Tag: hopelessness

“I’ve Come at Last to Anhedonia” published at LatinosUSA

On By Mike U.In Poetry19 Comments

Hey, folks. My poem “I’ve Come at Last to Anhedonia” is now available at LatinosUSA. Much gratitude to editor Michelle Navajas for publishing this piece. Sincerely appreciated, Michelle.

“I’ve Come at Last to Anhedonia”
© 2023 by Michael L. Utley

“I’ve come at last to Anhedonia
that bleak and melancholy land
beyond the god-forsaken desert sand
far ‘cross the sea of memories
where sunlight fades and none has e’er returned…”

You can read the rest of my poem here:

“I’ve Come at Last to Anhedonia” by Michael L. Utley

I hope you’ll consider following and subscribing to LatinosUSA–a place of unique visions and creative voices from around the world.

“Idyllic” published at Hotel by Masticadores

On By Mike U.In Poetry28 Comments

Hello, everyone. My poem “Idyllic” is now available for your perusal at Hotel by Masticadores. I’m grateful to editor Michelle Navajas for publishing this piece, which is an unapologetic, unvarnished rendition of what rural life is really like in parts of this lost and broken country. Thank you, Michelle, for sharing this dark poem with with your readers.

“Idyllic”
© 2025 by Michael L. Utley

“Leroy blew his
fingers off with
blasting caps he stole
from some old granary
and he’d chew on the
blackened stumps
while waiting
for the school bus
like some kind of
hard dude
like he didn’t feel
a thing
I hated him
but I understood
numbness
and I knew he was
dead inside
knowing his
little sisters
were never
coming back
from that long-ago
pile of twisted metal
on the highway
he was sixteen
and already
an old man…“

You can read the rest of my poem here:

“Idyllic”© 2025 by Michael L. Utley

Also, please consider following and subscribing to Hotel by Masticadores, where you’ll discover a world of wonderfully imaginative and profound writing.

“How Swift the Stream” published at Hotel by Masticadores

On By Mike U.In Poetry37 Comments

Hey, friends. I’d like to let you know my poem “How Swift the Stream” is now live at Hotel by Masticadores. Many thanks to editor Michelle Navajas for publishing this poem. It’s an honor and a delight, Michelle.

“How Swift the Stream”
© 2025 by Michael L. Utley

“as gloaming eventide stalks dying light
to ambuscade the remnants of the day
diurnal requiems give way to night
how quick the gloom
eviscerates its prey

regretful skiffs of shame contuse the dusk
as shadows skulking on earth’s wretched rind
asphyxiate its palpitating husk
how cruel the dark
and all it renders blind…”

You can read the rest of my poem here:

“How Swift the Stream”© 2025 by Michael L. Utley

Also, please consider following and subscribing to Hotel by Masticadores, where you’ll discover a world of wonderfully imaginative and profound writing.

“A Poet’s Lamentation” published at Hotel by Masticadores

On By Mike U.In Poetry43 Comments

Hello, folks. I’d like to announce my poem “A Poet’s Lamentation” is now live at Hotel by Masticadores. Kindest thanks to editor Michelle Navajas for sharing this poem with her estimable readers. I’m truly grateful, Michelle.

“A Poet’s Lamentation”
© 2025 by Michael L. Utley

“pardon my sorrow
and forgive my weeping soul
my humble supplication
loosed into the void on raven’s wings
to fall on deafened ears of fickle gods…”

You can read the rest of my poem here:

“A Poet’s Lamentation”© 2025 by Michael L. Utley

Also, please consider following and subscribing to Hotel by Masticadores, where you’ll discover a world of wonderfully imaginative and profound writing.

“Idyllic”

On By Mike U.In Poetry50 Comments

“Idyllic”
© 2025 by Michael L. Utley

Leroy blew his
fingers off with
blasting caps he stole
from some old granary
and he’d chew on the
blackened stumps
while waiting
for the school bus
like some kind of
hard dude
like he didn’t feel
a thing
I hated him
but I understood
numbness
and I knew he was
dead inside
knowing his
little sisters
were never
coming back
from that long-ago
pile of twisted metal
on the highway
he was sixteen
and already
an old man

Ronnie was a
psycho
and a pusher
and drove a
piece of shit
Chevy truck
with a .30-06
in a window rack
and his eyes
danced with
hellfire
when he wasn’t
shooting up crank
he was shooting up
mailboxes
and stealing anything
that wasn’t nailed down
and one surreal
summer evening
he almost killed me
and I saw the face of
true evil
up close and personal
my old man
would have been proud
Ronnie was already DOA
and he didn’t even
know it
a wraith
barreling down
a midnight country road
with Skynyrd blasting
and his mind
completely blown

Old Bud had a penchant
for booze
and young girls
and enough sway with
the local LEOs
to look the other way
when his granddaughters
came to visit
his self-proclaimed
redneck empire
collapsed one day when
his black heart came a cropper
and his corpulent ass
gave up its ghost
and its secrets
no shame for the shameless
his little kingdom in ruins
but all those skeletons
remain

my old man was
an anomaly
among this
cretin coterie
this hick menagerie
his arrogant bullying
earned him the moniker
“little hitler”
among the Leroys
and Ronnies
and Old Buds
of this nowhere place
this idyllic pastoral
version of hell
his NRA card-waving
wife-beating
chest-thumping
sturm und drang
racist dog and pony show
approach to country life
perhaps a little too much
for their liking
he was a laughingstock
and too proud to know it
hubris is a helluva drug

and one by one
between shoot-outs
and break-ins
and meth labs
and murders
and suicides
and all the
hidden horrors
birthed by the
brackish hearts of men
these restless ghosts
have faded into
oblivion
only barren fields remain
derelict houses
rife with caustic memories
and the soundless hush
of the uneasy dead
listen closely
and steel yourself
against what this
silent place may
tell you

things are never
ever
as they seem

“How Swift the Stream”

On By Mike U.In Poetry34 Comments

“How Swift the Stream”
© 2025 by Michael L. Utley

as gloaming eventide stalks dying light
to ambuscade the remnants of the day
diurnal requiems give way to night
how quick the gloom
eviscerates its prey

regretful skiffs of shame contuse the dusk
as shadows skulking on earth’s wretched rind
asphyxiate its palpitating husk
how cruel the dark
and all it renders blind

the dreams of men have withered into dross
the fruits of hope lie rotting on the vine
of apathy and existential loss
how foul the taste
of sorrow’s bitter wine

the torrents of the years in all their guile
and surreptitious whisperings betray
compassion’s current flows but for a while
how swift the stream
and all it sweeps away

“A Poet’s Lamentation”

On By Mike U.In Poetry41 Comments

“A Poet’s Lamentation”
© 2025 by Michael L. Utley

pardon my sorrow
and forgive my weeping soul
my humble supplication
loosed into the void on raven’s wings
to fall on deafened ears of fickle gods

there is no recourse but to hemorrhage
wring my bleeding heart of every drop
of my wretched existence
rend the sinews from my bones
and flay me naked

in this bleakest night
‘neath the bitter howling stars
my armature gleams ghastly
pale, my dynamo has stripped its gears
my lidless eyes see all and naught at once

as galaxies cavort and novae scream
tunes atonal to eternity
and singularities gorge
on time itself, I writhe in
insignificance

what of sacrifice
what of tears that stain the path
to heaven or hell, what of
all the shattered promises, edicts
proposed to bridge sepulchral crevasses

to heal humanity, to proffer hope
all I hear is silence, all I see
are forsaken blasted lands
smoking ruins, open graves
all I feel is dread

words in lieu of souls
that is all the poets have
to lay upon the chantry
of contrition, penitence conveyed
through lifetimes etched in stone and signed in blood

a universal verse, an astral dirge
seeking meaning in obscurity
the great myst’ry locked away
far beyond my lexicon
all words have failed me

“I am the Coin that Falls Between the Cracks”

On By Mike U.In Poetry63 Comments

“I am the Coin that Falls Between the Cracks”
(c) 2024 by Michael L. Utley

parts of me have died
that no one will ever know
nor will ever mourn
and why should they
I am just a remnant of myself
writ small among the vagaries of life

I am the coin that falls between the cracks
the sub-aural hum of power lines
the mote-specked silence of barn lofts
the dull glint of galaxies
as seen through rheumic eyes
I am the shadow
in the corner
of my cold
listless
mind

amid the howl of eternity
there are worlds upon worlds
fractal multiverses strewn
with thoughtless hubris
across heaven’s filthy floor
the dice of fate, kismet’s craps
as reckless gods play
with the lives of men
and alabaster-eyed
sentinels gaze blankly
distant and aloof
into the cackling abyss

once, beneath a leaden sky
a sweltering path led me
through shag-barked copses
and desiccated thickets
to an obscure clearing
and there
in midday gloaming
a spring appeared
and I knelt at water’s edge
seeking desperately
for my reflection
proof of my existence
which eluded me
upon the stagnant rancid
larval-glutted surface
I sought to see my soul
but instead espied
the foul machinations
of a craven universe
amid pond scum
and the stench of reality
and as I fled in horror
the pealing laughter
of amused gods
rent the sky

there are sink-holes in my soul
where I’ve lost myself
along the way
suffocating in tenebrosity
the detritus of shame
trailing behind me
marking my path
from tepid light
to torpid darkness
from inutile hope
to abject despair
the inconsequential
bric-a-brac of
22,000 days
fallen from the cabinets
of my heart
shattered shards
of worthless memories
my mind
a stuttering dynamo
choking on its own fumes

I
have lost
myself in
this desert of
alkali flats and
creosote bushes that
leech all moisture from my eyes
rendering tears unfeasible
seeking shelter from this thoughtless sun
and the mindlessness of my existence

take my hand
if you dare
and I shall show you
a broken soul
a half-hearted man
a mind in free-fall
a dumb dying animal
too cowardly to drop
to the dust and merge
with oblivion
a leprous life
in exile among
incurious stars
shunned by
callous sun
and careless moon
and exhausted
beyond measure
a half-life
every atom radiating
a numbness of spirit

my lost soul slides
languidly
toward
day’s end

and when my somber sun sets
none shall be the wiser

“Snap-beans in a Wooden Bowl”

On By Mike U.In Poetry29 Comments

(originally published at Masticadores Philippines, 3/23/2024)

“Snap-beans in a Wooden Bowl”
(c) 2024 by Michael L. Utley

snap-beans
in a wooden bowl
and tears
on her cheeks
my mother’s sorrow
exorcised by
the rite of
working hands
the ritual of
silent contemplation
as evening sun
gilded her world
in holy ephemera
her safe place
ensconced
in her own
sacred light
her garden
her universe

the weeds she hoed
during languid summer days
of sun-burned neck
and aching back
how many belonged to her
how many the memories
of fear and violence
in desperate need of
eradication
her rough ancient hoe
her crucifix
against
my father’s rage
her blisters
turned to calluses
turned to armor
her fingers bent
with age and arthritis
yet strong enough
to hold herself
together
day by day
to contain
the tears the anger the horror

corn silk
her hair was corn silk
as she merged with
row upon row
of papery whispering stalks
her naked feet
rooting into earth
deeply
deeply
where her spirit lived
safe in cool moist soil
a fertile loam
a secret energy
regenerating her
scarred soul daily
only to be
shattered nightly
the cycle of the seasons
her heart always
an autumn heart
forever offering harvest
to all, then burned
to the ground
without a thought
as my father’s
winter approached

I passed her one evening
as she sat snapping beans
in a wooden bowl
her bare feet beagle-draped
farm cats lurking amid
squash blossoms
the westering sun
haloing her tired face
and she gazed at
the distant horizon
staring at the empty world
a faraway smile
nearly touching her eyes
as a tear fell
among broken beans
in her lap
and she looked at me then
and her smile was terrible
an anguish
I’d never seen before
and I knew
that she knew
there was nothing
either of us could do

“Still I Toil On”

On By Mike U.In Poetry51 Comments

“Still I Toil On”
(c) 2024 by Michael L. Utley

my old hoe is dull
and the weeds
resist its blade
still I toil on
iron sharpens iron
rust begets rust
the crucible of life
makes or breaks
which shall I choose
do I even have a choice

my garden’s neglect
pains my soul
its hardened soil
thirsts for more
than rain
too many weeds
too few blooms
a loathsome facsimile
of the worst of me

these hands
cracked and dirty
beset by age
and the scars
of a futile life
once strong enough
to break the earth
shatter stone
yet tender still
to caress the lotus
dry the tears
of my beloved
these calloused hands
empty now
save for the
piercing splinters
and burning blisters
of stillborn harvests
and sundered dreams

once, long ago
across the stream
my young man’s eyes
beheld the youthful willow
nubile and lithesome
her slender feet
glissading upon
the cool water
sinuous fronds
breeze-blown
her sultry-shy gaze
beckoning me
offering respite
from noonday sun
and I watched from afar
as egret and kitsune
nestled in her shadows
and I yearned for her
but my garden
needed tilling
my hoe dull even then
my back bent
from years of struggle
my heart distracted
by worries of harvests
yet to be
and in my hesitation
she turned away
and all was lost

cicadas drone
in the bamboo grove
their maddening chorus
a condemnation
their brief lives
leave little time
for memories
but plenty
for judgment
their desiccated husks
reminding me
of life’s brevity
all I’ve lost
all I needlessly
carry with me

it has been too long
since the rains fell
too long since the wind
cooled my brow
too long since
my soul slept
too long have I
gripped this
infernal device
my entire existence
rooted in this
garden of regrets
I have become
the very weed
I wish to slay

still I toil on
for there is naught left
but to toil
until my blade breaks
or the harvester’s scythe
takes me away