The Quiet and The Void

enlight1-2

It’s been a little while since I last wrote, I know. I’ve been settling in the quiet of the creative space in my mind and concentrating on my project Hanford Ground Zero. It is a place dedicated solely to creative writing. Poetry, writing prompts, and storytelling of dark themes generally centered around Hanford, Ca.

Bedsheets and Canyons has become a more general blog since I began it some time ago. I lost direction. Yes, I have shared poetry, stories, etc., but it has also been an outlet for all the things which clutter my mind. And I appreciate that, but it means that the intended creative work has a tendency to fall by the wayside.

So I would like to invite you to join me at Hanford Ground Zero for the enjoyment of dark and horrifying poetry, short stories, and scene writing!

-Z.

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Unholy Water

alcoholism

It burns amber,
Like embers,
Cascading fire,
Warming his body,
But leaves unclean his soul.

This holy water,
Never makes him clean.
Leaves him less than whole.
Has shattered
Every relationship
He’s ever had.

It leaves him
Breathless
Broken
And homeless.

He wanders the cold
Looking for another shot.
This time,
He’s certain,
He will finally come clean.

But he will never come clean.
Will never know forgiveness.
Will never rebuild burning bridges
Laced in alcohol and guilt.
And he is guilty.

This is his home now.
He’ll never find a better place,
Until he comes to an honest place
With himself,
And in himself.

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A Funeral for Two

funeral

The dead beckon him.
It’s the only reason he’s returned
To walk the haunted grounds of his youth;
To tread upon desecrated earth
Where beneath the soil something evil stirs

He’s come to bury his father,
Along with the burning bag of shit
Weighing heavy around his neck.
It’s his burden.
And he must bear it.

Upon him fall scornful stares.
Sad tear laden eyes
Brimming with blame.
Belonging to a congregation of wolves
Who somehow always make death about them.

Intently he listens
As the adder tongued pastor
Pours out his pain
In a sermon assuring the flock
That the dead man made it.
He was with God.

It’s his turn to speak.
Narrowed eyes follow him
As he walks the miles from pew to pulpit.
The adder tongue warns him,
Tread lightly.

I knew this man,
He says,
Through a whirlwind of violence,
By moments of absence,
In the bombs falling around my head.

I knew him,
Much like I know you.
Nails scraping  against chalkboards,
The gnashing of teeth,
The pulling of hair,
And the defiant detestable lies.

And I’ve come to bury him.
And one day I hope to bury you, too.
I pray that the writhing twisting thing
Stirring beneath these blood stained grounds,
Rises up to greet you,
And stands you before God.

Justice will never have come so quick,
Will never have been so sweet.

The congregation,
Rabid and salivating,
Snarling,
Baring sharp and twisted teeth
Rise at once to their feet.

He tries to run
But is caught in their blows.
They’ll do
What couldn’t be done with tongues.
Silencing conviction .
Doing away with opposition.
Losing control to regain their control.

He won’t give up his soul,
But he gives up his ghost.
Broken
Like the shattered window of his life.
They’ll bury him with his father,
Cover up their tracks,
In a funeral of lies.
Knowing one day soon,
They’ll have to look death in the eyes.

 

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Go and Love

refugee

Strangers.
Orphans.
Widows.
Prisoners.
Refugees.
Neighbors.
Behold the face of God.
Go therefore and love.

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Of Killer and Carnage

bleedingeyes

She stretches out a hand
Looking to feel forever
In the gentle brush of fingertips
Against decaying skin.

She finds beauty in carnage,
In ruined corpses.
In violent displays.
In dividing the body against itself.

Ever hungry,
Ever feeding,
But never satisfied.

She weeps in prayer,
Pleading to any inclined divine ear,
For this time to be the last time,
For it to finally be enough.

Yet every snuffed out life,
Every desperately pleading last word,
Each dying light
Winking out behind frightened eyes,
Is never enough.
It’s never enough.

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Lingering Ghost

windowstorm

The window,
Fragile,
Thin pane of glass,
Mist curtained,
And trembling,
Stands between her
And the ghost
Who nightly rises
From a shallow grave,
A pit
Cut into her heart.

Pity,
A soft sadness that weighs her soul.
She knows it’s a monster,
But refuses to let go.
It’s the only thing she has,
To prove
She isn’t as mad,
As those who buried him,
In the ruins of the broken home,
Where she once stayed;
In that awful house
Where bombs and children played.

She can’t,
She won’t,
She’ll never look away.
Nor shut down its voice.
Where on white noise
Whispers the pain
Of past sins,
Regret,
And so much guilt.

A Ghost,
Which lingers,
In the settling dark.
And until she turns the light on,
He’ll forever break her heart.

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Snowflake

mothertheresa
You can smell it in the breeze.
Screams.
Blood.
Fire.
The aroma of despair,
The scent of greed,
The odor of selfish desire.

Uneducated masses,
Inbred and
Sitting on their asses,
Wallowing in filth,
Whose answers
Always involve a gun.
Who
Pave their roads in hate,
Then call it Christian love;
While calling those who oppose,
Snowflakes,
And Special ones.

If compassion and love,
Make me a snowflake,
Understand
That means I am not just one.
I am a million holy hands
Ready to bring down an avalanche,
To shut down your system,
To disrupt this dysfunction,
To stop the thriving of scum.

We are done with your shit.
We’ve done it your way.
Let us show you
What can be done
With a little hope,
And a lot of love.

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