The skies are gray and cloudy
It's like this most every time
I come here to visit you my dear
Or is it all just in my mind
I could sit and talk for hours
Of all the good times that we had
But the conversation always rolls back around
To the day of your untimely death
It is at that moment I choke on my words
For there is nothing left to say
When all that I have left of you now
Are my memories and your grave
I wipe your headstone clean once again
Leave the flowers where they lay
With that same cloth I wipe my tears
Then turn and walk away...
Still it brings a tear to my eye...
There seems to be a finality to it that he just can't let go...
So sad...
I've decided to write a novel because that's what Father John sings about
(my only reality is a vicarious one)
I shall sing the words through a pine tree, caterwauling
(social media passes for inspiration in my wilted mind)
But Kerouac's stream of conscious prose appeals too
(plans often deteriorate so freewheeling seems apt)
My biggest problem though, is my inherent inability to write anything of substance
(and my poetry leaves little to desire)
Cognitive dissonance can be a brutal bitch
(my warring mind never ceases to distract me)
I'm tired of forcing words from my brain
(i'm going to lay down and read)
- From the trees, from the trees
I hear the solemn breeze
(A soft whisper, loving, sage)
Enough to bring me to my knees
It's a precious thing to have
(In this lonely age) -
A Man In Search of His Style
It so happens to be June.
It so happens that the picture window
Frames a contented, bay lit, full moon.
Searched for an answer lifelong
A devolving, lilting song refrain:
Man what is your tune,
What's your style, finally?
Examined so many rooms,
Tried out different beds,
Jumbled now, assorted, some sordid,
Some long winded, florid,
Some cursive, cursory and accursed,
Some so bitter-filled I shared them not
Lest I infect you, a sin in F major...
Love poems galore, and yet to come,
Many more.
Some seriously desperate suicidal,
Some ditty, even a mite witty,
Some eurythmic, most free versed,
Rhyming is where you start,
Free verse when you're all grownup,
But all this delay, begs the question,
What's your style, conclusively?
Con-cluded, cannot be all things,
Took the con to ascertain the
Truest course of my abilities
At Port Serenity,
I arrived
I write what I see,
A head lifted from pillow,
A seconds-long act of inspiration duration
Becomes in moments,
a fully formed poetic inclination curation
Literally my eyes see words awaiting coordinating,
Poems flying by, needing plucking,
How a child eats his morning cereal,
His rituals informing, of the man yet to be,
How our bodies lay, hair unbrushed,
Tying us into a conjoined knot
T'is the mundane, the profane of every action,
Makes my lips move, personalized prayers framing
Perhaps this is a condemnation of sorts,
Ordinary things might bake ordinary poem cakes,
Residue of an ordinary man, an ordinary poet makes
So be it, tomorrow is a farther day, when
My vocabulary may be a word greater, lesser,
But knowing now that the spring source topical
Fills a well so deep, so close nearby,
I rejoice, mineral springs, waters of inspiration, plentiful
No matter that plain words are my ordinary tools,
With them I shall scribe the small,
Cherish the little, grab the middle,
Simplicity my golden rule,
Write they say, about what you know best,
Surely in the diurnal motions,
The arc of daily commotion,
Do we not all excel?
For this, if be, my gift meager,
I, on blended knee, freely embrace eager,
Promising you that life ordinar,
Together we shall celebrate'
Fully, and most fair.
June 15th, 2013
fuck like just hate life times coffee regret time better somebody drugs world heart thing fucking need know home little hitler type gone break trying gave morning way shit chasing birth mean war laugh make look beer problems untitled scream different hiding stay putting burnt number sea looking waves good pain cunts dew man town passion demise johnson girls lotion emotion head perfect bullshit bed far interested spirit pure anchor potion words hope boat missing streets phlebus train free red inside things wake lungs holy colors insert away set aren't poem soul poets self god diatribes nights politics forests demands
Waking up in his arms
Feeling his skin against mine
Hearing his voice thick with sleep
I kiss his Lips
Snuggled up against the cold
fitting perfectly against his body
Throw a blanket over us
Our own little world
Sweet words whispered to each other
Emotions soaring at their highest
Pure bliss fills the air
Never let this end
I will start with a hello.
A handshake, an introduction, a beginning.
Then it will grow,
from an exchange of names
to playing mind games and discussing our fames.
You've always been the talker,
the initiator, the instigator.
And I; the listener, the adviser and friend
to give you a silent prod in the right direction
when the sidewalk comes to an end.
I take no form; no shape, no size.
I'm not the truth, nor the lies.
I am not a human, or a living creature.
I have no body parts, or any features.
But I can think, sure I can.
And I can act as any other man.
The reason why I still exist
is not meant to be a mystery
buried deep inside your inner abyss.
In fact, it lingers right in front of you
and dances before your eyes.
It isn't meant to be shocking news;
or an unforeseen surprise.
Even if you can't see me,
I'm always here as company;
the guest that never leaves.
And even if I wanted
to pick up my shoes,
get up and move,
my nonexistent feet
would stop me in my tracks
and I'd be heading back to your street
fast, fast, fast.
I'd be back before the count of two;
and if you wonder why,
let me ask this question of you:
why is it that we've never parted,
or even said goodbye?
Here is my answer to you:
We are bonded together by super glue,
joined by the brain, the heart and soul, too.
If that sounds confusing, I'll give you another clue;
you live in me, just like I live in you.
I am poetry;
metaphors and similes,
dotted i's and crossed t's.
So fill my cup with the wine of your words,
swallow me whole and be free as the birds
flying through the endless sky
as clouds and airplanes pass you by.
Stanzas and rhymes will flow down your throat
like that of a current, which carries a boat
and takes it to its destination;
the end goal, the aspiration.
They'll travel down with ballads marked in cursive,
with scribbled sonnets and haikus and verses.
Then when they finally reach the heart,
you'll know that it's no longer just words but art.
Because your poems are colours that brighten the walls
by splashing blank canvases and bathroom stalls.
I am poetry;
the pencil and the paper.
But you are the hand, the thinker, the maker.
So paint the world a picture
through your beautiful literature
because your words are your wand
so show us the magic and create the bond
between the fixed and the broken,
the sleeping and the woken,
the written and the spoken.
Pick me up and let me scrawl
down your words and then install
them into the minds of everyone
and they'll be stunned by the
brightness of your sun.
You'll shine with radiance and glory
so keep on telling your story
because your words are your life,
your victories and your strife.
You are the creator, the teacher, the reverend;
but this time, I will subside
because you are the guide,
and your words are your legend.
Everyone will be hiding something
Concealing so much reality
Underneath boredom and structure
And such words… Such glorious words.
That make no sense until you repeat them
Your own sense hides like a coward
Silent and waiting.
It is seeking paraphrases from other conversations
And finishing sentences for you.
‘You’re a perfectly nice person’
But only underneath asymmetrical breasts
And thinning hair
And uni-brows that you just won’t see.
‘You’re really intelligent’
But only if you could laugh a little while longer
And kiss a little bit nicer.
And if you sold out everyone who shares your blood,
Just to please me.
‘You’re an amazing friend’
Because you can’t fuck someone
Who is just half as smart as you.
And you can't kiss someone,
whose lips are raw and bloody.
When did I become a mangled mess of these words?
If someone had taught me
If I had taught myself well
To get caffeine fixes on lonely tables
And spill myself in hot blooded fervour
So much so
That everyone will take two steps back
Afraid that the frail woman licking cream off her pancakes
Crying over sugar cubes
Will ask for their help.
Or worse… their handkerchief.
But I only taught myself to speak in adulterated words
Stewed in anger and sweat
Frozen so that I don’t make anyone anxious
Because the last thing I want
Is to make everyone else uncomfortable.
So I only talk about why I don’t want to wake up in the morning,
And how, every morning
Getting my feet on the ground
Is the hardest thing
I’ve ever had to do.
But I never finish that sentence.
I've noticed
There are a few types of music
Music when you're happy
Music when you're sad
Music that makes you think of someone
And music that doesn't mean anything to you
Until certain things happen In your life
And it just moves you, speaks to you.
Heals you
Pushes you through the through
Glides you through the smooth
Music that I listen to when I'm only thinking of you.
But I never tried poetry
And now I realize
Poetry can be used
To explain love in great detail
An image in a readers mind
But love can mean many things
To the writer.
So the reader has to relate to it in someway
Dig deep within the lines
It's like finding a diamond in the rubble
But when they do their eyes come alive.
See a poem has to flow
Tell a story in someway
Poems that only make sense to me
Lust
Anger
Passion
And Rage
My mind is thinking of new
Lines every, single, day
See I never wrote poetry before I came here.
I see it as a land of peoples
Story's and Dreams
A land of people who
Get heat-broken and Shattered
And write about the things they've seen
People that write about the dark valleys in their mind
People who write poems about their lovers,
as you read their words come alive.
People who write about their struggles and addiction
A place where everything in their mind is in one place
and most of it is non-fiction.
But poetry for me
Are my Demons scrawled
Across these pages
And my story's to tell
This place is where I drown them
They lay there in that thing
The thing I used to call the Wishing Well.
If they're here, they're not in my mind
Emotion in my lines
But the reader has to Look, Imagine and Relate
But when they do, their minds come alive.
Now I know this
Poem may not be the best
And It's not meant to be
Because this is a poem that will only make sense to me
Just another Demon
I have thousands and this is just one less.
But now I come here everyday
In the hope I can feel something and relate to somebody else in some sort of way
People who I don't know but I can read and read
Pages upon pages and for a moment my mind becomes less tense and I start to believe.
I didn't mention the Angels
Because they're quiet
They only come when I rest
I think a lot
But I know they're always silent
During the Test.
take me to the fair this summer,
let’s be children for a day—
hold my hand on that ominous yet beckoning pendulum ride,
kiss me on the spinning spaceship
where gravity has unwound for a few lovely minutes.
we can watch the midnight fireworks;
we can turn back the clock,
and then turn it forward again when we get home
and you sleep with me,
setting my innocence free for a while,
but don’t worry! it will return soon enough,
because we are basically adults—
almost, but not quite yet—
and because we are basically children—
barely, but not quite anymore.
‘basically,’ ‘not quite,’
what strange words they are,
there and not there, yes and no—
they are contradictions, just like us.
we are enveloped in that gawky overlap,
barely stumbling across that unsteady middle ground,
but we do it.
and it is marvelous.
i am strange and i am afraid,
and i want you to gently plant kisses upon my neck,
my shoulders, my ribs, my thighs,
breasts, hips, stomach, etc....
[oh, it would be so much quicker to list
the places i do not want you to kiss
(because i do not only want you to kiss my body, no;
as much as i love that,
i want you to kiss my heart, my soul, my spirit,
my flaws, my memories—the scars only visible
to you and i.)]
until we cry and the flowers are watered
and they bloom, bloom, bloom and i feel pure and happy again
[temporarily].
sometimes i may not behave in such a way
that is deserving of your affection,
regardless of how infatuated i am with you,
but please understand that i am strange and i am afraid
and i am incomplete and i am unbalanced,
but i am the best disaster i can be,
because i have you to take care of me.
please love me and coddle me.
please, please, please.
i am a flower,
and i am wilting regardless of how many times
you water me with tears of compassion,
and wrap me in the blanket of your soft words;
i love it and appreciate it
[and you]
more than anything else,
but i am still strange
and i am still afraid
and it is impossible
to completely stitch me back to emotional stability,
but no one sews the patches on
more skillfully and gently than you, my dear.
