tj-struska-1 - Hello Poetry

I arrive at a point It is elliptical It is motioning Many clocks It is peaceful And perfectly cold I am aligned straight as an arrow It comes like roses full of thunder It comes like ravens and Van Gogh It comes Like The Last Night Of The Earth I am sending up My vacant cloud It stinks Like a flood Rushing Into many birds I am Cobra light And fuming The yellow leaves Wink and wave Their little mouths Open To rain December 09 2020

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Feb 13, 2022

Feb 13, 2022 at 3:34 AM UTC

tj-struska-1

The Last Night Of The Earth

I arrive at a point It is elliptical It is motioning Many clocks It is peaceful And perfectly cold I am aligned straight as an arrow It comes like roses full of thunder It comes like ravens and Van Gogh It comes Like The Last Night Of The Earth I am sending up My vacant cloud It stinks Like a flood Rushing Into many birds I am Cobra light And fuming The yellow leaves Wink and wave Their little mouths Open To rain December 09 2020

32

The moon, cold and unattainable, Hangs over the Earth's edge, Unfaithful in its last light. In another world Children hit a tether ball Around a pole, Creating a brief, elliptical year, The weightless, unclarified light of the sun, Lies like a lover over a lost city, Westward windows go up in flames. And here, where the swan revolves in the moon phase, A black pool invites its cold depth The night is fixed in motioning stars. March 17 2021

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Feb 13, 2022

Feb 13, 2022 at 3:19 AM UTC

tj-struska-1

East Of The Sun, West Of The Moon

The moon, cold and unattainable, Hangs over the Earth's edge, Unfaithful in its last light. In another world Children hit a tether ball Around a pole, Creating a brief, elliptical year, The weightless, unclarified light of the sun, Lies like a lover over a lost city, Westward windows go up in flames. And here, where the swan revolves in the moon phase, A black pool invites its cold depth The night is fixed in motioning stars. March 17 2021

14

Shh- swirl the golden cover art Naw-its the sound of aluminum foil Redux- it ain't Lucky Strike cigarettes Nothing- but the swill of oil In Lieu-of ten cent bottle return Except- Oregon and Maine

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Jan 15, 2021

Jan 15, 2021 at 12:56 AM UTC

tj-struska-1

Is This Art Or Mad Rambling

Shh- swirl the golden cover art Naw-its the sound of aluminum foil Redux- it ain't Lucky Strike cigarettes Nothing- but the swill of oil In Lieu-of ten cent bottle return Except- Oregon and Maine

6

I am the water, The second wave of summer, A tsunami, A wall of gray wind. I am night, Behold! A black sheet of rain. Hobbled over the bleak and red ants of fire; Baring a becoup of wild thyme and sage. And all that exists is terribly near us, Like you my dark light, my love, my rage.

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Nov 7, 2020

Nov 7, 2020 at 11:15 PM UTC

tj-struska-1

In The Zeitguist

I am the water, The second wave of summer, A tsunami, A wall of gray wind. I am night, Behold! A black sheet of rain. Hobbled over the bleak and red ants of fire; Baring a becoup of wild thyme and sage. And all that exists is terribly near us, Like you my dark light, my love, my rage.

10

I am in the aerials, Where the birds have their burials, Down among the rushes, Where the warm blood pulses, I haunt along the hallow, Where the river follows, Weaving through the branches, I put the birds in trances, And live among the brambles, Where the river rambles, I am the Olden One, I am the Second Son, Spread along the stones, I sleep among the bones, Down where the mud seeps, Down where the earth sleeps, I am the poison arrow, And I love you to the marrow.

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Nov 1, 2020

Nov 1, 2020 at 12:01 AM UTC

tj-struska-1

Trance: An All Hollows Tale

I am in the aerials, Where the birds have their burials, Down among the rushes, Where the warm blood pulses, I haunt along the hallow, Where the river follows, Weaving through the branches, I put the birds in trances, And live among the brambles, Where the river rambles, I am the Olden One, I am the Second Son, Spread along the stones, I sleep among the bones, Down where the mud seeps, Down where the earth sleeps, I am the poison arrow, And I love you to the marrow.

18

The day flutters like ticker-tape I smile like Buddha Unzipping the night A pocketful of whistles A dark ceiling of stars. The needle is threaded Night wide open The engine cranks over A cello of moans. A tattle of gold My ways of turning To ripples of silver, a hush. Was it you who bring Red lines of lupus A world of wheals and whirs. Through the terminus Blue walls of morphine A corridor of trains A thunder of hosts. Buzz of blue flies Slip through the eyelet Me gluing a matchstick of men. The days drag behind Seven hours in a sack Spilling stars Through a leper's blind eye. Unloosen the screws The singing of prisoners The clouds fall away The snow drips impossible light.

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Oct 7, 2020

Oct 7, 2020 at 12:24 AM UTC

tj-struska-1

A Hush

The day flutters like ticker-tape I smile like Buddha Unzipping the night A pocketful of whistles A dark ceiling of stars. The needle is threaded Night wide open The engine cranks over A cello of moans. A tattle of gold My ways of turning To ripples of silver, a hush. Was it you who bring Red lines of lupus A world of wheals and whirs. Through the terminus Blue walls of morphine A corridor of trains A thunder of hosts. Buzz of blue flies Slip through the eyelet Me gluing a matchstick of men. The days drag behind Seven hours in a sack Spilling stars Through a leper's blind eye. Unloosen the screws The singing of prisoners The clouds fall away The snow drips impossible light.

30

Trundling through shadows To a lone stone wall Along a ridge an old Yankee farmer tended 'til he died Slowly overtaken by time And the wild bloom of flowers The stone wall crumbles Back to the field Silent as the dry passing wind Only the sound of a river washing stones whispering We were never really here.

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Sep 26, 2020

Sep 26, 2020 at 1:07 AM UTC

tj-struska-1

Afternoon Shadows

Trundling through shadows To a lone stone wall Along a ridge an old Yankee farmer tended 'til he died Slowly overtaken by time And the wild bloom of flowers The stone wall crumbles Back to the field Silent as the dry passing wind Only the sound of a river washing stones whispering We were never really here.

10

This serpentine shadow. A ticker-tape wind. It's a new constellation. Planets pulse like an idea. A gathering squall spells out our fortune. Everything disappears in a wall of gray. It's not a new form of suicide; Its as empty as space And twice as cold In a dark with no stars.

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Sep 25, 2020

Sep 25, 2020 at 12:36 AM UTC

tj-struska-1

Under Further Investigation

This serpentine shadow. A ticker-tape wind. It's a new constellation. Planets pulse like an idea. A gathering squall spells out our fortune. Everything disappears in a wall of gray. It's not a new form of suicide; Its as empty as space And twice as cold In a dark with no stars.

10

Toward morning I draw the first words From the place I came yet cannot return As night crawls back to the hills Pain is a bright room Lit in florescent Here the needle is turning I wish for the waking of other worlds The stars are all broken The ghosts of time pass through me My eyes are waiting for me in the dusk I feel my way toward them I'll find my name written in dust, There again, I will meet it.

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Sep 11, 2020

Sep 11, 2020 at 12:46 AM UTC

tj-struska-1

Wind And Velocity

Toward morning I draw the first words From the place I came yet cannot return As night crawls back to the hills Pain is a bright room Lit in florescent Here the needle is turning I wish for the waking of other worlds The stars are all broken The ghosts of time pass through me My eyes are waiting for me in the dusk I feel my way toward them I'll find my name written in dust, There again, I will meet it.

13

Jacob over the bridge town proper, Gas lit streets, a string of yellow parking lights In a slow fog turning to threads, Barely remembering their colour. Waking to predawn gloom The town looks small and elderly. I light a cigarette, Spy the old Yankee town. Here, there be Tygers Night races up the steeple.

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Sep 9, 2020

Sep 9, 2020 at 12:44 AM UTC

tj-struska-1

Here, There Be Tygers

Jacob over the bridge town proper, Gas lit streets, a string of yellow parking lights In a slow fog turning to threads, Barely remembering their colour. Waking to predawn gloom The town looks small and elderly. I light a cigarette, Spy the old Yankee town. Here, there be Tygers Night races up the steeple.

10