I probably should never
have been on that flight.
Here’s the reasons why……
Shortly after takeoff,
and three cocktails later,
I spied a gremlin hanging out
on Engine Two.
Every time I looked,
smallish with green skin and red lips,
it smiled with an impish grin,
then went about its business
dismantling the cowling.
It seemed like
I was the only one who noticed
the little creature.
Other people were looking out
of the same side of the plane and
nobody was saying or doing anything.
Had they slipped me something?
Was the gin spiked?
Was I hallucinating?
Was God sending me a message?
Needless to say
we landed safely in Bogota
a few hours later.
It was a beautiful vacation!
But on my return flight,
things turned sour.
I was busted
for possession of narcotics,
spent six years in
a Colombian prison,
it wasn’t Heaven.
Like I said,
I probably should have never been on that plane.
Now looking back years later,
I think the gremlin was trying to warn me,
I wished I had taken heed,
given up the thought
She was only sixteen,
Yet her mind wandered about the galaxies like no other beings can do. She recognized every little details on the fireballs and the faraway stars when no other beings can. She carved the rocks and shaped them like the stars of the milky way. With different kind of hues coloured the atmosphere she breathed in them all.
She danced her way around Jupiter and hopped on the rings of Saturn and danced like it was her first dance with her groom on her wedding day. She shined like how any other stars would shine. With all her might she pushed herself back to earth like a falling star.And just at the balcony of the house on the corner of that street,
a little boy wished upon her.
He wished upon a wishing star. He looked up to her. He told her his worries.
She was only sixteen,
but her heart felt every little emotions any hearts can and can't feel. She felt things that could forever scar her heart. She felt despair,rage,embarrassed,annoyed,betrayed,hurt,
but also she was inspired,she felt joy,proud,strong and she loved.
The miseries she felt upon being neglect, she dig a hole and found a little dusty emotion in the corner of her heart....hope. She hold onto it,treat it like a child and there faith came up to her and fall in love with hope. She's stronger than any other beings can be as faith and hope unites.
She was only sixteen,
yet she shut her eyes and flee to Neverland with Peter Pan.
"Give me your hands" he whispers.
"The second star to the right,and straight 'till morning" he said. He held her hands and off they went with fairy dusts from Tinker Bell stuck on their icy cold lashes.
To join him and the lost boys.
To be the first lost girl.
To never grow up as the world gets more beastly by minutes.
To forever have a childlike mind and a childlike body.
To escape from the harsh reality and enter the world of immortality where fairies and wisps flew by like it's a normal day for grocery shopping.
She was only sixteen,
but she had hurdled through life with things that the beings in The Wizard of Oz lacks. She tricked manipulators with her wisdom,she showed her betrayers how huge of a heart she has.
She braved herself through all the horrendous obstacles she had to face. Life hit her,hard and just when she got up it kicked her in the stomach and let her bleed. But she saw things differently. She accepted the kick and let all the negativity in her lungs escaped and let all the positive vibes entered her.
With hands as small as an elf's,she opened it and let everything get caught in her hands. Like the net of a fisherman,not everything great gets trapped. But when he's blessed with a huge fortune,big fishes came to him.
The thorns,the sadness,the euphoria...
She accepted everything and smiled. "Thank you" she says.
She was only sixteen,
but she's already a beautiful aurora herself.
There was once a man with a hole in his sweater,
He whistled to himself and looked upon others with a scowl.
A beaten leather bag hung from his weathered arm,
Moist with onions and oil his breath was foul.
The sun scorched the holes on his head,
And lines under his eyes counted his years.
His foot twitched as if he were ready to run,
As the marks on his chin reflected his tears.
His brown leather bag held his few prized possessions,
Bottles that warmed his heart and stole his days.
The hole on his sweater will always be seen,
Through hell he stands, firm in his ways.
She was the girl everyone loved
She had a smile that went ear to ear all day
She knew her friends inside and out
And could tell with one flinch
If something was wrong
She was the girl they went to
If they needed a pep talk
Or a hug
Or the truth
She was always there
She was the girl who seemed perfect
She came to school
She was put together
She had a line of friends
And a couple of boys to choose from
She had a big family
They were happy
She was happy
She was a pretty soul
She was the girl who didn’t know she was loved
She didn’t smile at night
Her friends didn’t know her inside and out
They had no idea anything was wrong
She was the girl everyone went to
Yet she had no one to go to
She never got a pep talk
Or a hug
She got the truth
she got from herself
No one was there
She was the girl who just wanted to be perfect
She came to school
Mascara thick and black
Like her mind
To distract from the bruises on her knuckles
Like her emotions
And her lips glossed
The one thing she could maintain
She seemed put together
It looked like she had a line of friends
But she didn't have many close ones
And she didn’t know that those couple of boys liked her
She didn’t think anyone could possibly love her
She had a big family
They weren’t all that happy
She wasn't all that happy
She was a wrecked soul
There's a cracked mirror on the wall
broken by carelessness
but kept around to use
Everyday I look in that mirror
I see myself for who I am
broken by the carelessness of the few I cared about
but kept around to use
Everyday that mirror looks at me
sees me for who I am
bits and pieces missing
handed out to strangers like candy to children on halloween
broken in ways that can never be repaired but still manages to do what it intended to do from the start
Everyday I walk away from that mirror with the same realization
I am the cracked reflection I have seen for years, growing closer to the mirror i've looked in every day
I have hung my self on a wall
Everyone who looks at me breaks
begins to reflect the only truth they can accept
There is a cracked mirror
Hiding in the reflection of others
Alone, Cracked, I hang on the wall
I looked into my shadow,
black with such ignorant purity,
yet with the good judgement
I am void of
to shout out
"Don't look at the mirror!
Don't you dare even glance!"
Why not? I'd ask,
foolishly looking into
the reflective glass,
eyeing the pink,
stain on society that is me.
Cringing at the image that displeases me so,
the image that has caused the scars on my wrists.
the image that haunts my days
and steals away my nights.
"Because the mirror is a liar"
My shadow replied.
"Because the mirror is a monster,
what you see there is not you,
what you see there is pain.
for that slight warp in the mirror
that gives you a slant to your mouth
is not a malfunction of manufacture-
but of the mind,
that you are not good enough,
that you are something you should be ashamed of
until you hand them those so easily torn papers
you've spent so long working for
so you can be chiseled down to nothing
and pumped with plastic
to satisfy a twisted need
That is why you don't look in that mirror.
Because you will not see yourself,
you will see a false projection
of everything you've been told
is not okay."
I tore my eyes away from the mirror-
And for a moment.
just for a moment.
I believed that I was pretty.
“Yes, of course, I’ll do that for you.”
That’s how it started, that’s how it always starts. They wouldn’t take no for an answer, so I never gave them no as an answer, always yes, always how high, always please.
You know, I used to thank them for telling me what to do, that’s what they had me think I should be doing, thanking them for giving me something to do but hang around with druggies and alcoholics, thank them for making sure I stay on the right track.
I don’t remember when I started, but it felt good, it felt so good. The only thing about myself I knew was right, the only thing that looked right, felt right, how could it be wrong? I know people say it is…but it really isn’t, trust me.
Tire tracks, I think that’s what people call them anyway; I can’t remember the last time I really talked to someone else. I hid my wrists from them, they might tell me not to do it, and I’d have to thank them for taking away the last of myself.
They said it again, and I thanked them again. They’re right of course, they’re always right. There are those worthless, good for nothing idiots out there who’d rather cover themselves with god knows what than admit who they really are. I wasn’t allowed to hide it.
NO! WHY! They found out, they saw the marks on my wrists while I did their washing, I’ve got nothing sharp, nothing blunt, just this stupid length of rope in the basement, I wonder, would that do?
He was only a child, 15. We found him in your basement, swinging limp, lifeless. We found a note you know, yeah.
I know what you think of me, it’s what you made me think of myself. But I’ll tell you now, because it’s my last chance.
I’m not worthless,
I’m not pathetic,
I’m not ugly,
I’m not disgusting,
I’m not wrong,
And I’m no longer YOUR accident.
The Toadstool Man
He was known as the local Mycophagist
In the dales, the woods and the hills,
What happened was sad, for he wasn’t so bad
Just a tad underdone, Toby Gills,
They say that the cord was around his neck,
He was born with a carroty mop,
And a pale white head, he was almost dead
When the doctor had called out ‘Stop!’
They cut the cord and they let him breathe,
The damage was already done,
The blood had been stopped to his carroty top
So they said that he’d always be dumb.
But he found a niche where the fungi creeps
And went out collecting the spore,
In a year or two he knew more than you
And the college Professor next door.
He studied his mushrooms with loving intent,
He knew about hen of the woods,
He knew about bracket and shaggy manes, magic
And paddy straw, they were the goods;
He fostered his lobster and hedgehog and oyster
And coral fungi and stinkhorns,
But didn’t discern between fly agarics
And toadstools that grew in the lawn.
He grew his spore in a deep, dark cellar
And sold to the folk who came by,
And never would judge between Widow Weller
And the ordinary witches of Rye,
He’d sell death caps, and pigskin puffballs
Not thinking to question them why,
Or who would be eating his laughing Jim’s
And whether they knew they would die.
The air was thick and the air was damp
And he fell in the dark one day,
Scattering toadstools into the air
And their spores had floated away,
He breathed the spores right into his lungs
For he hadn’t been wearing a mask,
But sucked them in right over his tongue
And they came to his lungs, at last.
I happened to see him out in the street
He was finding it hard to breathe,
He could only take a couple of steps
Then sit on the kerb, to heave,
I tried to help but he waved me away
And his eyes were yellow and cruel,
Then I saw what he’d thrown up on the kerb
Some yellow and red toadstools.
The man was a walking toadstool spore
They were popping up out of his hair,
Pushing their way though his carroty top
In a bid to get to the air,
And his skin was blotched like a puffball, he
Looked up at me, and he cried,
As a giant toadstool grew from his throat
And he lay on his side, and died.
David Lewis Paget
She saw the kids on the slide,
each with their own
burden to bear:
counting the last days
on their thin fingers,
a kid with an eye gone,
And she, Anne,
12 year old,
fine of remaining limb,
scanning the rest,
in the wheel chair,
Skinny Kid behind,
hands on the handles,
on her neck.
She was bored,
sun too bright,
kids too noisy,
to see eye to eye,
get a peek at that,
indicating the thighs
and stocking tops
The Kid, thin arms
and legs, short hair,
11 year old, stared,
took in stocking legs,
Don't get to see
that every day,
you're their old man
or fond lover,
grinning ear to ear.
want me to push you
to the beach?
from these wounded ones,
these dying doomed,
let me smell
the salt and sea,
let me hear
the sea's song.
So the Kid, pushed
the chair, arms
her one remaining leg
to the chairs' move,
the stump, showing
where her skirt ended,
shook and rocked.
Out the back gate,
onto the path
by the beach,
out of the nurse's sight,
or sound of voice's reach.
of the Kid's
his heaving her
from chair to bed,
the night before,
his thin arms
in case she fell,
the warm bed
holding her down,
he standing there,
gazing at her
with that innocent
as he pushed along,
her stump was
the night before,
how the thigh
of her other leg
was white as snow
as he stared.
In ’68 Hutch and me,
Sitting at the bar drinking
Our third cold beer.
In a semi Fern Bar
In Laguna or Newport Beach
Which now, I’m not sure.
It was around eight or so,
A week day night,
The place more empty than not.
She came in alone, made
Entry like the dramatic host of
A TV show. As if she were the
Center piece on the worlds
Thanksgiving Dinner Table.
Over dressed to the nines,
Lots of color, heavy make up
She didn’t really need.
Her perfume scent hovered
Around her like a cloud of insects
On a hot summer night in a wet meadow.
Kind of made my eyes water up.
She perched daintily like a dancer,
Upon a bar stool,
Three empty stools down,
Nodded to the bartender her regular order.
A martini, a double it was,
With but a dab of vermouth.
One green olive on a stick.
The glass was pre-chilled as if
It had been waiting for her.
She pounded the first down,
Another stem glass appeared,
That one also quickly consumed.
Two bright red lipstick stains all that
Remained in or on the stemmed rim.
Her main task accomplished,
She audibly exhaled,
As if tired or relieved.
I could not tell which.
Turned around on her stool to face
Hutch sitting closest to her.
“You boys Marines.” She declared,
More than inquired.
Hutch just nodded, he never did say much.
A Sniper just back from Nam, a scary guy
Of few words.
She opened her fur trimmed coat and exposed
Two very nice stocking clad legs,
And just a quick flash of red underpants.
Rotating towards us so we got a better view.
She announced her name,
like we should know it.
Our blank stares informed her we didn’t.
Her face was to me, somewhat familiar.
From movies in the 40s or 50s.
We were early 20 guys, she much older,
Trying hard to look younger, not succeeding.
Soon she was sitting right next to Hutch,
Two more Martini stems had come and gone,
Her lipstick finger prints upon them.
And still Hutch had not spoken more than
Three or four words.
She bought us a pitcher of brew,
Hutch grunted a short bit of gratitude.
We did not have to say much, she was in charge.
It was all about her, she rambled on and on
Speaking volumes saying not much at all.
Beating back her crushing obscurity,
With flowery reminiscence recall,
Of glory days then long gone away.
Important for the moment, if only to her.
It was all; “me and I, I did this, I was that,
I slept with him,
And him and him”.
How about so and so? I asked,
“No Darling not him, he was gay!
It was not long and she was touching Hutch.
On the hand, the shoulder, she was working him
With languid hungry looks from her big blue eyes,
And the message could not have been plainer,
Had she held up a hand lettered sign.
I don’t believe she was a “Working Girl”,
Just someone very lonely seeking to find
Herself, and some company for the night,
All to prove that she was still alive.
Looking at her, I could only think,
How sad and pathetic she looked,
How desperate her plight.
To humble herself so,
In that dingy bar, among strangers,
She did not know, Acting yet, still
On the only stage she could find,
Staring in her own bad ‘B’ movie drama.
In that dingy smelly bar.
Hutch and her left after a hour or so,
He never told me much about it.
He was unofficially AWOL for three days.
I covered for him, kept his name off the
Missing Morning Formation Reports.
No one cared to check. Our unit made up
Of mostly guys back from the war,
A pretty loosie goosy outfit.
Once in a while I see an old movie,
most are Black and white, Film noir stuff,
And there she is, a much Younger her,
Looking pretty damn good,
Not real big roles,
Playing some damsel in distress,
A mobster’s gun moll,
Or unhappy Play Girl.
I guess it was type casting that done her in.
Or maybe she got a little too long in the tooth..
A sad ending to a short B movie career.
Life ain’t easy, even for a so called “movie star”.
Fame is not all it’s cracked up to be.
one or twice, looking for Hutch. He told us to tell her that he had been
Shipped Out, when he actually hadn't. She no doubt found someone
else to tell her story to.
I saw that woman the other day on TV, an old film on Turner Classic Movies
doing her thing. I sort of wonder what ever happened to her, but refuse to
Google it to find out. Some information you don't need or what to know.
It did inspire this little Poem Noir write however.
Got a letter from Hutch in '70, we were both out of the Corps. He was
headed to the Arabian Desert as a hired gun, to guard some pipe line
operation. Have no idea what became of him after that. Hutch was
a real hard case, I hope he made out all right.