jacob-ryan-rosendale - Hello Poetry

A half completed hotel comes down around a hollow bastion of silence and peace. How rare silence is; how preciously finite like all the good things. Like wine and cherries and orchids and any combination of the three. My father and I used to climb mountains to experience a silent so absolute that you had to hold your breath because it was making too much noise. A silence so complete that you can hear the trees grow. But the hotel is crashing down around my ears so clamorous and horrid leaving me alone freezing in the cold rubble and ruins surrounding me listening to the cars pass by on the interstate. How quickly stained glass breaks.

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Apr 16, 2011

Apr 16, 2011 at 11:49 AM UTC

Shh...

A half completed hotel comes down around a hollow bastion of silence and peace. How rare silence is; how preciously finite like all the good things. Like wine and cherries and orchids and any combination of the three. My father and I used to climb mountains to experience a silent so absolute that you had to hold your breath because it was making too much noise. A silence so complete that you can hear the trees grow. But the hotel is crashing down around my ears so clamorous and horrid leaving me alone freezing in the cold rubble and ruins surrounding me listening to the cars pass by on the interstate. How quickly stained glass breaks.

18

It can't be easy being the patron saint of sinners but ****** all if you don't make it seem that way. You look so good in blue, as you serenely sway along the streets touching the eyes of blind just like Christ's own messenger. The dirt and dust that coats us all never seems to stick to you, the disease that cripples us you cast off with a twist of your white hand. You're silhouetted form against the wall, cast from an acrid fire gave me some kind of hope. A soft whisper of a word that you produced from nowhere made me feel like I could be you. Wars seem to die between your lips and so could I. You might as well have wings. But where are you tonight?

0

Apr 16, 2011

Apr 16, 2011 at 11:47 AM UTC

Doubtlessly Saint Nightshade

It can't be easy being the patron saint of sinners but ****** all if you don't make it seem that way. You look so good in blue, as you serenely sway along the streets touching the eyes of blind just like Christ's own messenger. The dirt and dust that coats us all never seems to stick to you, the disease that cripples us you cast off with a twist of your white hand. You're silhouetted form against the wall, cast from an acrid fire gave me some kind of hope. A soft whisper of a word that you produced from nowhere made me feel like I could be you. Wars seem to die between your lips and so could I. You might as well have wings. But where are you tonight?

24

Crossroads are a particular kind of place where mythology and actuality combine, mix and dance with your shadow. Limitlessness has a name and social security number in your restlessness and your ambitiousness. I've performed in cafes and on street corners, In bookshops and depots, woods and public restrooms with the junkyard profits desperately clutching to my clothes, refusing my money but begging for my love. But now I am at the crossroads. The smoke from my soul comes in, forces me to turn around, turn around turn around, and see the faces, so many different faces, all those who have loved me, mocked me, befriended me, mentored, hated, changed maimed spit in my eye called me what they thought I was. So many faces. So many eyes full of dreams and ire. How many would I come to know again? Who would become fortune tellers blues-men teachers cops preachers mathematicians builders destroyers soldiers of fortune businessmen liars or junkyard prophets? Who will become like smoke in the fog, slightly hazy lost-boys off to never-never land, never to be seen or heard from except for the cries that whisper the time? So many faces. What will I be to them? A companion friend liar hater lover brother sideshow an I knew him when a face that looks at their back at the crossroads, a wisp of smoke? I turn again, turn turn, a cymbal shot pushes me forward, left and right, but I can never go back behind. Johanna whispers Even salvation must get old. I know she must be correct, at least as far as I can turn my head. The right is barred, the left is guarded by the beasts, the faces hum a dirge or a lullaby, I straighten my jacket, pack my self into a slip bag, and blow away with the smoke.

0

Apr 16, 2011

Apr 16, 2011 at 11:44 AM UTC

Smoke

Crossroads are a particular kind of place where mythology and actuality combine, mix and dance with your shadow. Limitlessness has a name and social security number in your restlessness and your ambitiousness. I've performed in cafes and on street corners, In bookshops and depots, woods and public restrooms with the junkyard profits desperately clutching to my clothes, refusing my money but begging for my love. But now I am at the crossroads. The smoke from my soul comes in, forces me to turn around, turn around turn around, and see the faces, so many different faces, all those who have loved me, mocked me, befriended me, mentored, hated, changed maimed spit in my eye called me what they thought I was. So many faces. So many eyes full of dreams and ire. How many would I come to know again? Who would become fortune tellers blues-men teachers cops preachers mathematicians builders destroyers soldiers of fortune businessmen liars or junkyard prophets? Who will become like smoke in the fog, slightly hazy lost-boys off to never-never land, never to be seen or heard from except for the cries that whisper the time? So many faces. What will I be to them? A companion friend liar hater lover brother sideshow an I knew him when a face that looks at their back at the crossroads, a wisp of smoke? I turn again, turn turn, a cymbal shot pushes me forward, left and right, but I can never go back behind. Johanna whispers Even salvation must get old. I know she must be correct, at least as far as I can turn my head. The right is barred, the left is guarded by the beasts, the faces hum a dirge or a lullaby, I straighten my jacket, pack my self into a slip bag, and blow away with the smoke.

76