john-ciarmello
I tend to spend way to much time away from my writing; something my boys have reminded me of time and time again. "Dad you need a hobby." However simple the statement, getting the task underway was just as easy. Ive forgotten how much I missed disappearing into my words. Im ready to melt away into reading and writing.
In my mind I can see black hummingbirds fly
in the corners they swoop where glass figures cry
they sail on updrafts where the young laugh and taunt
and the black hummingbirds watch, in the darkness they haunt
they feed not on nectars or sweetness's grown
they feed on the minds of people well known
wings hum in the darkness, black shadows on black
and they jet in and out of the minds files once stacked
they watch from each corner, their wings sow a low groan
in the depths of the minds of the people well known
hands clench to their heads where black hummingbirds fly
they fall to their knees and the glass figures try
to get up and focus on things they once knew
its time, the darkness, then-- black hummingbirds flew
Dec 1, 2015
Dec 1, 2015 at 5:18 PM UTC
"Green eggs and Ham" my favorite rhyme
it corners a simple point in time
when all was good and hearts held droll
when the words had meaning and the writers soul
I cheer them on these writers wrongs
the wolf the pigs and dinah's ****
I sail close to words with heart
whether prose or rhyme its the greats I chart
simple are the words they speak
a letter a symbol... not much to tweek
Yes, it corners just that point in time
when being good was not a crime
when genuine banter then cooled the hearts
along side of the pie and the apple tarts
So what likes do our children have of rhyme?
is it zombies, death, blood and crime
I sob now for new writers wrongs
they write not of the bluebirds songs
I cerish this rhyme "Green eggs and Ham"
now should we write for our children?
would they give a ****
Dec 31, 2012
Dec 31, 2012 at 2:45 PM UTC
Dim
The bulb wobbles in the mind
on a cobweb cord
shadows thrown uncertain
drifting silent up the walls of tissue
across the dirt floors of thought
Dim
the bulb wobbles in the mind
on a cobweb cord
escapeing reality by flickers
truth between the strobes
nothing can be closer
nothing more internal
Dim
the bulb wobbles in the mind
on a cobweb cord
sincerity races ancient muse
stricking transparent walls
dismembered thoughts roll uncontrollably
uncertainty trickles from the ****
Dim
the bulb wobbles in the mind
on a cobweb cord
to recognize is the power
to remain the eternal
to identify the
Dim
Dec 31, 2012
Dec 31, 2012 at 2:14 PM UTC
Carboned over this mythical troll
petrified nails clutch
a tattered scroll
the paper cracks beneath his grip
a wince a glance
a careful snip
featured in this ancient scroll
a script? a poem?
a captured soul?
hearts then mourned with shoulders dipped
his thoughts, his truths
his words once lipped
satans feathers' on his
buried blades
his words, his redemptions,
still...
escapades!
carboned over this mythical troll
with petrified nails... with tattered scroll
a glance, a grip
of ancient blight
prose in hand
is the writers might
Dec 31, 2012
Dec 31, 2012 at 2:03 PM UTC
Catagorized by the invisable
who are they?
whether they rush or saunter past the living
whether they rest to observe the emptyness of the dead
its theirs to remember
its theirs to forget
who are they?
is their a man in charge of them?
if so... a speck
not really an exsistence
for whom no one should fear... but chuckle
dare to discribe their panoramics of nothingness
for exsistence is microscopic in its vastness
so... who are they?
the invisable
the observers
the remembered
the forgotten...
search within
Dec 31, 2012
Dec 31, 2012 at 1:47 PM UTC