Leaf.
Golden and green, then brown and falls apart.

Is Death really so bad?
It creates for such beauty.
It Spins the Wheel.

A skull with horns.
To some, unfathomable...
to see, a sense of aesthetic so profound as it sits there on the mantle before a snow filled fireplace.

I crumble the leaf...
...steals away my pride.

I remember one day I will crumble,
fall away,
and die.

It is not such a horrible thing.

For, I am excited to see what lies beyond the Blackened Gates of the Earth.

And when my candle snuffs out in 120 or more years from now, it will be with an angel-light, glowing white, in my heart.

Without Death, there would be no Creation...no Birth.

Think about it.
Feel it.
Meditate upon it.

Like an Aghori, who sits upon a human grave, holds a human skull, and dusts himself in cremated remains...
Embrace it.
Bathe in the metaphoric blood of ancestral light.
Roll in the soil.
Taste the bliss of release.

For then, and only then...
can you walk through the Valley of Life...
Removed entirely...

...

...from Fear.

Since I don't know if we'll ever meet again-
I guess
that we'll try to stay together
forever.

"I'll tell you someday."
Laughing and sticking your tongue out,
teasing me,
you were the most beautiful then.
But-
When is that someday?
A link in the far distant future;
without any promise
or solidity.

Your back is growing fainter,
more distant,
vaguer,
quieter,
it's almost transparent now.

The fact that no matter how long my fingers were;
How much I grew;
How much I learned;
How much I matured-
The fact
that I could still not reach or touch you
or your standard;
I could do nothing
but slump to the floor,
Admit painful defeat-
And cry.  

The Villain-
was me.
The one who ran away-
was me.
It was no lie,
For I am
the true deceiver.

And
I say to the plaster
peeling wall-
"I'm Sorry."
Uselessly,
Meaninglessly,
inutility,
I just sit there
in a wooden, peeling
chair;
Wondering.

The Characters that I wrote then-
They don't dance for me anymore.
"Is that so?"
The poems that I scribbled-
on a napkin at a fast food restaurant,
Where are they now?
"Who knows?"
My memories and limits-
Are they gone?
"Why don't you figure out yourself?
Isn't the person,
who knows you best-
yourself?"  
--
--
--
I'm sorry-
My light was gone.
I'm Sorry-
My head wasn't thinking straight.
I'm Sorry-
I let go.
What kind of excuses are these?

For being a coward,
For being a shallow person
who didn't see the world-
Sorry doesn't even take up half of it.

The beginning of the end,
tell me,
when does that time come?

The promise that our naïve selves made together
"Forever, Eternally,"
You believed in those words.
For crushing your morals,
For mocking them,
For taking away your innocence,
"Forgive me."

Who's Who In Poetry



T'is a curious thing,
these verbal peddlers, tribal members,
famously well known to no one,
perhaps at best,
a kindred few, fellow-travelers.

Each a troop,
bloodied, purple hearted,
word-wounded,
anonymous unto each other,
yet all bonded intimates,
in solitary struggle united,
yet sea-parted by the very nature
of the solitude of composition.

All poets are Cain scar-marked,
purposed for everyone to see,
a warning to rabbled boors,
imagination suppressors!

World:

cherish these flawed ones,
gentle these frail but gritty,
the Lord has tasked them
to be prophets in one tongue untied,
undo the strife of Babel's division.

Poets!

Be the harpooners
of the unexamined life,
with unfettered rhapsody,
comfort caress us,
exhort the loopy
to light their illusionary candles,
turn the sad eyed lowlanders
into crinkly eye-lined smilers.

With clinical observation,
dense and demanding,
make us laugh at
the comedy of our situation,
teach us our free-to-see peep show,
reveal, unseal us
with tart empathy!

For who's who in poetry
is all of us!
saviors and failures,
recorders and decoders,
night writers of the oohs and aahs
of dreams and nightmares.

When this poet cannot,
no longer, anymore,
tastes his poems upon your lips,
keep your poems within his heart,
then he breathes no more,
and become one who was
in poetry.

i.
i think i'll light up another cigarette and watch
as this city burns before my tired eyes.
the disease of society spreads through my bones and
i become another cog in the machine.

ii.
tonight, i will stumble into our single-sided
double bed, the alcohol tearing into my head
and wish for a boquet of roses as the shreds
of tomorrow ravage my flea-bitten mind.

iii.
dawn breaks only for the worthy.

iv.
drama queen. mise en scene.
welcome to your very last dream.
take the ashes from this dust
and learn to give yourself away.

v.
my lips taste of poison. hell, i am
exactly that-poison. there is no beauty
left in these weary bones.

vi.
i have become absolutely nothing.

His Nickname Was Justice

He walked down from the mountain
After they had won the war.
His friends sang of machine guns
But his soul stretched out for more.

He dreamed of a dry season
While the blood came raining down.
So he gathered all the white men
And stood up above the crowd.

He said, "You could be the Judge of me,
I'll be your your fool.
Look down upon you softly,
while my people rule."

He said "you could be the judge of me, I'll be your fool." He stood sweating in the sunshine, his muscle was an outline, that could cast a shadow of vengeance across the land. But he said "I will was your feet now, and I will turn the other cheek until we are eye to eye.

His nickname was Justice
Because he walked the line,
And shared among his enemies
The finest South African wine.

His nickname was Justice
Because he rose and stood,
For the wisdom of children
And the gift of womanhood.

He saw his light come shining
From the West down to the East
He said, "Any day now
We all shall be released."

by
rgpage



In this quiet time of night, I lie alone and prey to the bitter pain of
joy's absence. Lost in my mind's shallow thoughts the sharp fragments of
happy memories since shattered prick at the sensitive fringes of my sleep.

Sleep: Nature's sanctuary

A quiet haven, an island set apart
from the daily consciousness of life
where my thoughts may at last run free.

An island with white sandy shores as
far as the eye can see. Blemished only
by my solitary figure walking the blue
water's edge.

And the forests of my paradise, their
deep green density gives substance to
my world. Often I stop to ponder their
far reaching greenness.

The warm subtle breeze carrying the
fragrance of this foliage across my
face, fills my nostrils with the pleasures
of nature.

And occasionally a gull overhead,
drifting unchallenged on the soft
warm currents of the azure, as free
in his world as I in mine; lends companionship.

All of the sudden in the beat of a heart,
from no where a large black cloud appears
to smother the sun's warm light, turning
the blue sky and green foliage black
and the white sand that I once walked
upon a cold gray.

And just ahead of me lying there in
death's humiliation, my winged companion;
soaked and scorned at the dark water's
edge.

I awaken:

This cold room and bed the greatest part of my conscious moment, and the
sound of a distant train bell mocking the destruction of my comfort;
its havoc upon my sleep done it now moves on. Saddened I once again wade
through the shallow bogs of my loneliness, and the pains of memories of
the love and life i'd wasted return. This painful sleepless night a most
cruel retribution for my past. So firmly entrenched it seems I may never
return to my paradise; yet remain in this cold room to suffer the long
night's tortures.

Returning:

The warm sunlight, and gentle caress
of the water's pulse upon the white
sand.

And overhead my pure white friend
again drifts on the warm currents of
air, heralding not my return
but praising my presence....

...for my presence alone, gives
life to this warm yet oh so precariously
balanced paradise.

The white beach with its warm sand
leads me on my journey to the morning,
as I walk the blue water’s edge.

a boy so passionate that he melted the stars like wax,
his words so powerful they wriggled underneath the asphalt pavements
and cracked their way back up again.
his voice so soothing it ran into dreams
and made its way into peoples’ minds.
his smile so breathtaking that once it was gone
you forget how to want to breathe at all.
his laugh so happy you swear bubbles of light
could burst inside of you and make your skin glow
like a thin layering of the sun, and you wouldn’t find it strange.
his love so real that it could’ve created cities, actual ones,
with houses and skyscrapers and black gum on the cracked gray sidewalk
and lost pet papers taped to the lamp posts and flickering street lights in need of repair.
he was surreal, everybody he knew he had wrapped around his entire being,
protecting him and loving him
to the maximum point of love.

all except for me.
i was held in his palm,
ready to be curled into a fist when he was angry,
ready to run through his hair when he was nervous.
ready to rub at his face when he was tired,
ready to be slammed on the surface of a table when he was outraged.
there through it all,
every single wreck of an emotion he had inside him.
it didn’t make me love him any damn less.

i miss him so much.
oh my god, i actually miss him so fucking much.
what i would give to live on his hand again. if only to fall off a second time.

I wish I could forget you, leave behind the memories like you left me, but I can’t. You’re in the air I breathe, cutting up my lungs like pieces of glass and vodka drank all too quickly. Your scent is in my clothes and on my bed, snaking your way into my dreams at night. You’re in the coffee that I drink after sleepless nights; bitter and cold on my tongue but with the possibility of delicious warmth. You’re in the paths that I trudge down every day, reminding me of the times we spent there and the feelings that are now lost forever. I hate that you left me like this. All of these empty promises and a void so large no one could dream of filling it. You must not have ever loved me, because if you had it would have been impossible to just leave like you did, taking all of my heart with you. Packing it away in your suitcase along with the shirt I gave you and the books I’d lent. What did you do with the pictures of us? Would you try to forget and leave them in their frames, or did they not mean enough to you to even worry about and were thrown carelessly in the bottom of your bag? I hate the gaps you left in me. I’m broken and damaged now and you left with the cure to fixing me. This lovesick pain is getting tiresome and I hate that it isn’t wearing on you too. I thought I was someone you couldn’t live without. You sure as hell were to me. And what’s saddest of all is that if you came back now, I would run and throw my arms around you. Because I’ve already fallen as far as I can, there’s no need for me to be cautious now for I can’t slip farther down than I have. I would love to be someone that you need. Someone you can’t live without. I would be honoured to be the person you look at, the way that I looked at you. But I was just a passing spark for you, and you were my light. Just take back the memories like you took back everything else.

“Yes, master.”
A shrill groan slithers
Across the gray stones
Of the tower, spiraling upward
Until it is trapped in loftier cobwebs.
“The lever is down, master,”
And the darkness is whipped by electricity.

I beat out these lines with a bare
Foot, tapping to every syllable,
As the madman donning
Green-tinted goggles and
A tumbleweed of hair curls
Closer and closer to the cluttered lab table.

“Need more light, master?
I’ll hold the lantern,”
And the light begins to praise his smooth hands,
Sloping precisely to pink fingernails
As the needle dips into his
Experiment like an eel
Flowing beneath the sea’s wake.

“Are you close, master?”
Illuminated are the gashes that mar
The ridges in my knuckles,
The calluses etched into my fingertips,
The wiry hairs that strangle
My throbbing, grey veins.
A life of delicate accomplishment,
Filled with a strictly inward turmoil;
It has never been mine to choose.

“It isn’t fair, master...”
And his lips purse in the effort
Of affording me a cursory glance.
“...That your genius go
So unrecognized,
Sir.”
Grunting satisfactorily,
He grins only toward his beloved creation
While I continue pondering
How a pencil might feel against
The paper if I knew how
To make the words.
“I want to write, master.”

“Poetry?” he mumbles to the scalpel,
and I nod my head vigorously as
His rumbling laughter becomes
Smoke that snakes leisurely toward
The skylight.