("Lonesome Day Blues", 2025, original encaustic)
Spinning Stories
Waking or sleeping
Continuously we spin believable stories
Ideal or terrible
Or just simply boring or strange.
Obviously
It’s what our minds habitually do
And we believe them
Even when it’s clear we shouldn’t
Because they are our stories
Spun into a web
To hold our attention, hold us up
And hold something,
A lack at our center and beyond
Our periphery, back.
We spin believable stories,
A spider in a matrix of its own design,
To bring order
To chaos
Because that’s just what minds habitually do.
(4/20/25)
Lean closer, dear friend, my secret to hear.
Speak softly, Mr. Know-it-all is near.
I am unsettled by his depiction -
a poetic character of fiction.
It is I who created that sad man,
not so believable, but I did try.
Admittedly, he's poorly drawn, that guy.
When he cares, he acts like he doesn't.
If he says his heart's in it, it wasn't.
You'll soon forget him. He will disappear.
So depend on me. I'll always be here.
Every day you go to work
And hop into your vehicle
Not a thought or say a word
About if the job is meaningful
You sacrifice a lot of time
And try to be agreeable
Often sold on common goals
It all sounds so believable
Any goal that is your own
Should not include your brothers
Because his goals you may not know
And are hard to go discover
Upper hands are gained
Not by ones that tell the other
Because what is not explained
Sustains impressions that you're under
Sadness is sporadic in midnight
Love is a nightmare and scary
You wake up suddenly
In the middle of the night
Crying and gasping for truth
Only to fine out a dream unsettled
Telling truth is painful and elusive
Lies is like cupcake easy to eat
Believable, inviting and flowery
Deceitful lovers use wishful ways
To trap innocent to succumb beauty
A treachery led to destroy treacherous
Be true in all dealing of relationship
God will bless you and give you justice
Whatever happen your life in the end.
Don't be hide anymore behind
this shameful mask of coldness,
I start feeling your indifference;
you pull away and enter a fantasy world,
where nothing is real to human eyes:
don't hold on your ego and pretense!
This shameful mask of coldness
has kept you in dreadful darkness,
is there anybody who trusts you anymore;
even words aren't as believable as before!
Steal kisses and run away,
spend nights in stranger's arms,
conquer and use innocent girls;
never think you won't pay!
It's time you took off this mask of coldness,
it has hurt me more than the other lovers!
Pray that you don't step in hell again,
burn in torment for the lies you told me;
there's a payday for everyone who deceives,
there's a cold day that brings rain and shivers:
you did it to yourself, no pity on you, demon...
I have clipped your wings: you can't reach me!
Scream, don't ask for mercy, keep your frown,
cringe your teeth, nobody can hear you, dummy;
the mask of shameful coldness has come down:
it's my turn for revenge, why should I feel guilty?
Why is a lie sometimes more believable than the truth?
Uncommon Sun frisks mercury— heat's blight
On Winter's frame around tree trunks and boughs,
Shrieking frost shattered— melts in her tears, rights.
Atypical thaw for this season's height,
Where my mime yet waits to move for the clouds;
Uncommon Sun frisks mercury— heat's blight.
While setting back at the set of twilight—
My heart's glassy soil's whiff— portrayals ploughed,
Shrieking frost shattered— melts in her tears, rights.
A hiding mood that left the moon behind
In wisps of air, still by strains of dark's shroud
Uncommon Sun frisks mercury— heat's blight.
Repeated turn-arounds of the street lights—
Where essence freaks in the glitter; glade pound,
Shrieking frost shattered— melts in her tears, rights.
Of Nature believable; hasn't died—
Through the Winter's Time, waning about how
Uncommon Sun frisks mercury— heat's blight;
Shrieking frost shattered— melts in her tears, rights.
the tempered veil of years with a weave of sweet and sour
can be lavish like the pleasurable return of good deeds
take what you learn from sky high places
that bleed clouds to the hills
weave towards green with its hypnotic continuity
reach for the weightlessness of a dandelion seed
in a breeze of somersaults
weave away if lies spoken with zest
become believable
seek a safe place from huff and puff winds
woven into refuge like design in a quilt
find what's essential like peek-a-boo games
that tickle a child to glee
work strains
whittles at days
the hourglass sighs at what sags away
summer still holds the chatter of birds
young buds still weave upward
ungloving hands holding chains and fear
joy still roams to signboards above
nothing desolate
a sanctuary
Elysium
in walls that rise
in stars unnamed
It is always those things
That we can’t touch – the stars,
The moon, the clouds in June,
The sun, the rainbow after the storm,
The thunder and the trembling voice
Beneath the heartfelt sentiment
It is always those things
That we can’t know – the heart
Who lives behind the smile,
The whisper of faith in a child,
The joy in the sunrise, the snowflake,
The gentle in the spirit who colors
Life in hues of resilience…
It is always those things
That we can’t see – the feeling
Bleeding through endless sensitivity,
The breathless hope, the mystery
Feeding off the laughing winds and seas,
The yearning of a heart who knows…
It is always those things
That make life beautiful, believable
That erase the doubts and darkness
With faith and enlightenment…
It is always those things that make life
Feel like it is worthwhile, worthy of the smile
Who beams beneath the shroud covering up
Those things that make it all worthwhile!
A good storyteller knows how to make an audience hooked
Making them anticipate each and every move
And crave for a good story while not wanting it to end
For a good story should find a way to always live on
A good storyteller has his cards on his chest
All this time looking at his audience
Building up the tension as people wait
Wait to see what the next would be
A good storyteller has a good ink
Ink that makes the words in the book to glow
As it easily flows from beautiful pieces of ideas
As they make a masterpiece that drips into people's souls
A good storyteller knows when to lie
And make it believable, for if one doubts your plot
They'll try to go deep till they find a flaw
And that's how you'll lose your grip on your audience
A good storyteller knows how to seat at the back
To watch on as people enjoy the show
For his next story lies in their reactions
For he feeds directly from his audience
The PO£T
There, in our village, even today exists,
A derelict bungalow which is in suspense lists;
No village folk, its true history knows,
The eldest, through tales, knowledge shows;
Some, during British colonial times, who came here,
Did not go back to their nation, out of sheer fear,
That they might not be considered one among them,
Will be treated, instead, like a rootless stem;
They lived here as though it were their homeland,
And indulge in luxuries that were so grand;
One by one, they went to the earth of their birth,
All believed that there under they lived in great mirth;
There was only one man survived in the end,
His hair had grown silver; his head and shoulder bent;
Once, lo, he too kicked the bucket, at last,
And, none knew, why he was buried very fast;
It was his wish before his death, some said,
Others, in their way, have other stories did spread;
All, young or old, assumed one belief in common,
As though it were the most believable phenomenon;
That he, as a ghost, lived bungalow bound,
And attacked any creature that roamed around...!
08 February 2023
Tell me my story,
I have quite forgotten
truth from fiction
my reality is a snail shell,
a spiral inwards
into an unpublished past.
I was never true; never false,
just not yet concluded
last pages still flutter loose
in a dust-storm.
Write me a novelty
some popular tale
I once told myself.
Keep it fake
keep it believable
keep it for tomorrow
when my reading glasses
return from the blind gods of
past & future
say nothing of this moment.
ILLUSTRATIONS
dreams
&
reality
clear sounded
yet
a
fantastical situation
sans
sense
&
literalness
to make it
believable
an involved
setting
the instantly
recognisable
envisaged
unaware
lie
the forlorn
in
confused
forces
of loneliness
&immortality
deference
& gentility
a
memoir
survives
the experience
conceived
in
parallel
NOTE:THIS IS AN OPEN(organic) FORM VERSE using spaces&breaks without grammatical symbols ,the ' open' relies upon 'the one breath limitation' & so inherently requires the 'reader' (reciter) to input and responds thus making this enigmatic form a two way interplay & interpretatIon unique to the moment& changing according to mood is inherently variable.
Copyright © Brian Strand
It is easy
Doesn't take much effort
To convince the innocent they are guilty
All it takes are willing cohorts
And their concerted efforts
To manufacture believable evidence
Begin again with original sin
Live in poverty but wait for the heavenly
Life is another punishment waiting to be happening
And you will bend your knee to other gods
You will trust in demons
And their face of your governance
You will believe under the pain of death
Such victims are those
Who have no choice left
It is easy
To convince the innocent they are guilty
Innocence is as innocence does
There has been no respite in the tipping of the scales
Punishing the children
So the, you are sinful, doctrine always prevails
And under the blanket of your sin
Such evil laughs at your innocence
Disgusting grins as you ask it for deliverance
Ah! you soft targets
You easy marks
You the betrayed in your innocence
A dog upon a cross
Butterfly in a net
A hopeless case of perpetual abuse
soft TARGET
It can never be
This heart's fallacy;
True love dawning's, truly
Makes peaceable.
Unless through this word
Are touched by the Lord;
Earth, as paradise, restored
Makes believable.
Related Poems