What is your poetry, my friend?
Is it the cool spring day that bounces
off your clothes after a long winter mourning;
the spine-chilling defrosting session
you have when the sun finally rises
and the forward look to the light of a new day.
Or is it the morning silence of a library,
hot teas, and warm crumpets, that carries
your imagination far far away
after forgetting the chaos of yesterday.
Your poetry is your happy place,
your depressed face, your angry taste,
and an exhausted out space...
Your race to the moon and back
before mother tucks you in
and turns off the lights.
It's the bad blues news
and the good old days' anthem
that hums on long to the Sunday tunes
without a care in the world.
What is our poetry, my friend?
Is it a couple of pals laying waste
to the grass below our restless bodies
as we gaze up into the galaxy
and pronounce what is your and mine;
the grass clumping together in our hands
and spilling all over each other's hair.
Or is it the strum of your guitar
and the beat of my hands clashing
against each other to make a sweat
Yet miserable lullaby for our hearts
to pour our into the beach we set camp at.
The waves matching our irregular beat
with its own casual style
that loves to ride up onto our toes mid-chorus.
Our Poetry is what we make of it.
love letters dabbled back and forth
across the classroom get caught
just to share the love we have
with everybody else who doesn't have.
The glittering looks we give
when everyone bursts out laughing
because we know they know
they will never come close to us;
not even second place.
The tear drop memories of what was
and what coulda woulda shoulda been
but now isn't there for us to even cry on;
just cold shoulders and salty whispers
about the past, that should never have been
because it makes up too much pain for the present.
Bear with me on this please
I've been craving creativity rather absently
Dismally, there's nothing to guide me
No blissful excitement
No helping hand of inspiration
Not even a half beaten idea
Just a need to reclaim
What I feel like I've lost
(Or what's been stolen from me)
These are just some words within lines
Forming a confession to relieve the aimless craving inside
our love is,
dreary morning eyes
& the sun peeking through
mouths that still reek of dreams,
& smiles that soothe
our love is foggy windows
& sweaty bodies
the scent of your skin
& the scent of mine
nights that slip away
& the star above that shines
our love is smooth words
& voices still tainted by sleep
faces painted with smiles
& kisses that make you weak
our love is the position only
our bodies know
the entire continent of us
a map connecting fate
& a vulnerability that feels safe
our love is watching 80s music videos in bed
entangled & innate
laughing just because
it is something to appreciate
our love is adventure-filled days
& treasured memories to keep
a feeling deep within
as our hearts take a leap
our love is a method of praise
your presence like heaven
lost in a blissful daze
i wonder, all of my life, where have you been?
The New Year.
Some say it's a fresh start, others pat themselves on the back for
another year down, even though they probably don't deserve the acknowledgement. Some use it as an excuse, to get high, drunk, and all the things that follow so.
I see another year closer.
Another year I've waited to leave this town with its overly feigned cookie cuter houses and plastic people, if you can even call them people at all.
Another year closer to the year I can stop pretending, another year closer to tracing her nose with my thumb and kissing her forehead. Another year closer.
Another year so much nearer to showing what black and white can really do, to all the little lights and yellow flowers and raindrops and white canvas.
So much closer. But I'll start here.
It's nice to see you again.
I write poetry
because there are some things
I simply cannot talk about.
1. you and how much I have to say to you
but I can't say it
2. how my mind turns off and I feel like there's
a weight pulling me down
3. how confused I am about everything
5. how much I love you
... a diary of the falling dominoes chapter
invisibly dying from the inside out
no one is looking into unseen eyes
no one can hear a muted voice fading
no one is close enough to be near
the deafening thrums echo
anxieties’ racing heartbeat
within morphing flesh shell ,
gasping for new breath
in a hovering stale silence
from a distance
the broken mirror ricochets a subdued light ;
much closer the reflection reveals
someone I once knew by heart
now an unrecognizable mask
enshrouds a terminal emptiness
inconspicuous at a fleeting glance ,
impossible to discern what storms rage
from the inside out ,... unnoticed
an uncontained wildfire smoldering within
lies in wait for the imminent winds of change
to fan the flames into the final
eternal silent ashes
a poet reaches out demurely
offering a candid look
into the window
of the imperfect human soul
there is no poetry
met by indifference
just gathered unread words scribbled,
dripped slowly on an empty page ;
moments turn into days
days turned into years
invisibly dying from the inside out
an unfinished life trickles out
like seeping blood evanescing
from a bottomless puncture wounding
penetrating the heart,
leaching out the slow death of a poet
for poetry is only words unless they touch someone ...
befallen to indifference is poetic death
by salted paper cuts ...
a muting suffocation that hiddenly erodes away,
silencing the passion of a musing soul
one unread word at a time ...
© ... harlon rivers
like a self-fulfilled prophecy, some become transformational,
some become new beginnings or some become a finality
of a metamorphosis of peaceful endings
... all to be determined and allowed to let be
All is left couple of hours before your train arrives.
We had the best summer forever.
It was our late spring love.
I wish we could stop here for some more time.
I wish we could press rewind and begin everything from the earliest starting point.
I don't need to hear those comforting words when I know you will leave me alone.
Promise me you will remember when the night comes.
The time passes by it is turning out to be hard.
When I know we can't do anything further.
Now it is all over.
I get it now
They think I'm you
Is only the color of your skin
Is not the culture you love
The people you associate with
The people you share a bed with
The people you represent
Is only your name
Is only where you come from
Is what you claim around family
Black is you
Long as you are the only one
Long as-if there could be such a thing-the best one
Long as you are in charge of the rest
I am Black because Americans don't understand
An African born outside of Africa is still an African
I am Black
I am African
I love the reflection I see because it sees me
Truth be told:
I still love you
Even if you hate everything that stares back at you
© Christopher F. Brown 2017