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 Sep 2015 Jonny Angel
Wanderer
Lay me out half naked
Cells truly see-through show a different shade
When they sizzle
Soaking up the great Ra
Thirsty for Atum's kiss
Teasing the just-below-the-surface urge to start running
I'll pick up like my Romani ancestors
Follow the warmth that ensures
Tomorrow will be ever sunny
I may have been born mid-winter
But I hope I always crave the sea
Eyes frostbitten blue before turning to whiskey amber
Breaking free under full moon silver
Still dreaming of my mother's ocean
Knowing that it swells inside of me
when you're out of work
a new kind of dictionary defined,
old filters replaced, perspectives refined

take the respite resort word
the "weekend,"
when you are unemployed,
it starts on a Monday,
and runs seven days consecutive,
and the words
"week"and "end" can no longer be married,
for each,
just a new cuss word

when you're out of work,
the sweet small spaces of your home,
revised by the architect
of the mind,
somehow sudden, two sizes smaller,
fewer doors and windows,
light and air, hesitant to enter,
no Vermeer here,
staleness re-covers everything,
new is worn, and worn is
you

when you are fired,
you comprehend the word's meaning clearer,
now, your every thought feels like twelves cylinders firing,
you've become
furnaced, tempered,
dressed daily in an orange yellow colored
jumpsuit, with UNEMPLOYED
across a bent back,
self-censoring the spoken and the unspoken,
when you have no work,
everything important is twice the work,
believing, now a chore,
loving, a labor lost

when you're unemployed

a new kind of dictionary defined,
old filters replaced, perspectives refined,
many words excised,
so few required,
so few desired,
they as well,
rank, and unemployable,
and everything reads
left to right
August  30, 2015
7:35am
 Aug 2015 Jonny Angel
E B
There’s been a lot of nights 
recently

where the howling of the trees 
makes my soul feel at home

There’s been a lot of nights 
recently 
where
I remember that 
I am not stagnant

There’s been a lot of nights 
recently 
when
I’ve thought that 
this isn’t right 

but my mind circles back 
on its seventh time around

the round-a-bout

and I try not to get stuck

in the cal-de-sac of lies 

that this town 
is trying
to make me 

believe
 Aug 2015 Jonny Angel
SG Holter
Do not ask why you are here,
Treading the waters of a
Planet leaving tears on the
Straight razor held
Firmly to her throat by her
Children.

You are here to dance your life
Out from birth to dust
On the floor between Satan and
Seraph, between kind and
Selfish. Between
Poet and predator.

Know that a light heart, love
For yourself and others; a
Whispered gratitude for the
Smallest of things, is the tallest
Tree in Paradise.
Anger is an axe.

And fear. Fear is a chainsaw.
See the flower; ignore the
Thorns.
Look past the hurtful comment;
More often than not, it was a tickle,
Not a slap.

Be the finger that begins the easing
Of the grip around the razor's
Handle. Form an open hand upon
The face of our blue mother.
Kiss her. Kiss her every sweet
Tear of relief.
When they buried me in the dark, I was frightened.
I didn’t like the taste of earth.
And I was so thirsty.
Some people are no good with plants,
Even the hardiest shrubs
Wither and wilt in their careless hands.
You aren’t one of them.
When no-one else could see,
You took such good care of me.
Water, warmth and love.
These are my needs, but I had no voice
With which to ask; without you
I would have remained inert
A lost life, in the dirt.
See now, how I blossom?
Just a shoot, but I will astound them all
With my beauty, in time.
Thank you for caring for me,
Thank you for helping me to grow.
For my Agent of Fortune, Paul M Chafer.
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