I amble down
a road less traveled
a path is discerned
I inch my way along
Mossy growth glistening
marching through the woods
mounting an invasion
against the trees.
The damp smell of death
permeating my senses
life mirrors nature
nature’s way is survival
© Rebecca Sanchez 2013
A poem from my past posted for Earth Day. Also a nod to Robert Frost. Linked in the nick of time with dVerse~Poets Pub.
Kiss Of Death
So beautiful and rare
in death a kiss so fair
it makes the corpses jealous
their eyeless sockets stare.
An eternity in your arms
my angel wings boned bare.
© Rebecca Sanchez 2015
Another blast from the past (something a little different) shared with Poets Untied. This is a wallpaper meant to be shared and had no artist information like most wallpapers found to share online.
I dreamed I took a bath in Hitler’s bathtub
he told me it would be better than taking a shower
I got a fluffy towel instead of an unmarked grave.
© Rebecca Sanchez 2017
War correspondent Lee Miller taking a bath in Hitler’s own bathtub, inside his abandoned apartment. The photo was taken on the same day that Hitler committed suicide. Munich, Germany – April 30, 1945. I got this image from a Google image search wrote about and animated it.
Written for the prompt irony at dVerse~Poets Pub.
A lone figure was watching the scene unfold
as a young deer crossed the busy highway
it was a beautiful morning.
The truck swerved and disintegrated
sending shrapnel everywhere
sparks flew from scraping metal
the driver was killed instantly.
His truck slammed into a woman’s car
she barely saw it happen-too fast to react
her windshield breaking glass flying
it was the last thing she saw as she died.
Sticky warm blood leaks, drips, and pools
the smell of gasoline was strong
cooling metal making ticking sounds
dead muscles twitching.
The car was unrecognizable
tangled with the truck
the deer mutilated and decapitated
airbags were deployed but did no good
it seemed like forever sirens in the distance
the ambulance was first but the corner was called
firemen and police were busy trying to pick up the pieces.
Death was chuckling as he watched the spirits rise from the wreck
he swings his sickle wide
gathering up the dead his job done.
© Rebecca Sanchez 2017
Written for Imaginary Garden Of Real Toads giving an example of incongruity.
The Poet’s Dilemma
Days and nights spent crafting words to perfection
fueled by cheap whiskey and non-filtered cigarettes
cut off from the very world he writes about.
His prose clever and filled with profound images
the darling of society
everyone wanted his company
designers gave him the finest garments
he lived in a stone mansion with a beautiful wife;
but on the inside…
The poet’s soul is tinted with the blackest black
he has no words left
his muse left him with no note
empty with no more to give.
He sits in his library at his big ornate desk
the glow of the candles outlining his frown
considering the writer’s block that has silenced him
He inhales, his cigarette glowing red in the dark
he opens his desk drawer to get more whiskey
his handgun next to the bottle.
He pours himself a drink
as he has done so many times before
it burns as it travels down his throat
the loss of words was killing him
He put the handgun to his head and pulled the trigger.
© Rebecca Sanchez 2014
Shared with Poets United.
Danger Jargon Junction
The gandy dancer inspected
the empty track ahead
seeing emeralds all the way
signaling the okay.
The crew expecting eight and sand
a normal run for hospital train
stuck with sisters for overhaul
left receiving the high ball.
Hobos climb the running boards
ride the deadhead line for free
going through dark territory
drunken lads reliving glories.
The bull and cinder dick
instead of on the watch
were busy going to beans
arguing in the canteen.
Treachery on the bridge ahead
caused to dynamite the train
plunging to their death’s they go
a cold and watery death below.
© Rebecca Sanchez 2017
Most of this is jargon I found in the Glossary of North American Railways and decided it would make a colorful poem. Research and time made this poem possible. I do like to play with vintage words and jargon.
Written with dVerse~Poets Pub.
My life is emptiness and drab
the golden ring I could not grab
the doldrums never go away
the emptiness it fills each day.
Black is the color of my dreams
awakened by my tortured screams
the flames they lick and burn my skin
as I remained entrapped within.
I hear the others move about
with flies and maggots pouring out
of gaping mouths that make no sound
from bodies that are never found.
Stripped of flesh and driven mad
the demons taking all I had
the fallen angels taunting me
my never-ending agony.
© Rebecca Sanchez 2016
Shared with Imaginary Garden Of Real Toads.