When Love Dies

She is quiet, she is still
She is constantly ill.
She has given up everything
including her will.

The warmth of the sun and the light it once shone
Are gone from her life and she sits here alone.

There's not a reason, an answer or even a cure.
This is what happens when love lives no more.

Renée C Poissant

Test Scoring Machine

Clicking away throughout the day, oblivious to all else.
Living on electricity, consuming paper,
Unconscious and uncaring, yet powerful.
Determining the fate of the students,
Judging not by character, charisma, or efficiency,
But only by one ability.
That most useful and irreplaceable ability
To color in marked areas.
Not artistically or abstractly, or with willful thought.
But exactly, within the borders, and no further
Lest there be dire consequences.
For that machine has much power
And will punish those that dare think
Outside of the bubble it has created.
All hail the test scoring machine!
For it has the power to discern
Between those who are worthy and those that are not.
It is the Great Leader; on its cue we must lay our fate.
When we have finished, and emptied our brains.
And conformed our minds to fit into miniature bubbles.
Then we must wait in great apprehension
To see what the machine has made of our work.
Behold the excitement!
The results have come back!
Ah, what show of emotion there is
When the students gather round'
In fervent and silent pleading.
Those that have not gained its favor
Are faced with despair and a future as garbage men.
Those that do might be prosperous
Yet ever stuck in a rut as creatures of habit.
Never daring to think away from the path.
Ever obedient servants
To that great and mighty test scoring machine.

Feature Poem Four

Working on Saturday

Yippie! It's Friday
And I work tomorrow...
Yet working on Saturdays
Brings me no sorrow.
I still have two days
When I don't have to work.
Being an old-timer
Is definitely a perk.
Sundays and Mondays are
good days to rest.
I come back on Tuesday
Feeling my best.
When Monday is a holiday
I never have dread.
I'm luck enough
to have off on Tuesdays instead.

Renée C Poissant

Inspired by the Feature Poems

There is a line of customers reaching to the door.
I wish I could hide, or curl up on the floor
Yet I have to smile all the more.
I dare not show any chink in my armor
Lest I fall into disfavor.
I must maintain control
and keep track of every dollar.

Feature Poem Three

The wind is blowing
the sky is grey.
The sun above
has gone away.
I feel the rain on my face.
I feel the rain every place.
I love it when the sky is grey.
I love it when the sun is away.
The rain is not gloomy
like people say.
I wish it would rain everyday.

Renée C Poissant

Feature Poem One

"You look so good
I can't compete
From the top of your head
Down to your feet.
I work so hard to look so-so,
You wake up and you're ready to go
Looking good is easy for you
How you do it, I wish I knew."

Renée C Poissant

The beginnings of an experiment to feature the work of different poets both famous and unknown. A foretaste of things to come.

Empty Souls

The mind of mankind.
Within so many, the vast majority of it lies dormant,
Hidden away deep within the writhing folds of flesh,
So that thought is only given to shallow desires and emotions,
Caught up in relationships without depth,
Built on fading pleasantries
That crumble as dirty plaster.
Where offenses burrow like insects in the rotten core,
And bring about collapse.
Yet even in minds
In which the first layer of skin has been torn away
And exploration has been made in far greater depths,
There still exists a container which cannot be filled
And to pursue a quest to fill it with earthly treasures
Would be in vain.
Still, even those with an answer chase after ghoulish desires
And are tricked into wasting time,
Playing meaningless games that only lead to addiction.
Fetid heaps of excuses lay down a stench in the paths of life,
While works of meaning lie cast aside
For days that will never come.
On the horizon, the flames of tribulation lick the sky
With the orange forked tongues of serpents,
The earth shakes with pain of labor,
And thunder crashes in the distance.
Few foresee it, as each one labors to their own benefit
Consumed with self-preservation
Gathering unto themselves anything they can lay their hands on
All the while seeking for something that would fill.
Composed on the outside, deceivingly civilized,
Yet inside, they are wide-eyed pitifully needy creatures,
Grasping desperately with clawed hands,
To find that which cannot be seen.
Caught in a life of repetition,
Falling to traps that are known all too well
Lacking the strength and fortification in the soul
To control emotion, mind, and will.
The people feel that their original source has been cut off,
Leaving behind empty souls that cannot be filled
Because there is naught that fulfills
Until a specific purpose is given
And the heart has been trained to be faithful,
Overflowed with love, and purged from every iniquity.

Rejuvenation of Meanderings in Simplicity

Leaves blowing across the pavement,
Scurrying and scampering like so many little mice with their nails scratching on the concrete surface,
And no one but I will notice or even spare a thought.
I have entered a state that comes about every so often.
One could call it poetic,
yet it is no more than a mind detached
from so many other earthly things
and set in the gentle meanderings of simplicity.
It is like the simple joy that is felt within the childish heart
in creating a towering city of blocks, or a drawing of beings that defy the laws of physics.
I will not hesitate to say that those memories bring back some of that which is missed.
For in the world's current state are found monstrous tides of complexity
where relief and the darker side of enjoyment are found in flailing arms
set the throbbing beat of a base and flashing light shows
while intoxicating substances flow through systems,
taking away the memory of the strain of life,
and leaving their painful mark.
I seek none of it,
for my only solace is in the simple things while the state may last.
And now the muse has left again
until that time again may pass.

To See from the Eyes of Another

A reminder of the book that must be written.
Of a man with that power. To see through the eyes of another.
But how?

Alliteration

Not now do the naked negations normalize
nor will the necromantic nurses nominate a narcohypnia.
No noise shall nauseate by way of nares, not in that nutricial normality nor in any name pertaining to nasology.
A fine number on notarikon, yet it limits writing to the point that the fingers of my mind claw at the plastic enclosure, squealing as the plastic rubs the imperfections of my skin, and a face pushed outward stretching against the clammy translucent surface.

Have I not learned anything?

Sieve

A series of ambiguous images
Flowing through the subconscious
The ancient symbol of the hourglass
Flashes across the vision
The sands of time rushing through the glass
Like so many fish struggling as one
Against the current's drag.
A symbol of that which is called time,
No more than a conscious perception of an institution
And yet it flows by like a clear mountain spring.
Rather, we are swept along with it
As is everything else that we perceive to exist therein.
It must have a beginning and an end
Lest it be called an eternity
For which, in order to comprehend it,
we should require a time without end,
perhaps better defined as the absence of time as a concept
That which is forever.
Yet with our perception of human living,
Our time is spaced by means of birth and death
And when our life has progressed to such an extent
that we should realize how much we have accomplished
In the events that have thus far occurred in life,
It suddenly seems such a short time
And that institution of time suddenly becomes a looming shadow
On our horizon.
That which is integrated into culture with the metallic hand of clock
The dark shadow of the sundial and the glare of the hour glass
And is ever present in the conscious part of the mind
Is now harsh reality.
We are running out of time,
For an event draws ever closer
That marks the end of our time
We must be sifted now through the Sieve,
Till naught remains but the finest of
That which has been given us.