Tuesday, August 13, 2019

Echos of Insanity

Here in the darkness of a single lamp lite,
I agonize of a love once contrived of mortal delight.
You have long since departed, yet cling to my memory;
the sweet tune that is playing, assaults my mind, 
plaguing time, as if the waltz itself, was diseased.

The sweet, repeating vocals of an ethereal melody,
Flutters its wings in sweeping harmonies.
Violins gently arch in concert with piano keys;
I am weeping, as I listen to the heavenly beauty
of this strange refrain of a forgotten symphony.

The portraits that hang in gilded frames,
witness this duplicating history;
And, the roses that stood in porcelain vases
have long since perished and decayed.

The tune is familiar, persistent;
as it echoes through the papered corridors;
seducing the shadows from candles,
that are cast upon the floor.

The music continues as an eternal vigil,
for, I am locked in this room, without a key.
I replicate this melancholy tribute,
as delirium seizes the echoes of insanity;
For you, there is no substitute.

©Denise Goodwin, All Rights Reserved

Saturday, August 10, 2019


My mind skips through time like a vintage movie,
as I contemplate your indifferent cruelty.
Flickering scenes of a love unreturned.
Perhaps, this penance, I have earned,

My love for you is the stolen light of the moon,
for I cannot shine, from a darkened tomb.
I remain in the shadow, seeking night,
Watching the clouds, the mist and the sprites.

Secretly, sipping love from a silver spoon,
and striking the ivory keys of a forgotten tune.
For it is here, that I feel most at home;
Deserving the darkness, somber and alone.

Discreetly wanting, wretchedly haunting,
your unreturned affection.
And the movie still flickers and skips,
As I settle in a spidery niche.

In the steamy heat of a summer's eve,
In black and white, the film repeats
This Noir picture seems quite fitting,
as the monochrome reels keep on spinning.

© Denise Goodwin, All Rights Reserved.

Friday, August 9, 2019

Of Autumn

Leaves slowly drift from the medley of trees;
My eyes devour the stained leaves;
For the leaves on the bough are fleeting.
I regard the transience of each leaf,
as it departs from its matriarch;
and wonder if she is bleeding.

They break free, and disembark,
as if released from chains;
and whirl in the wind, so carelessly.
Unconcerned and indifferent,
they descend, onto their winter’s grave.

I peer beyond the facade of my peripheral,
Yearning to anchor to the visceral;
I  behold the skeletal tree trunks,
of sugar maple, beech and oak;
Stationed silent, like Monastic monks, 
in umber, elongated cloaks.

Near the grove are tall green fern, 
with leaves so manifold and delicate;
The elegant blades have unfurled 
splayed outward, unreserved and upturned.
They emerge from the earth, 
like the feathery plumes in
the golden helms of ancient dragoons.

The forest interior has become more exposed,
where brittle moss covers a fallen tree;
its presence like corpse, half decomposed;
yet, I discern its seminal beauty.
Its colors compliment the cerulean stream, nearby;
as water rushes over rocks, creating a natural lullaby.

As I walk through this aromatic grove,
its spicy scent is reminiscent of cinnamon and clove,
where acorns and leaves crunch beneath my feet,
and, I’m unable to refrain from the noise I make;
I  pause, to contemplate...
Have I disturbed the voiceless monks,
Leaving this dissonance, in my wake?

Lo, such beauty deserves my silence,
as I seek repose in this terrarium asylum,
near the river’s gentle rush, 
and, among the songs of tanagers and thrush;
I behold summer's end, as it reluctantly
dissolves into the resplendence of autumn.

©Denise Goodwin, All Rights Reserved
Photo credit: Renatures.com

Thursday, August 8, 2019

Dog Day Dreams

I know naught how to begin;
Suffice to say, that I am being pulled thin,
as if my mind is made of butterfly wings,
as puppeteers delight in pulling at the edges.

The air is heavy, the humidity, high;
Sitting still, brings no relief, 
as drops trickles down my spine
and there is no reprieve.

Drifting into a dream,
I watched the moon rise
through an amaranth sky.

They lurk in the lowest branches, 
Taught are their haunches
as they search for the weakest.

Snipping my pinions,
Preventing flight.


To take a whiff, 
To get a sniff,
To let it in.

They are lurking in the hedges,
Waiting to eat.  Waiting to feed.

To suck the life blood from this fragile being;
In secret, quietly unseen.

Sleep walking,
They creep closer, crawling.

The out of doors smells like the sea;
I grow more defenseless and weak.

The breeze feels like a ghostly visit;
A familiar and dreadful spirit,
like a cloud rising from my memory.

The night falls darker around me;
I hear the whisper of the trees,
who tryst among their leaves of green.

Their voices slip sweet nothings,
dripping wet with the evening's dew.

I feel the sting of solitude;
there's no describing the magnitude,
the waves of ache that never relent.

People in my dreams drift in, 
from out of the blue,
to criticize, protest and torment.

Somewhere in my mind, 
I remember that tomorrow is another day…

yet, tonight in the heat and humidity

of the dog days of summer
ghosts disturb my slumber 
as they approach in parade.

© Denise Goodwin, All rights reserved.
Photo credit: commonbrimstone.blogspot.co.uk

Wednesday, August 7, 2019

The Election, 2016

November 8, 2016

Today, even the wind was sad,
For I noticed, backwards, flew every flag;
As if the wind sensed impending doom,
as if it knew our country's gloom.

Do not ask me to hold allegiance
for every thing I stand against.

I will stand in defiance of bias,
until I draw my very last breath.

Do not ask me to forgive or forget,
Choices that I do not regret,
or distorted points of view,
for my blood bleeds blue.

Though the world continues spinning,
for you, sir, I will do no bidding.

Many words have been spoken,
and these words were chosen
to leave a nation frozen,
or caged within your bigot zoo;

but, I am not an animal,
held captive by the radical;
nor do I need to be subdued.

The collective gasp has been audible,
across our nation and the Capitol,
as we helplessly wait for you.

In my vain attempt to remain optimistic,
and in light of recent statistics,
the days have grown shorter,
in season and in spirit.

We will watch with horror,
a country more divided and distant,
Thanks to you.

Finally, I say to those who bleed red;
Do not tell me how to feel,
because your words feel like a threat,
or otherwise a silent warning.

I am deeply mourning,
and my heart is hanging from a thread.

©Denise Goodwin, All Rights Reserved
Photo credit: redbubble / lulubeeartshop

Tuesday, August 6, 2019

Selfies and Fluff

Do you live in an alternate world?
Can’t you see current events unfurl?

You offer nothing more than perpetual dribble,
from social media you trickle, 
words of exaggerated confection;
of sentiments, so tired and obsolete.

You strive to project a sunlit fairy tale, 
so sugary sweet;
with maudlin analogies
that belong in the direction
of garbage collection, 
or the trash heap.

I can't help but wonder: 
Where is your passion?
Your fire? 
Your heat?

You demonstrate an obsession,
of velvety love and cool sex;
Methinks, you get neither, or less.

For your barrage of moonlight and roses,
only exposes, the absence of depth.

And, I write naught, 
from jealousy or bitterness,
as I, too, am sometimes complacent
but I draw the line at children’s enslavement.

And, in me, exists a fevered passion
to crush and compress, 
the current government;
who stand to squash all that speak against it.

We wore white on election day,
and black on the day of the inauguration.

We wore pink to march, not as a decoration,
but to protest the oppression of red;
while cotton candy swirls in your head.

If my words sound angry and harsh, 
it's because we marched 
for the rights of our next generation. 

60 countries on 7 continents did arrange to 
march for Equal Pay and Climate Change;
for Human Rights and against deportation.

It is difficult for me to understand your isolation;
as we stand on the cusp of a new revolution.

Your words of a feigned fantasy,
cannot drown the filth and pollution,
that threaten our collective democracy.

So the next time you take up a pen,
remember our international demonstrations.

Forget sharing your love making,
and your never-ending (yawn) culminations.

For your words only express a ridiculous pretense
and a self-obsessed redundancy.

Your face is glued to each post,
like a hovering ghost;
so, my humble suggestion would be
to turn the fucking camera around.

Stop and look out, at the new battleground,
You just might see the world differently.

©Denise Goodwin, All Rights Reserved

Photo credit: ICT Pulse