sean-michael-webber - Hello Poetry

A young man sits in a room too small, Wearing shirts too tight and writing poems too weak, The passage of time marked by the arrival of fire to yellow filters, He writes because he believes in the vision of poets, Those burning angels with arms outstretched, And a young girl stooped at the knees, Giving praise and ******** So she can pass He looks out the window and recognizes Indentured servants waiting to sail to the new world Like him He thinks about freedom and writes And remembers that all the old ones The ones who are free Are dead Graves marked with empty glass bottles And he remembers the alchemy of words That he knows is already wasted Stillborn poetry That he’ll pour on critics and admirers alike Who will stand like gospel singers Waiting to be washed under that waterfall Of stagnant recycled waste They pour on children and their parents from buckets At theme parks Already he mourns being talentless Not being in a madhouse In line for his lobotomy Instead rocking with straight jacket arms Through gauntlets of debt Contemplating mazes When he finally goes home he greets family With empty pockets But they praise him anyway And he makes himself a madhouse Which the gift of poetry itself Visits on the weekends Token gestures of acquaintance from long ago And the young man spends his evenings Watching distant lights Blink on and off.

0

Jun 20, 2012

Jun 20, 2012 at 1:12 PM UTC

Stillborn

A young man sits in a room too small, Wearing shirts too tight and writing poems too weak, The passage of time marked by the arrival of fire to yellow filters, He writes because he believes in the vision of poets, Those burning angels with arms outstretched, And a young girl stooped at the knees, Giving praise and ******** So she can pass He looks out the window and recognizes Indentured servants waiting to sail to the new world Like him He thinks about freedom and writes And remembers that all the old ones The ones who are free Are dead Graves marked with empty glass bottles And he remembers the alchemy of words That he knows is already wasted Stillborn poetry That he’ll pour on critics and admirers alike Who will stand like gospel singers Waiting to be washed under that waterfall Of stagnant recycled waste They pour on children and their parents from buckets At theme parks Already he mourns being talentless Not being in a madhouse In line for his lobotomy Instead rocking with straight jacket arms Through gauntlets of debt Contemplating mazes When he finally goes home he greets family With empty pockets But they praise him anyway And he makes himself a madhouse Which the gift of poetry itself Visits on the weekends Token gestures of acquaintance from long ago And the young man spends his evenings Watching distant lights Blink on and off.

41

Sometimes I wonder If I wrote the laws of the universe by mistake In my dreams as a child. I would rewrite them So we could soak the clouds in the sweat on God’s hands. I am two toned somber The bruise on an apple A door is hanging closed upon its arms Bent like bat wings. Stars that have fallen to the earth. Bulbs like hearts in bloom- In a red bone cellar. You will find me there, Feeding those candles with My marrow. There will be time, he said, To challenge the universe. I am content, however, To soak the world in the taste of you And ring it out again upon my forehead So that my lantern does not go out.

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Nov 22, 2010

Nov 22, 2010 at 10:46 AM UTC

Pals

Sometimes I wonder If I wrote the laws of the universe by mistake In my dreams as a child. I would rewrite them So we could soak the clouds in the sweat on God’s hands. I am two toned somber The bruise on an apple A door is hanging closed upon its arms Bent like bat wings. Stars that have fallen to the earth. Bulbs like hearts in bloom- In a red bone cellar. You will find me there, Feeding those candles with My marrow. There will be time, he said, To challenge the universe. I am content, however, To soak the world in the taste of you And ring it out again upon my forehead So that my lantern does not go out.

21

A woman with **** written on her navel Smokes a cigar and raps on the rim of her helmet With fat silver rings she wears on her fingers She’s painted with red and black stripes And is wearing a torn Mickey Mouse t-shirt With a rifle strapped across her shoulders She is a painting and she moves When she was seven years old her father ***** her She only sleeps with men bathed in whiskey And coughs up ***** of cancer Shaped like tiny Ripe apples

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Nov 22, 2010

Nov 22, 2010 at 10:37 AM UTC

Disney

A woman with **** written on her navel Smokes a cigar and raps on the rim of her helmet With fat silver rings she wears on her fingers She’s painted with red and black stripes And is wearing a torn Mickey Mouse t-shirt With a rifle strapped across her shoulders She is a painting and she moves When she was seven years old her father ***** her She only sleeps with men bathed in whiskey And coughs up ***** of cancer Shaped like tiny Ripe apples

12

There is a purple vase of golden flowers on the kitchen table Its waxy surface gleaning in the morning sun Through the white and rustling blinds Shuffling in the early breeze There is a field of uncut grass that stretches To the tree line Purple and golden and green And my mother is sleeping in the other room While the coffee brews I stopped loving when I was a child And my lovers rejoice in my boredom Like those flowers I rose to water While my mother slept

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Nov 22, 2010

Nov 22, 2010 at 10:33 AM UTC

The Gift

There is a purple vase of golden flowers on the kitchen table Its waxy surface gleaning in the morning sun Through the white and rustling blinds Shuffling in the early breeze There is a field of uncut grass that stretches To the tree line Purple and golden and green And my mother is sleeping in the other room While the coffee brews I stopped loving when I was a child And my lovers rejoice in my boredom Like those flowers I rose to water While my mother slept

13

A black man in Florida was forced to take a knife to his genitals And eat them. A rope was fashioned around his neck Thrown over a high branch And pulled so that it would lift him into the air After moments of strangling The man was let down To resume his self mutilation With knives that split his flesh And cattle prods that burned his skin When they were done they lynched him And dragged him through the streets Sold pictures and displayed his fingers and toes To children To mothers To men They laughed and told their friends We should choke on the words our fathers have fed us If they mean that we should be like them

0

Nov 22, 2010

Nov 22, 2010 at 10:30 AM UTC

Apples to Apples

A black man in Florida was forced to take a knife to his genitals And eat them. A rope was fashioned around his neck Thrown over a high branch And pulled so that it would lift him into the air After moments of strangling The man was let down To resume his self mutilation With knives that split his flesh And cattle prods that burned his skin When they were done they lynched him And dragged him through the streets Sold pictures and displayed his fingers and toes To children To mothers To men They laughed and told their friends We should choke on the words our fathers have fed us If they mean that we should be like them

19

I wish that I could have saved the goose eggs My grandfather gave me With His mighty ring So that I could take greedy bites from them You know what I can’t get out of my head? The color of his teeth, They were spotless, and His hands were like white powder. They will make good smoke For me to soak my skin in And there are bubbles of silver Mud, like empty bottles Stored in the cellar Of a life measured out with golden ounces We use to clean knives in. There is a rusty pewter frame by my bed at home That I turn to the floor every night So that my grandfather will not see me being weak There is no child Born of blue hands Around your own neck We will ask the world for another chance And we will wait a thousand years With one collective breath The earth will whisper No I have found candles floating towards the dam On the lake where my mother drowned It’s how I learned where to swim. Those lakes are the earth’s Wells, a place for the walking breaths To dip their faces in And see the gears in the machine Warming the fires of the sky. Can’t I slip between the bars, And shovel coal for those giants Within the engine of the world? I would like to pay my debt now Before the flesh begins to hang Useless from the hangers In my maple womb I might even sing your sorrows for you.

0

Jul 4, 2010

Jul 4, 2010 at 1:00 PM UTC

Wells of the Machine

I wish that I could have saved the goose eggs My grandfather gave me With His mighty ring So that I could take greedy bites from them You know what I can’t get out of my head? The color of his teeth, They were spotless, and His hands were like white powder. They will make good smoke For me to soak my skin in And there are bubbles of silver Mud, like empty bottles Stored in the cellar Of a life measured out with golden ounces We use to clean knives in. There is a rusty pewter frame by my bed at home That I turn to the floor every night So that my grandfather will not see me being weak There is no child Born of blue hands Around your own neck We will ask the world for another chance And we will wait a thousand years With one collective breath The earth will whisper No I have found candles floating towards the dam On the lake where my mother drowned It’s how I learned where to swim. Those lakes are the earth’s Wells, a place for the walking breaths To dip their faces in And see the gears in the machine Warming the fires of the sky. Can’t I slip between the bars, And shovel coal for those giants Within the engine of the world? I would like to pay my debt now Before the flesh begins to hang Useless from the hangers In my maple womb I might even sing your sorrows for you.

42

Why are my fingertips made Of burnt paper The kind moth wings are made of That dance like ballerinas On the air When we boys were Sucker punching God during communion The flake rising like snow Out of the basin Could’ve been holy water But it just kept us warm That night I would hang your flowered Heart on razor wire Outside my window If I could Familiar red Spraying in with the rain The creases of your hands Are the fall Of my father’s hammer when he Nailed my palms Together I want to kiss the wicked ones Knowing that when I move to leave The ground will be scolded By my footsteps You will remember me By all my molding failures When I ball them up And throw them through God’s window.

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Jul 4, 2010

Jul 4, 2010 at 12:59 PM UTC

You've Got Three Days, God said.

Why are my fingertips made Of burnt paper The kind moth wings are made of That dance like ballerinas On the air When we boys were Sucker punching God during communion The flake rising like snow Out of the basin Could’ve been holy water But it just kept us warm That night I would hang your flowered Heart on razor wire Outside my window If I could Familiar red Spraying in with the rain The creases of your hands Are the fall Of my father’s hammer when he Nailed my palms Together I want to kiss the wicked ones Knowing that when I move to leave The ground will be scolded By my footsteps You will remember me By all my molding failures When I ball them up And throw them through God’s window.

32

We are all nailed to posts in the fields of our lives And some of us sway back and forth in the wind Like the chimes grandmother made from old knives We search with doubting eyes for the perfect wives Exes with whom you never thought your love would end We are all nailed to posts in the fields of our lives Our exit strategy involves smoke grenades and swan dives The clapping of our black shoed feet a drum to mend Like the chimes grandmother made from old knives We Stuff our chests with filling paper derives Our hollowed bodies suffer no strength to send We are all nailed to posts in the fields of our lives Scaring crows that steal the fabric of our lies Clawed hands and teeth and fingers we cannot bend Like the chimes grandmother made from old knives Don your pumpkin head and haunt the field of your lives Until you have no more joy or fear or sorrow left to lend We are all nailed to posts in the fields of our lives Like the chimes grandmother made from old knives

0

Jul 4, 2010

Jul 4, 2010 at 12:46 PM UTC

Scarecrow

We are all nailed to posts in the fields of our lives And some of us sway back and forth in the wind Like the chimes grandmother made from old knives We search with doubting eyes for the perfect wives Exes with whom you never thought your love would end We are all nailed to posts in the fields of our lives Our exit strategy involves smoke grenades and swan dives The clapping of our black shoed feet a drum to mend Like the chimes grandmother made from old knives We Stuff our chests with filling paper derives Our hollowed bodies suffer no strength to send We are all nailed to posts in the fields of our lives Scaring crows that steal the fabric of our lies Clawed hands and teeth and fingers we cannot bend Like the chimes grandmother made from old knives Don your pumpkin head and haunt the field of your lives Until you have no more joy or fear or sorrow left to lend We are all nailed to posts in the fields of our lives Like the chimes grandmother made from old knives

19

Toy soldiers drip from my brother’s fingers while he sleeps, We carry memories under our fingernails like courtiers to the dead, But we’ll all wear that plumage on our shoulders like lions One day. But we fold the edges of our tombs together and set them in the earth Like fences, to keep the wolves out, Or a blanket to sleep under. We all wear our father’s bones around our neck, The way my brother does, While the earth is orchestrated above us, Cemetery like a stage, Biding time to whisper, Are we alive or just lying? Do we wander or Do we race along like wind up cars, The way my brother does, On the road to awe.

0

Jul 4, 2010

Jul 4, 2010 at 12:43 PM UTC

Toy Soldiers

Toy soldiers drip from my brother’s fingers while he sleeps, We carry memories under our fingernails like courtiers to the dead, But we’ll all wear that plumage on our shoulders like lions One day. But we fold the edges of our tombs together and set them in the earth Like fences, to keep the wolves out, Or a blanket to sleep under. We all wear our father’s bones around our neck, The way my brother does, While the earth is orchestrated above us, Cemetery like a stage, Biding time to whisper, Are we alive or just lying? Do we wander or Do we race along like wind up cars, The way my brother does, On the road to awe.

17

The old man is made of the hearts of dead spiders from the woodshed I am my father’s matador A small spark against a great fire Showed me you can build a house from broken glass Better swallow ashes to stay warm Spiders crawl up my arms and throat From the firewood in my hands We rub mud on our faces to see each other better I write FATHER on his forehead with my finger He writes SUNRISE between my eyes I cling to memories from beneath my fingernails Like closet frozen marionettes Gun shots crawl out of his jaws at night And grow like fruit at the end of his fingers I pick them and leave them on the breakfast table He keeps fish hooks between my toes so He can pull me up by the line But I’m still watching the sunrise from his shoulders I know he’s made of rain When he pours me a bath from his bones A child might play in.

0

Jul 4, 2010

Jul 4, 2010 at 12:42 PM UTC

The Matador

The old man is made of the hearts of dead spiders from the woodshed I am my father’s matador A small spark against a great fire Showed me you can build a house from broken glass Better swallow ashes to stay warm Spiders crawl up my arms and throat From the firewood in my hands We rub mud on our faces to see each other better I write FATHER on his forehead with my finger He writes SUNRISE between my eyes I cling to memories from beneath my fingernails Like closet frozen marionettes Gun shots crawl out of his jaws at night And grow like fruit at the end of his fingers I pick them and leave them on the breakfast table He keeps fish hooks between my toes so He can pull me up by the line But I’m still watching the sunrise from his shoulders I know he’s made of rain When he pours me a bath from his bones A child might play in.

21