her face turns to stone
as she comes face to face with her fear
eye to eye with her past
and she wonders as she is running away
you were supposed to be here to save her from
having to acknowledge she's just as
weak and vulnerable as any human being

she would pay big bucks
to have her face erased
to have her name steam cleaned
but you got to have solid ground
to stand on for that kind of silliness
and seems like she has only time
to sit and stare with open lust
for the guy at the carnival
with the funny oversized shoes
and clown outfit on
please call me tonight
she confides in him
that she would marry a real man like him.
given half a chance
he yawns and looks skeptically at her
******* the handle on his pearl revolver
one of these he's gonna shoot off his mouth
then they'll listen
half dancing
half shufflin he moves into the room
hoping that of he looks suave

now the time has gone by
and they have done little with many things
heads full of snow
his clown suit folded up and put away
her makeup neatly put on backwards
both standing hand in hand
in the doorway
of the last train
before the 'pocky-clipse
fore it all got blown to hell and gone

the door handle turned
the stage set and the actors rehearsed
everything primed and just the waiting
that pause before the plunge
that backwards glance
to say you'll never be here again
to think on regrets and fear
the consequences of what we do here
and then you take that step
take the plunge
and up off the floor you gotta come
after its all blown to hell and gone
after the whole ***** little
empire of her lies has collapsed
fore it all got blown to hell
and gone in the 'pocky-clipse

we think of them as lazy
slow and peaceful
places of fishing and summer play
but a river...

(one)
the rivers edge
intoxicated by the night air
drunk with the silken touch of her
he walked slow through the old town streets
down to the rivers edge
thought to sit for a space at the calming sounds of
the rivers quiet song
he shut his eyes and pictured her face
thought about each and every soft thing bout her
and slipped into a sleep

the words were printed with legible care
you could sense the measured time taken
perfect each etched line on the paper
like they themselves were children
to be nurtured
and the phrases were trimmed
and crafted
cant you see that this is
the man you were born to be
wordsmith

he stirred in his sleep
deep in the night
the small boat he had fallen asleep on
now carried him silent and swift
miles down the wide old river
from her rich silent forests of the north
through her flatlands of crops
down to the mud of the delta

he dreams of her
telling him a story
with her voice soft and full of love
a story of a man on a boat drifting
down a long river
and of all the wonders that sleeping
man could not see
her story came to its end
as he slowly woke from his slumbers
on a calm sea
with no shore to the eyes furthest see

(two)
the morning light
is twisted up in the eye
the morning air is thick as thieves
as it tries to rob your strength
stagger down long the rivers edge
hear them coming on the dirt road
try and hide your fearful face
but its daylights dark delight
to leave you exposed for all to see

you wade into the rivers cold waters
feel it trying to pull your feet from under you
feel it tryin to pull you down to a hard place
from whence you shall find no return
fight to swim in the stained waters
tastes of metal
tastes like death
but you must flee this place
flee this open grave with your name carved

on the rivers far bank
perceive the tinge of a fast car
escape from this dark place of daylight
all you must do is make it to the shore
just a few feet more
till salvation
you hear them behind almost upon you
come to drag you back
to that soul killing prison
here in the midday sun things growin dim
vision growing faint
as you slip into the darkness beyond this world
they did not claim you
the river did

come to stand center stage
white garish paint on thin hand
thin black mask for a face
he stands in the fading light
dusty serene silences surround him
with deep words paused on his wooden lips
speak now oh devilish masked man in this passion play
speak to the fathers plots and treason's
folly is his candy
trickster lover saint

fathers and other clowns
pour over the construction blueprints of
better living through chemicals
while the girl in the passion play sneaks out the window
to find her song in the silence of pantomime
find her pretty face masked in feathers
so lovely she awaits her lover beneath painted moon

harlequin and the servant slap with a stick comedy
and silently chased by the policeman
run amok on the worlds stage
come children of all ages see the show
silly and sad
fun and adventure
as harlequin and his lover
regale you with the tale
tricking father and the clown to sad defeats
harlequin, harlequin where for art thou harlequin
here you fool slapping the cow on the moon with my stylish stick
folly is his candy
trickster lover saint

but she was handwritten in a digital world
her eye fixed on jacob's sweaty ladder
because always gotta climb over the corpse of yesterday
she had the worldly sense about her
the grand sweeping gesture
to encompass all seen and all implied
to show your heart is in it for the long haul

he watched her struggle so strong
his long eyes from the fortress of his face
such iron willed bravery
she pours out the litany of reasons
like pouring out a delicate wine
threadbare clothes speak of a life of labors


the field of her heart once tilled with bountiful crop
once filled with the joyous sounds of laughter at harvest
so much ventured to come to such an end
his blackened heart has time for tales of the sun
her dreams sweep you up in their turbulent elegance
where all else that transpires is illusion
while for that brief flicker of time
you learned what it means to really live
for the first time
what its like to have your soul long for

a language ever unspoken
words that have no meanings until
they are printed on the pages of a perpetual knowing
a life lived in beginnings
a destiny of sunrises
a world ever in creation
a woman writing the birthsong of her dreams
she has collected like seashells on angelic shores
they were waiting to be discovered behind her green eyes

she pushes aside the layer of words
that capitulate to her wealth of lovely image
getting to the words spoken to her as the girl
getting to her written soul
where the implication of essence that becomes
the fragrance on which a heart may lay
sweet song to the listening soul
meaning of our lives...

I can see that smile in many ways
but I can only see you in your
expressions of your heartfelt wreathe
expressions of your art
true to who you are
in that creation you strive
who needs no other name than the song
that you cast onto the worlds waters
the very same song that upon which this poem thrives
that makes it live and breath in the summer breeze

I can see that smile many ways
but it is the listener who tells the tale
it is the lovers of images who purchase the wares
its the lovers of a world ever in the creation
who wear your words like a gift of sunshine

© 2017 mark john junor all rights reserved

sitting in the reflected sunshine
glass flowers breaks into a shattered prism
casting shards of color around the afternoon filled room
while motes of dust foreshadow
the yet distant snowfall falling silently
glass flowers, painted edges like razors
cutting sharp shadows on the tabletop
they interrupt the smooth page where my words have fallen
breaking them into nonsensical whimsy
casting them like a ship on the rocks
obscured to their meanings
shredded of their worth
glass flowers grow in my mind
clawing their way upward from the false soil
trying to find within themselves lifespark and breath
they took my words in hopes of
finding passion to inscribe on their hopes
passion is proof of life
passion is proof of a heart beating madly with desires
glass flowers silently seek life
to grow, live, breath
to be loved and to love
glass flowers sit silently in reflected sunlight
wishing for life beyond this quiet room

the dead leaves seem alive
in the shifting shadows of the overhanging branch
attached to its grim wood
a plastic bag wavers in the pattern of breeze
its slow swinging reveals its contending fears
a hanged man still bearing his deck of marked cards
a devilish grin painted with childlike hand on his
grey and drawn face
he seems to speak
you await his words
but like the leaves it is only the
shifting shadows here that are alive
and they have intents of their own
fever grips my hand
leads my pen astray with clowns of satire
and proletarians of ridged senseless order
i shall feast here on these spent moments
like the miser fondling his coin
and let the hanged man be
his own abuser
i am the root of my own evils
and have no desire to live with his

for a brief moment
caught in remembering
vividly she came back to me
the sunlight on her face
strands of her reddish blonde hair
floating free in the small space between us

what words passed between us
long since faded
but the heart remembers the love
known between us that day
with a clarity that speaks so clearly to me
the heart knows what the mind fails to hear

and my heart still speaks of you to me
still sketches your beautiful face in my dreams
in such sweet living breathing quality
i cannot help but feel that i lost a world of love
when i lost you

your hand in mine
our souls still linger in each others arms
kissing tenderly and passionately like lovers do
at least that is what my heart tells me

burning a flag is also a symbol, a symbol of freedom in the face of tyranny, a symbol of protest against a nation whos people have come to believe no longer represents their interests, or openly try to curtail their freedoms (like burning the flag)...it is a symbol to our military personnel that they have gone out to fight for freedom, so that we here in america can have the right to express ourselves without fear of reprisal. the flag is the personal symbol of every american's right to speak and be heard, and if burning the flag is the only thing that tyrants and their willing followers will hear, then i am a proud american who will burn an american flag to protest this tyranny

In the dark evening by the light
Of a single candle flickering
she played her acoustic and sang
Her voice good and true
to the depths of her heart and soul

Her set to her desires
Her attention back to me from
her fingers flowing on the frets
her eyes gaze into mine with
soft heat
her words take me
in her embrace

Songs she shares
speak of journeys and lovers
Desperate men in dark hours

She lays her insturment aside
and says the hour is late
offers me my place in her bed

with a soul as beautifull as her form
she lay with me
and sated more than my weary soul
lillacs and lillies abound

cast aside the lead mask
its narrow eyes saw too much of
the fountains of this age
saw too much of the creations
that have grown of its calling
it heavy hours show in the lines
on her face
grey shadows in her eyes
we spent all we had
we spent our lives and our futures
only to find that the peace that
we gave our lives for
had been traded away

cast aside the
the song of the drummer
his tune is rough and has no
words to revive the soul
has no mending for the heart
cast aside this utterance of hopeless drifting

frozen in the moment
its strange how the time passes
i remember that girl long ago
that used to tell me that each day that we pass thru
was written long ago and nothing we can do to change it
she was written to end her days
in the passenger seat of a buick
on pinebrook blvd at a hundred miles an hour
i think she should have been wrong

we all need a song to mend the heart
we all need to cast aside the masks
we all need to find a better way
than a hundred miles an hour on pinebrook blvd

the radio has a voice
its loud in my mind
its as bright as sunshine
it talks to me personally
it has a voice that sees right through me
it knows what's happenin
and it knows that im spinning at the center of the world
i am the center of the universe
she can see it
i can feel it
its bright as sunshine
its warm as hands

hands that pulled me from the water so deep
i was down there listening
to the world get small
to the sound of my dying
its a glass eye
in the world
its as bright as sunshine
it makes me dance with no music on cobblestone
it makes smiles painted feel real
she sees it
she sees me
and its loud in my mind
i can do anything

real i tell you
here in my corduroy jacket pocket
i look so joe college
cause its fast as light
cause its smiling in my mind
like madness
she can see it
i can feel it
its bright as sunshine
its warm as hands
as  she walked away
in the pouring rain

the world is a changed place,
what we became familiar with is gone,
we must either change with the world
or be pushed aside by it...
I have chosen to embrace the coming world
and trying to learn the "new way"

The light is racing from our room,
seeping through the cracks under the door.
The darkness grows,
casting us into shadow.
but all things including light die in the end
utterances in the small places of my dark mind
lend themselfs to such times
i would not suffer to pass
the hour without bringing forth all the angers
and mettlesome ways that confound you
the smokes rakes against my mind,
hiding me behind my eyes.
The truth came calling
along with the clock's toll,
but who among us could answer such an ominous cry?
When the hours between midnight
and 4 am are so unforgiving.
i am filled with tears
until i can bear no more
your words kiss my mind
and i cannot return this tenderness
for it would turn to love
i am waiting these hours
in the desolate towers of cold
for the rescue of dawn
but it gives little comfort
were that i could reach out to you
but i dare not
i dare not*


Edit et al:           Collaboration Poem written by alyssainwonderland (http://hellopoetry.com/-alyssainwonderland/) and I (Mark John Junor); alyssainwonderland contributions are in italics