reality

UNTENDED

 

Two years of an unappreciated garden

Now all gone to unremitting green and brown

How I long for reds and blues

The day sobs out for vibrancy

Need something rare as a hummingbird

Spotted without tear-stained spectacles

Porky-Pig-pink flowers reaching for the sun

But it all takes work

Fertilizer brings relief while wrecking aquifers

So sandy soil

Once the bottom of the Gulf

Holds out for salty seaweeds

Blooming algae

Leaving me a blistering memory

Of our once-fertile

Yet fantasy-driven

Love

Impatient for reality,

Should have known it would be

Achingly

Nutrient-poor

And empty…

 

© 2017 Clarissa Simmens (ViataMaja)

IMAGE:  John Everett Millais – Ophelia

UNREAL WRAITH

 

I sometimes think you died in the hospital

And me, famous family denier

Cannot accept or just doesn’t know

That the heart attack was fatal

Drove you home from the hospital

Talked to you

But maybe I conjured you up

As I broke down

 

No physical contact

So don’t know if you’re a ghost

Would my hand penetrate your shape

If I reached out to touch?

Don’t really want to test my theory

We sometimes speak

Mostly, you’re a disappearing specter

Silently, suddenly appearing in a room

Sitting quietly

Staring at me

 

No one has seen you in years

Just me

So I question my fears

Are you real?

My shattered soul

Is taking longer to heal

I just don’t know

 

At night I hear a voice

Stream-of-consciousness

A clickety-clacking brain like mine

Leaping among the shoals of conception

Tumbling in the tides of ideas

Am I reading your mind,

Or do ghosts communicate like that?

Must I pick out the important parts

Of your manic communication

In order to gauge sanity?

 

I sometimes believe you survived

I sometimes believe I’m the one who died…

 

© 2016 Clarissa Simmens (ViataMaja)

IMAGE: Ghost (Mirror Online)

OBSCURITY

 

Double fog curtain

Meteorological

Emanating from roadside marshes

Inner

Winding around the dips and curves

Of the gray matter

Rumored to contain

The seat of the soul

Yet a slave to

The delicate heart

Misty comfort, though

A hidden place to go

Inside and out

Pull over, just stop

Can’t see where to drive

Pretense no longer needed

Not driving anywhere anyway

Not thinking anything real

Just drifting in the embrace

Of my new-found friend,

Fog…

 

© 2016 Clarissa Simmens (ViataMaja)

IMAGE; Morning moon & sun in the fog

 

BRIDGING THE REALITY GAP

 

(#TBT new poem, same old lost path)

 

The bridge is out

Going nowhere

(As I am)

Expected to walk

My honest path

Somehow stumbled onto a

Yellowing brick road

While the wizard west of me

Hiding behind the curtain of potency

No real name

No identity

Siren sings in his masculinity

Is he real?

Can bots be programmed to write poetry?

That’s what he must be…

 

© 2016 Clarissa Simmens

IMAGE: me on the Suwanee

 

SEMANTICS…

 

The four o’clock poem

Has struck again

When once the words

Poured out during

My morning shower

They now prod me awake

After a restless, useless sleep

And here I am

Tapping away

Peering in dismay

At the pre-dawn computer screen

Overly-bright

Wrecking my sight

Of not only the words

But also what I need to say

 

Does a confessional poet always confess the truth

Or is there a bit of fiction

In everyone’s life

Something we don’t even recognize

Because our reality

Is different from everyone else’s

Is fiction allowed

Or can we create instead of recording

The truth

As the universe knows it

As others think they know it

 

Writing is a philosophical dilemma

And although millions of literature majors

Write countless papers

About the poet’s symbolism

What do they really know

About the poet’s blah, blah show

Most importantly

What does the poet really know

Semantics…

 

© 2016 Clarissa Simmens (ViataMaja)

IMAGE: amirite.com

 

 

ACTUALITY?

 

Life’s reality

Based on unproven beliefs

Is a leap of faith

i.

Who comes in the night

What child is this

Playing with a dollhouse

Trading the figures with friends

Moving them to different situations

Making up scenarios as the night progresses

Where am I?

ii.

I dream

Sitting around a dining table

Unrecognizable furniture

With a family never seen

Yet, though no one calls me

Mom or Sis or even Darling

I belong

They are not celebrities

Definitely not my home

But it is my own

Where am I?

iii.

I dream

Walking around an Atlantic Ocean seashore

Ships bobbing on frantic waves

Of strong-smelling salt

Yet never been here before

In my waking reality

Where am I?

iv.

The child trades me off again

To a troubled one

Who keeps me out of the house

Forcing me to walk down dark alleys

Speeding away from a stalker

My heart races in the night

My mind shouts wake up

Take an aspirin

Instead, I continue running

But the house is gone

Where am I?

v.

Now I am with you

In a blazingly beautiful white room

I know you

But now there are two

Strangers, looking at us

We walk them out the door

The house is on a cliff

We are suddenly beamed to the shore

Like a sci fi special effects movie

Water, wheat fields

In Wyeth-like faded colors

We look up to see

The woman from previously

With a machine gun pointed at me

How can this be?

vi.

Oh, to be back in the dining room

With the unknown family

Or waking up in my bed

Is any of it real

Or is it all in my head?

vii.

Fantasies and dreams

Have their own reality

Tell me, where am I?

 

© 2016 Clarissa Simmens (ViataMaja)

IMAGE: Jamie Wyeth