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Open Poetry #50
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Blank Page, Uncomprehending Thoughts
| Open Poetry #50 |
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Blank Page, Uncomprehending Thoughts |
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JerryPat2 Member Laureate
since 2011-02-06
Posts 16975South Louisiana 
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(A bit long. Sad on its on merit.) Unnatural light illuminates my cell, not to be confused with a hotel. Low voltage light, a flickering bulb, I feel my life is worn down to a nub. Dust motes are thick, though unseen, how they get in this place so clean? But there they are, I can surely see, when the door is opened with a key. Faye's scent, earthy, musty, I smell, blends with blood, which does repel. A bed of sin in which she died, my lovely, immoral, young bride. On a bed bolted to the wall in my abode, sit; stare at blank pages like an old toad. The warden brought the paper for me, hoping I'd write, he could use it on TV. The pen in my hand hovers over the page, To write about my life, how do I gauge? The cheap spiral notebook mocks me, saying, where's the candles, the brie? You sad man, worried about your soul, before you pay for the life that you stole. What makes you think anyone cares, even remembers you and your despair. Blank page, uncomprehending thoughts, are causing my heart strings to go taunt. Why did I think I had anything to say, or do, about my killing of amoral Faye? I grip the pen rigid, as if it will do for me, write the words which finally set me free. My hand is o'er the page, its tip does touch, I can't write, my heart is in double-clutch. I stare at the blood falling onto the paper, pen driven through hand, penance to her. I cry out softly, falling tears all my own, I feel I have left here for the twilight zone. No apology I write, no words of shame, if we'd had child, what would be its name. A boy, a girl, what would it have been, he would be Samuel, she would be Lynn. This cubicle and bars, so long my home, that these days I have no hair to comb. My last appeal turned down yesterday, when I die will they let me wear a toupee? ©April 1, 2017 / Jerry Pat Bolton ~ If they give you ruled paper, write sideways. ~ |
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Bluesy Socrateaser Member Elite
since 2002-11-07
Posts 2417In The Mirror |
Quite a tale you've related here, Jerry. The despair and despondency are well-defined beginning with the surrounding environment. Lines like "The cheap spiral notebook mocks me", I can understand. When the wide panorama of freedom is drawn down to a single cell, even dust motes would be welcomed visitors, whereas they would otherwise go somewhat unnoticed (and unwelcome). But sure enough, they were noticed as you clearly pointed out here; "But there they are, I can surely see". It's better to be a cold-blooded killer with little if any conscious. Most of these people look at even their own death as a happy escape. But a person doing time or facing execution for committing a crime of passion has all the feelings you've described here, Jerry. Good stories are never long. I enjoyed reading this. ...just bein' Bluesy |
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Bluesy Socrateaser Member Elite
since 2002-11-07
Posts 2417In The Mirror |
quote:Um, maybe I should have found a better way of saying this, folks. I do not advise it as a career choice nor am I suggesting anyone consider it as such.  Just try and keep it within the confines of context.  ...just bein' Bluesy |
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JerryPat2 Member Laureate
since 2011-02-06
Posts 16975South Louisiana |
Ahhh . . . for sure that cheap spiral notebook has a habit of mocking most of us over time. About the dust motes, I'd hoped the reader would take it like you did. I sure did not take "It's better to be a cold-blooded killer with little if any conscious," because if given a choice it would definitely be better to not have a conscious, especially when you are living on death row. Of course I understand that. You gave this poem a lot of thought, and I again thank you for the supper comments. |
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