"SCRAMBLED EGGS"

13 Comments

Tags:
  • Madness
  • ,
  • Abuse
  • ,
  • Love

    Poem Commentary


    The new image is from an artist named Carrie Goller,. The piece is called"Sad Lady". her work can be seen at
    www.CarrieGoller.com
    Please tell your fellow poets and friends if you enjoy this work "Scrambled Eggs"
    Thanks, Captaininsight.

    "SCRAMBLED EGGS"

    There is nothing more we can do for them.
    The words seemed to echo
    off the walls of an endless pit
    into which they were now falling.
    Deep, dark, and inviting, they could see
    speed past their vision,
    tumbled the bright opening,
    The impression of light streaking.


    Reality results in one’s very own perception.
    His name is Ed, Ed Daugherty.
    Anne was his deception.
    “It’s like when you’re dreaming”.
    This was real to him.
    Each song, and drink, a kiss, a trip,
    a violent new beginning.
    You see Ed had yet to learn
    of temporary permanence,
    and vice- versa, absolute,
    the presence of Anne’s countenance,
    .
    .
    This instant of memory,
    scrawny knuckles were careening ,
    off his damaged lover.
    How loudly she was screaming.
    In this time while Ed would play,
    Anne his broken toy,
    the difference hard to tell at times
    between agony and joy.
    He knew innately of the pain, 
    the precursor of pleasure.
    This time when he struck it was,
    the keyboards sound in measure.
    One was driven to conclusion.
    Was not this love their delusion?
    Now his object of destruction,
    this was Daugherty’s deduction.
    They knew better , not a thing,
    absorbed, discarded by Ed’s ring.
    Justified by Ed’s blows,
    a kiss upon her broken nose .
    Loves attempted affirmation,
    with out Anne’s consternation.
     

    He was definitely driven , 
    now loose upon their legs.
    Imbalance recreates its self ,
    what he called ‘scrambled eggs.’
    In the absence of discipline,
    he would call upon disciples.
    In the absence of foundation,
    they fell upon their trifles.
    Except for an occasional, white, streak
    he readied with his lover.
    Fearing the great gap, the brink,
    they would then lean over.
    Desperately seeking bottom,
    deep, dark, and inviting.
    Having never ventured there
    much to their delighting.
    He would jump, arms spread wide,
    blissful anticipation.
    His face was ruined against the walls,
    of Anne’s constellation.

    Poem Comments

    (13)

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    BringMeBullets commented on "SCRAMBLED EGGS"

    04-19-2010

    You are an artist of words. Your visuals are something beyond me and your descriptions are those that one could never think of, or so I thought. Very new and different. I love it. What a wonderful write. Thanks for sharing. :)

    simoneaugustus commented on "SCRAMBLED EGGS"

    03-15-2010

    'a kiss upon her broken nose.' A harsh but needed reminder that abusive cycles aren't just something we hear or read about occasionally, but an ugly reality in some lives. You tackled a difficult subject and brought it to light when many would shy away. Heart-wrenching and yet so poignantly written.

    WordSlinger commented on "SCRAMBLED EGGS"

    11-28-2009

    this is an intelligent write, very witty, admirable. ty WS

    captaininsight

    11/28/2009

    Witty? Thank You WS!

    cmlestrade commented on "SCRAMBLED EGGS"

    09-26-2009

    I will never understand the acceptance of abuse but I know people but up with both the physical and mental abuse. This is truly sad. makes me think of the accepting this as a way of being.

    captaininsight

    09/27/2009

    Indeed one of the sadest senario's Ms. Cmlstrade. I do however the structure of this poem , very dark almost "POE" 'etic. Thanks for the read again . I need to post my stories and other works...I need a publisher.

    wheelsal commented on "SCRAMBLED EGGS"

    07-20-2009

    Abuse in relationships are sad but true. And there are those who allow it. Good write with hard words. Sally

    captaininsight

    07/20/2009

    Thank You Sally, there are those unfortunately who are actualized by it..yousaid it best, "sad"

    A poem begins as a lump in the throat, a sense of wrong, a homesickness, a lovesickness. It finds the thought and the thought finds the words.

    Robert Frost (1875-1963) American Poet.

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