david-m-alexander - Hello Poetry

Cloud on the mountains. Rain in the valleys. Mist between the trees. An old man leads a horse between dry stone walls. He is followed by a small white dog & a capering spirit. He raises his cap as we pass & the rain falls even harder. Looks like weather, says the spirit. Aye, says the dog. And there'll be no sun till Monday earliest. Tuesday if we're unlucky, says the horse. And Sunday if we're not, says the old fella, replacing the cap on his head.

0

Feb 5, 2013

Feb 5, 2013 at 1:46 PM UTC

Clouds on the Mountains

Cloud on the mountains. Rain in the valleys. Mist between the trees. An old man leads a horse between dry stone walls. He is followed by a small white dog & a capering spirit. He raises his cap as we pass & the rain falls even harder. Looks like weather, says the spirit. Aye, says the dog. And there'll be no sun till Monday earliest. Tuesday if we're unlucky, says the horse. And Sunday if we're not, says the old fella, replacing the cap on his head.

19

The boy makes a clumsy play The young lady beats him with her wooden leg Birds fly from his broken heart

0

Feb 5, 2013

Feb 5, 2013 at 1:45 PM UTC

Broken Innocence

The boy makes a clumsy play The young lady beats him with her wooden leg Birds fly from his broken heart

3

I ***** his beats & beat his bones Blueward he turned before he went Blueward backwards bendy into the morning where grass & **** run brown to sun

0

Jan 27, 2013

Jan 27, 2013 at 1:16 PM UTC

I ***** His Beats

I ***** his beats & beat his bones Blueward he turned before he went Blueward backwards bendy into the morning where grass & **** run brown to sun

8

He dreams the rain on the windows. There are girls in the walls, bones of a small animal beneath the bed. In these dreams he's always dead or half dead, propped against the door like an old saw. He believes he may be waiting for something or someone , a ghost or a bone man, or a woman with a cat's smile carrying a crystal decanter or crystal meths. His hands are very soft, the bones may have gone. His feet though are hard & tough, like rock or metal or the back of the door he leans against. Sometimes it seems to him he may no longer be quite human, no longer quite of this world, or the world next door for that matter. Sometimes he's not even sure he's here at all

0

Jan 14, 2013

Jan 14, 2013 at 2:01 AM UTC

He Dreams the Rain

He dreams the rain on the windows. There are girls in the walls, bones of a small animal beneath the bed. In these dreams he's always dead or half dead, propped against the door like an old saw. He believes he may be waiting for something or someone , a ghost or a bone man, or a woman with a cat's smile carrying a crystal decanter or crystal meths. His hands are very soft, the bones may have gone. His feet though are hard & tough, like rock or metal or the back of the door he leans against. Sometimes it seems to him he may no longer be quite human, no longer quite of this world, or the world next door for that matter. Sometimes he's not even sure he's here at all

26

Stuffed bird turns & turns again while the snapple man snaps & cracks a cackle & the slow doll dances a waltz with the taxidermist's daughter.

0

Jan 14, 2013

Jan 14, 2013 at 1:59 AM UTC

Stuffed bird turns

Stuffed bird turns & turns again while the snapple man snaps & cracks a cackle & the slow doll dances a waltz with the taxidermist's daughter.

7

The girl has her moons her bones her copper coins her deadly silver nightshade She has her planets her stars her fox fur & golden daggers her small god in a corner of the room She has her bestiaries her angels & devils & demons her gaudy little perfumed monsters She has her rituals pat her hand signs & subtle gestures her dance for the ancient ceremonies She is ready now she can begin

0

Jan 5, 2013

Jan 5, 2013 at 2:10 PM UTC

The Girl Has Many Moons

The girl has her moons her bones her copper coins her deadly silver nightshade She has her planets her stars her fox fur & golden daggers her small god in a corner of the room She has her bestiaries her angels & devils & demons her gaudy little perfumed monsters She has her rituals pat her hand signs & subtle gestures her dance for the ancient ceremonies She is ready now she can begin

14

Poems must sometimes be broken to make new rules and rules must sometimes be broken to make new poems

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Jan 5, 2013

Jan 5, 2013 at 2:08 PM UTC

Poems Must Sometimes Be Broken

Poems must sometimes be broken to make new rules and rules must sometimes be broken to make new poems

4

Cold gray morning. The windows papered over. The pale women at rest. A man calls about a dog, but the dog is dead or dying or already decayed. The man leaves with his hands in his pockets and his hat askew. Did he ever have a name? Did he ever have a face? Afterwards only his hat remains in the memory. And now it rains a hard fast and terrible rain. The women stir and take off their sleepy faces. Is it time already? they ask. We had barely begun. No, it is not time, it is never time. Time does not run in places like these. Time is not relevant while the tea still stands and the biscuits remain uneaten.

0

Jan 5, 2013

Jan 5, 2013 at 2:00 PM UTC

Cold Gray Morning

Cold gray morning. The windows papered over. The pale women at rest. A man calls about a dog, but the dog is dead or dying or already decayed. The man leaves with his hands in his pockets and his hat askew. Did he ever have a name? Did he ever have a face? Afterwards only his hat remains in the memory. And now it rains a hard fast and terrible rain. The women stir and take off their sleepy faces. Is it time already? they ask. We had barely begun. No, it is not time, it is never time. Time does not run in places like these. Time is not relevant while the tea still stands and the biscuits remain uneaten.

24

Caught the vampire's failing smile, cracked by teeth & venom, wind-walking among the trees, talking to the vipers & the rats & the bats & the men of the old bonetown. Mr Mann had the right idea, burn your books & get the hell outta Dodge. Do not pass go & do not stop, do NOT make out in the back of a beat-up old auto parked next to the hypermarket on Dawn & Vine. Mr Mann up front, peering through the cracks in the windscreen, the cracks in reality. He can see the vampire's slow smile, the shadows passing across the face of the TV screen, & hear the old ghost voices, the old radio voices, the 1949 voices. Blood on leather, black roots rising, saliva on after-effects & after-echoes, the apocalypse riders chasing the moon up the old dark valley, the moon chasing the apocalypse riders right back down the old dark valley to whatever hell they came from. The vampires! The vampires! Children beat hasty retreats, hide under the boxes back of the laundromat, not daring to peek as black boots crunch gravel. Mr Mann has the right surmise, get outta the books & into guns, get into heavy metal & iron drag, get into lead & something magickal, long forgotten lore & hoodoo voodoo from years & years ago. The vampire's smile turns awful yellow, fades as the stars wheel & that tired old sun begins its ascent, fades as the dawn breaks over the desert winds & cacti & the lovers wake in their motel room in the back of beyond & fumble for their stakes & knives & garlic ***** Easy now for Mr Mann in the sun-kissed big blue. Hunt it down in the tumbledowns & old desert towns. Kick off the jams, break open the locks. Hose it down with oil & strike a match. Burn the reality right off that face & that face right off reality Splat on the sand. Grue on the sand. Black on the sand. Mr Mann walking back to the autombile, back to happiness, radio playing a little something from 92, or was it 93, he really can't remember now.

0

Feb 20, 2012

Feb 20, 2012 at 3:16 PM UTC

Vampire Smiles

Caught the vampire's failing smile, cracked by teeth & venom, wind-walking among the trees, talking to the vipers & the rats & the bats & the men of the old bonetown. Mr Mann had the right idea, burn your books & get the hell outta Dodge. Do not pass go & do not stop, do NOT make out in the back of a beat-up old auto parked next to the hypermarket on Dawn & Vine. Mr Mann up front, peering through the cracks in the windscreen, the cracks in reality. He can see the vampire's slow smile, the shadows passing across the face of the TV screen, & hear the old ghost voices, the old radio voices, the 1949 voices. Blood on leather, black roots rising, saliva on after-effects & after-echoes, the apocalypse riders chasing the moon up the old dark valley, the moon chasing the apocalypse riders right back down the old dark valley to whatever hell they came from. The vampires! The vampires! Children beat hasty retreats, hide under the boxes back of the laundromat, not daring to peek as black boots crunch gravel. Mr Mann has the right surmise, get outta the books & into guns, get into heavy metal & iron drag, get into lead & something magickal, long forgotten lore & hoodoo voodoo from years & years ago. The vampire's smile turns awful yellow, fades as the stars wheel & that tired old sun begins its ascent, fades as the dawn breaks over the desert winds & cacti & the lovers wake in their motel room in the back of beyond & fumble for their stakes & knives & garlic ***** Easy now for Mr Mann in the sun-kissed big blue. Hunt it down in the tumbledowns & old desert towns. Kick off the jams, break open the locks. Hose it down with oil & strike a match. Burn the reality right off that face & that face right off reality Splat on the sand. Grue on the sand. Black on the sand. Mr Mann walking back to the autombile, back to happiness, radio playing a little something from 92, or was it 93, he really can't remember now.

50

Cold blue morning. Mist and mizzle and winter trees. A darkened bus sits at the roadside, the police in attendance. A small boy, maybe six or seven, looks on, a cigarette dangling from his lips. "If I had a flower for every penguin that danced," he says.

0

Jan 31, 2012

Jan 31, 2012 at 8:38 AM UTC

Early

Cold blue morning. Mist and mizzle and winter trees. A darkened bus sits at the roadside, the police in attendance. A small boy, maybe six or seven, looks on, a cigarette dangling from his lips. "If I had a flower for every penguin that danced," he says.

8