?”  But not a one will care.  I’ve asked one bite before they tossed their leavings into the grass.  They’d rather throw away their food, as feed one they’d see as not as good.  That’s ok.  Tonight, I will go all the way.

“Do it!” I hear the voices say.  And come what may. . .I will know I didn’t just try. . .I went all the way.

I fetch the can from where I’d hid it.  Stolen from someone’s garage; they should have locked the door.  The cold metal’s sweet to the touch, and soon bright fire will warm my crotch.  The stench of gasoline (It’s only rank to them but sugary—sweet to me.) teases my nose and even my taste buds as I draw a liquid circle around me.  What once was will ever be!  The gods will bow to ME!  I bathe myself in gasoline, find the match—it’s dry and clean. 

I see myself engulfed in red; my heart is thumping in my head; for one brief moment, I’m filled with dread.  My thumbnail sets upon the match, prepares to rake the fiery life from it.  I scream, “By Gods! Go all the way!  Let’s burn this night as bright as day!  Do it!  Do it!  All the way!”

            I feel the thump; the match strikes not.  The burly cop asks, “What’ve you got?”  I’m laying on my circle’s outside and staring at the policeman’s face.

I scream at him.  “Go on!” I yell.  “Let me find my rightful place!”

Now I sit in this Hell’s cell; they say I’m crazy, but I know well it’s them that need the magic spell, for I was one with gods to burn.  If only they would ever learn choice is freedom and freedom rules.  I guess freedom’s not but concept in schools.

                                                            --Monty Wheeler

SANDS OF HEALING (a triolet)

The sand created by God's hand

Holds fast its hidden gift to soothe

Until the paint and prayers demand

The sand created by God's hand

Unleash its force of Nature's land

To heal by ways of Faith and Truth.

The sand created by God's hand

Holds fast its hidden gift to soothe.

                           --Monty Wheeler


Triolet written in response to New World Creative Union's Wednesday Wake-up Call

BUTTERFLIES

Trapped in a glass or pinned to a board,

Their beauty was something we thought we could hoard.

We laughed, we “Ooohh’d,” we “Ahhh’d,” with such wonder,

And never once thought God’s beauty ain’t plunder.

And only God’s best would do for our chest

Of treasures killed and pinned through the breast.

Ne’er once did they tell us it might be a sin;

The next afternoon, we’d do it again.

The lesson we learned was God’s humble Earth

Was ours to abuse for our own devil’s mirth.

How long can we use God’s world for our pleasure?

I think it’s in days not decades of measure.

                                               --Monty Wheeler

Written gratefully for NWCU's Wednesday Wake-up call

FAILURE

She wrote a poem then dared to let

One she thought a friend

See and read.  Then condemnation—

Her writing found its end.

She came nigh tears when he said,

“We’ll write today in class.

“Write a poem in any form;

“There is no fail or pass.”

The years had passed; she never dared

To let another see.

So painful-fresh the memory

Of criticism's glee.

“Tomorrow we will spend the class

In reading them aloud.”

She sat the hour with still pencil

And paper blank as sterile cloud.

At home she closed herself away,

Let fear consume her heart.

They’d laugh, she knew without a doubt;

She’d fail before she’d start.

She got her mom’s anthology

Down off the dusty shelf,

She’d read her favorites in that book

But always to herself.

Elizabeth Barrett Browning

And Dickinson were there

Along with Frost and Elliot

And Poe’s disturbing fare.

She read for hours, grabbed her pen

To write a simple verse:

“I write for better or for worse;

“My writing’s not a curse!”

They didn’t laugh; they didn’t clap

When she read aloud.

It didn’t matter to her though

She’d wrote again and proud.

                        --Monty Wheeler

Image gratefully borrowed from Vanessa Mattews

Written as my own wake up call for NWCU's Fear of Failure Week

GREETING CARD VERSE

We offer humble thanks to you,

As one we cherish left us here

To Join with God as Heaven’s heir

And sing His praise as angels do.

As one with God you saw us through,

And one by one your love was there.

We offer humble thanks to you

For sharing in the loss we bear.

Your words soft-writ we hold onto;

You held our hands through dark despair

Then lit our dark with flower’d cheer

As prayers’ crescendo quickly grew.

We offer humble thanks to you.

                            --Monty Wheeler

Rhyming fun (for OneStopPoetry's rhyming Monday)

What rhyme would lurk beyond yon hill?
Ellusive to my pen but still
I'll fetch that rhyme so I might fill
A page of verse with one rhyme frill.

The climbers seek to gain the peak,
Yet to conquer leaves them meek
Of heart to ponder God's one week
Of Creation so unique

Like those brave, unwavering souls
I seek the perfect rhyming goals.
Like the mountain takes its tolls
I'm left with head so light it lolls.

So rhyme me a line and make it fine.
Internal rhyme or end of line.
Take care the rhyme's not assanine.
Challenge that mountain Rhyme Devine!

                                   --Monty Wheeler