The silent street erupted around me the moment I sat down,
a thunder rumbles in the distance
but only reveals a passing truck.
The white swan drifts past
I watch the youths drive by on fish lane
as the silent score of stoplights
play to an impersonal audience-
tonight the pizzicato is on time.
The air is dense with quiet conversation
and the splash of luck
on a steel tray.
Elegant servants of style remove the unwanted things.
The air has cleared,
with two fat asians.
When did boring become stylish?
GET ME OUT OF HERE!!
"It is truly a free nation that offers pancakes 24/7"
Normally, the solitude of wandering a sleeping city would elicit poetry.
Tonight only nothing comes out.
Not the people nor the smells or secret music. Only the flicker of a dying neon sun assuring me,
that the parking is open.
A woman in a pink burkha enters a white car, only to be driven off into the night, followed by two taxis.
There are ancient trees twisting their tops through the modern facade. For eras, much like fashion are discarded by finicky time.
They have stood as silent sentinels for longer than I have breathed, and with any hope, they will stand as soldiers long after I come to pass. These reminders of the ravages of time.
I loved a girl who lived here once.
She lived in an apartment that overlooked the city
and had breasts like two soft moons
that tasted like honey.
Other nighthawks wander as wastrels through the quiet Autumn night,
with a slow, soft gait one never see's in the rush of day.
If all evenings carried a beat, it would be thus:
a slow jazz drum.
"...psssssh-bop! pssssh-bop! pssssh-bop!...."
would sound the echo of every evening heart
throbbing slow with power.
The car's carry white blood cells to the suburban arteries.
Taxi's are cancer.
Cold beer at 2am.
Faintly lit menagerie
an open cage containing
Well spoken Eastern girls
corporate white boys
two old tradesmen,
one on a smartphone with a rosary around his soft large neck.
The antique street curves away toward the river,
I follow it with my eyes.
And run them back
to the fairylights.
They hang like glowworms
Glowworms hang like constellations, the inside of their cave is the same fleeting feeling of being alone with the universe, it being caressed by your eyes.
For you are its lover and its mirror.
Inside the glowworm cave, I felt like the universe and everything reflected itself in miniature. That to look upon their hanging, blue stars you saw everything else.
Part 2: http://hellopoetry.com/poem/brisbane-street-sketch-2/
Part 3: http://hellopoetry.com/poem/brisbane-street-sketch-3/
Part 4: http://hellopoetry.com/poem/brisbane-street-sketch-4/
Part 5: http://hellopoetry.com/poem/brisbane-street-sketch-5/
I went to church today
I don't know what I was trying to find
Hopes? Dreams? A figure to follow and some worthy morals?
I wanted advice, I wanted to feel alive
I left there with these words resonating in my head
"Homosexuality and suicide are abominable"
a short phrase that sums the fancy and elaborated speech of the preacher
Only the sinful suffer, and I guess that's why I am troubled.
I've thought of suicide jokingly and seductively
more times that I could possibly count
I have kissed girls and I am openly attracted to them
I am not afraid of saying it and with respect, showing it.
According to the bible;
Lesbians and gays was a punishment for not obeying God
Suicide is a way of controlling your faith
And the only one that has power over you is the Lord.
God gives you what he thinks you deserve
He knows you since before you where born
and because of that he is more responsible of yourself
than yourself itself.
Your brains are too small
how dare you to contradict the all powerful one with such disturbing thoughts?
He created all and everything, all and nothing
He knows what he is doing, and in no way you can try to question him
I felt more small and insignificant than ever,
How did a invisible figure matter more than my logical arguments?
Can't I decide what I want? Isn't it my body and my emotions the one in play?
There's other 8 billion people and you try to guilt trip me because I want to end it all?
Sinners will suffer only the prayer can save you, you can't save yourself, God will save you.
Isn't it better to try to put myself together? Wouldn't I be learning more with that experience?
Instead of repeating words of prayers, shouldn't It try to save myself or solve the problems?
How dare you to contradict the all powerful one with such disturbing thoughts!
If God chooses to give you what he believes is right
Then why am I the one in so much pain?
Why good things doesn't happen to good people and to the bad ones bad things?
Is it because the bad ones will always pray?
I went to church today
I tried to find support,
I wanted to confess
"Hey, I want to kill myself"
I thought that well...
If so many people could feel happy by worshiping
I didn't loose anything by trying
I instead ended up gaining: guilt, trouble, and a feeling that I will burn in hell
So I apologize before hand. I will try to make it better and post the improvement, but it's late, I am tired and this is more a stream of consciousness experience after church.
I hope that at least my point gets across...
the face turned into the haze of the sun
and in the corner of its unseeing eye
i perceived the nature
of these truths
its in that turned face
its empty gaze cast over the far distant landscape
we all seek to sate the thirst
for a sweeter wine
unleash the mystery of self
unlock the untamed within
its smooth plastic features
but some would say that only reveals that it hides all truth
in its pastel faceless features
that we all see ourselfs
in its pastel faceless features
i see all my loneliness
all my shared joys
all loves all sorrows
all my years struggling against the tide
mishap and perchance
its in that man made face
that we perceive the distance we must travel to find ourselfs
the trials we must endure to discover the truth
behind our own eyes
coiled in its depths are the answers we all seek
after all isnt it that simple
we create the troubles we seek to destroy
in its smooth plastic skin
she finds comfort
free from the fear of another's unpredictable madness
she can explore her own illusions
and that too seems sure
we destroy what we live for
on the beaches of my puddles
and in the forests between my lawn
and the kitchens back door
of my childhood home
the ages have worn away the questions
that once kept me staring off hopeful to the dawn
trying to decipher the meanings
from patterns of a gods casual breath
and so here i linger
these lifetimes later
waiting for the answers
that an inhuman human face hides
of the turned face
the barren night filled with wishes
and wishes filled with regrets
its pastel tones
haunt the night
its dark mutterings
play along the road that she bicycles on
whistling a girlhood tune
as she fades into loss
the light in her eyes gone forever
sometimes answers are the last thing we need
What Harry says I dont have a clue..
I do not understand its point of view..
Hungry perhaps? but haven’t I just fed you?
Tell me Harry ... I really don’t know what to do
All you do is play and sleep
You MEOWS till its time for you to eat
One day you scarred my tender back
No peace at all when I watch T V
I walk to the kitchen you follows me around..
On the dining table you walk round and round..
I am mad, Throw you to the ground..
you keep coming back and your eyes .. your eyes are so wide and round..
Oh Harry come around...
And fight again for a position upon my head...
You fail to realize that my misty eyes come from pity
That I reflect on your life and see why
You act out
Lash out at me
See me as an intellectual
Leaves you feeling vulnerable
I see right through the way
You say my name
And get so frustrated
But you made me cry today
This game you play is shaded
You are so afraid of hurt
That you just let words burst
Like bullets they pierce in
And are lost inside the tissue
Of my heart
But today was different and it marked
there are bullets zipping
into my head
i wish there was
blowing up my
i can not think straight
i misplaced my ruler
and my depth perception
is now all fucked up too
because i can not measure
without my ruler
and my legs
and i am trying to chip
but i keep tearing
apart my fingernails
the brick is too
and desperate intentions
my intestines are empty
with all the food
i did not eat
i wish i ate
but its too late now
and the god damn
remote is missing
its probably with the ruler
i can't change the channel
and its stuck
on some stupid
why doesn't "music television"
The left hand works the bass,
and the right, the treble lead.
for piano, bass, and reed.
Drummer sets the groove,
from the numbers on the page.
No one knows why they dig it,
when Brubeck hits the stage.
Where the one? Asks the guitarist.
Just close your eyes and play.
One, will come around
later in the day.
Over 60 years of coolness,
his timing was the rage.
We'd count it out and all take five,
when Brubeck hit the stage.
2/4, 3/4, 4/4, 5/4, 6/4, 6/8, 7/4, 9/8, 13/4
Just some of the time signatures Dave would use for his compositions.
Timing was his signature.
David Warren Brubeck
Jazz Pianist and Composer
Born: December 6, 1920
Concord, California, U.S.
Died: December 5, 2012 (aged 91)
Norwalk, Connecticut, U.S.
Where were we when you quit the sound?
Caught in distance while you hung around
Encased inside of our own menial pursuit
Flaunting desperation as a constant survival
As you battled death in your combat boots
There is no glory with fate as your rival
What were you seeing in your distorted mind?
As you ate your last words and ecstaticly dined
At the chemical festival of illusions' absorbtion
How far did your gaze stroll onto the other side?
did you meet with an end or the start of damnation?
In which lonely drawer do your dreams now reside?
Where have the remnants of life made their grave?
Are they in the lingering regret that you've paved?
Through each flash of your face and casket sight
The delusional rebirth of your presence revealing;
Fragments of ended realities giving spark to night
Burning sigils into visions of a broken feeling
Flame lit sketches etched across a charred eulogy
Only a name remains lying in the wake of a memory
Pieces scattered amongst an unfitting resting place
Conflicting beauties molding a divine contrast
A devil laid to rest in the midst of holy space
One shade of diversity on a bland earthly cast
Echoes of descension from this dimming black sky
Adorning each reflection with your hollow eyes
Complexions left searching for an answer to hold
As to how lifes' vigor can so swiftly fall to decay
And,The aging of dignity resembling every tale told
Seems to shine a reality check on this tragic play
A nulling backdrop for this cemetary playground
Where the kings and queens become tediously crowned
With a sickly ailment that reaks of dalipidation
The stench of the end atop an eternal retrospect
Glaring back with the most sincere of validations
That the fallen live on as our recollections resurect
Go ahead! Make a wish!
And make it grand as can be.
Don't be afraid, for all wishes come true
When you wish under the Dragonfly Tree.
It is never too soon! It's never too late.
To make a fine wish. Don't hesitate.
Set your wild wisp of wonderment free,
And wish as grand as a wish can be!
Wish for the stardust. Wish for the sky.
Wish for that fire of life in your eye!
Wish for the music of children at play.
Wish for the magic that comes Christmas day.
Wish for the secret song sung by the breeze,
Or lasso the east wind as it sweeps through the trees.
Wish for the wonderment painting the night sky,
Or catch the first shooting star wandering by.
Go on! Take that chance,
As those lingering fireflies dance
Through this wonder of starlight and sea.
For everyone knows how a wish grows and grows
When it's wished under the Dragonfly Tree.
Copyright © 2011 Richard D. Remler
"From wonder into wonder existence opens."
"Let's put a band together and make a million bucks."
With that statement, you changed billions of lives
You were a true friend of a tormented poet
The greatest bass player ever, who didn't play guitar
Two hands moving separately, one playing melody, the other rhythm
The leader and backbone of the poetic, soul rock band
The Door gently closed on Ray Manzarek
On May 20, 2013, nearly 40 years after Jim
"This is the End. My only friend, the end."
As the keyboard's melody drifts away
And the bass organ thunders on
"Riders on the Storm"