Poetry that Tells a Story

An unpainted
treasure chest
with the initials
"LP"
No glaze.
--Takes me back to the days
when I made her.
8th grade and I was no
art major.
-But I made her.

Bland, against a white wall.
Unnoticed
among them all.
There's a lid
and a box
but no key
and no lock
there's no way to keep shut
or keep out what I shouldn't trust.

Unpainted, unglazed, just burned.
What a haze.
While I move
to another room,
another wall,
it changes all.

Now white can stand out.
And it won't ever blend in.
Not unless it's put against
a white wall again.

I.
Futures; mine came to me in a dream
of tumbling Baroque, of mist and wood.
The dark of the lea from where I stood
read on into space like empty reams,
with boardwalks whispering at the seams:
'so long as man has dreamt of good,
the ice of hell had life to breathe,
so long as woman lived under hood,
Death has walked alone to thieve
the souls of men whose courage could
erase the heavens but never would.'


II.
Dappled sky, angle-poised below
low-lights me torrid-frame cloak,
me leering-loll lips meet the laugh
of the lea, I laugh back.
Scattering dust of tooth on steps
that lead to the first step of steps,
me trigger-fingers dab the night,
of no twin, no alike.
Snaffling snouts clear the motes,
steps to steps, after me cloak.
Have I passed this thought before,
distressed, distraught?
Rumbling spud-headed clouds
wallpaper the sun's kind growl
as I am caught up, brought up
and find time lost, time stuck...

III.
Can I find the words to simplify
what I have just recalled?
Unlikely - the whole side-by-side,
magical-real nature of it
does not call for any definition.
Though I know that somewhere
(sometime)  I shall see that lea
as a stolid, stale memory, instead
of a blurred, unbidden outline
of my prospects, I still cannot
focus enough, focus, focus enough
to draw you the picture.
Dali might be able to help but all
shades shimmer to the shape
of the eye and we are all unique.

The crowd roared to life
Screaming my name
A million glittering bulbs
Remembering, feeling
Struggling to be free
Of all the memories
That fight to hold me
Down to the ground
I will succeed
I stand taller, higher than before
I will not lose
I refuse to give in
The crowd chants my name
I smile, I pose for the camera,
I am a beautiful woman
Maybe that is all I will
Ever be.

We, the same from and of flesh and pumping blood,
our skin sweating in touch, together, the scent
was always the same,
you and I, one younger, one older,
the way it was meant to be,
in fights and tears and pup-tent shared lamp-lit fears,
we rolled our heads beneath the stars above
upon the grassy knolls, our pillows kept,
not ever knowing that one of us would be
covered beneath the soily breath,
the one of one of us, still left,
watering the fields of your footsteps,
now dressed up as dreamy memories,
the tossing heart of guilt and pleads,
for just one more day, dammit! -one more
day...
I had still some things,
I wanted to say.
__
My schoolmate Tim and I both lost out brother Mikeys.
This poem is for them.

The old man sat somewhere twix bemused and bewildered,
Staring out at the mist that lay upon the puse horizon of twilight.
Horace, the brown and white dog with the shaggy coat,
came and curled himself around his masters feet,
The old mans hand fell upon the dogs faithful head,
gently he stroked the dog, yet without sentiment,
but rather with a sense of habit, formed by years of ritual.
and so each day he sits and awaits the coming twilight.

21st December 2010

When I passed from the focus of your vision,
I took with me your love,
I hold it close to my heart
that we may share it forever,
when we are once again united.

Were it that we met on the golden beaches
that surround our land, and
held hands as we walked along the shore,
the light of the full moon shining
above the sea's horizon.
Go there,
walk along the sand, collecting pretty shells,
as we used to do.
Feel the salt air touch your skin
in the evening as you stroll, and
know I am the air
that tenderly touches you,
the waves that rush toward you
then recede as though beckoning
you to come join me in the ocean
of my love forever.

Were it that we met in the bush
amid the wattle and the gum, and
danced the night away
in the shed where sheep,
are shorn by day.
Go there
Watch the sun set over the land
you and I loved so intensely.
Taste the scent of the eucalypt
carried on the evening breeze.
Know I am there in the breeze
ever by your side,
I am the sound of the bush,
at twilight calling you to me.
As the bird calls it's mate,
to come nestle in the gum.
I am calling you to come
nestle in my love eternally.

Were it that we met in the mountains
high above the rain forest
huddled in front of an open fire,
as snow fell outside the window.
Go there,
Watch the spring dawn,
be part of the wonder of
nature's new awakenings,
as the winter snow thaws,
into torrents that rush into streams
cascading over cliffs
forming mighty waterfalls.
Stand near the falls to be
showered by their spray.
Know I am the spray that showers you,
the wonder that surrounds you,
I await you in the rain forest
of my everlasting love.

When you leave the focus
of this world's vision,
know that love awaits you,
my eternal valentine

The Cosmos called into the void,
“Who is that, show yourself!”
“I am a remembrance,” came the reply,
“of a time that no longer exists,
a semblance of what once was,
when nations fought for centuries,
slaughtering millions to possess me.”

"When they had no more rage,
to take out on each other,
they took their rage out on me.
Not one nation took up my standard.
Not one protected the tree trunk,
the lungs of their own survival,
from the saw or axe that fell it."

“Not one nation sat beside a stream
And understood its water bore
the lifeblood of their existence.”
Not one stopped pumping poison
into the air they all breathed.
I was once known as Earth,
Now I am a speck of non existence.”

The Cosmos wept.

You're the words of love
with every turn of the page
of my life, that burns
bright in the night,
and sets the day's scene
just right,
for the love you
bring, starts the story
to sing, and the melody
drifts through every chapter
like mists surrounding me,
and you continue the tune,
with every page
that I view,
from the beginning,
until the end,
and then I re-read
it all over again,
the book that you've
entitled, "I Love You"
-because the story is true:
"I love you, too!"

__
the book:
http://beautyineverything.com/5092820337

She slides over
the hot upholstery
of her mother's car,
this schoolgirl of fifteen
who loves humming & swaying
with the radio.
Her entry into womanhood
will be like all the other girls'—
a cigarette and a joke,
as she strides up with the rest
to a brick factory
where she'll sew rag rugs
from textile strips of kelly green,
bright red, aqua.

When she enters,
and the millgate closes,
final as a slap,
there'll be silence.
She'll see fifteen high windows
cemented over to cut out light.
Inside, a constant, deafening noise
and warm air smelling of oil,
the shifts continuing on ...
All day she'll guide cloth along a line
of whirring needles, her arms & shoulders
rocking back & forth
with the machines—
200 porch size rugs behind her
before she can stop
to reach up, like her mother,
and pick the lint
out of her hair.

From out the dragging vastness of the sea,
Wave-fettered, bound in sinuous, seaweed strands,
He toils toward the rounding beach, and stands
One moment, white and dripping, silently,
Cut like a cameo in lazuli,
Then falls, betrayed by shifting shells, and lands
Prone in the jeering water, and his hands
Clutch for support where no support can be.
So up, and down, and forward, inch by inch,
He gains upon the shore, where poppies glow
And sandflies dance their little lives away.
The sucking waves retard, and tighter clinch
The weeds about him, but the land-winds blow,
And in the sky there blooms the sun of May.