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mark john junor Sep 2014
her tinderbox mind
burst into flames of mad sadness's at any moment
that will burn like a river of tears
she will strain at speaking just the right words
terrified that she will get it wrong
so she paints her one word at a time tale
in brilliance colors on bathroom stall windowpane
hoping to compensate for all the written fears
no frilly graybeard teddybear to save the queen of forever's this time
so she will lay in her lovers arms
staring up at the wonder wheel of stars
wishing upon all the falling hero's
that she had her knight
that she wont be alone for all her tomorrows
that just one hero has survived to craft her
tell her who to be
how to not feel the tears
mark john junor Feb 2016
starlet of the silver screen
crafted herself to display the power of her beauty
and practiced in the art of visual seductions
she desires to be intoxicating
to move men to noble heights without saying a word
to ****** the hearts of men with just a smile
to be center stage in the brilliant light of adulation
her craft allows her to be anyone she wants
princess or pauper
a master of her craft she is every man's dream
she is true beauty
at the height of her career
a hollywood starlet
an american goddess
the love affair daydream of every fanboy
i look into those velvet eyes
and see all that ever could have been
all things ever desired
she's a starlet of the silver screen
woman boldly striking a seductive pose
assured and strong
true beauty
american goddess
mark john junor Jul 2014
her eyes like twin pistols
just kept blowin me away
for "Winter Allen Jane"
mark john junor Dec 2014
fast as the sun
you came into view
and i knew that you were trouble
but you are so perfectly flawed
you are so beautifully twisted
that i knew i couldn't resist
you lead me into places never imagined
showed me exciting things that were oh so wicked
cause you are so perfectly ******* up
so wonderfully insane
trouble
in such wonderful ways
look at that bright smile
keeps me from all that darkness out there
wonderfully seductive with all your smiles
all that happiness you got into my head
so maybe you've done broken me
in all the right ways
maybe you are just so dangerous
been nothing but good for me
beautifully twisted
that i wont want to resist
the two of us and nobody else
perfectly flawed
sweetly insane
just the two of us
(for victor and jennie)
mark john junor Jul 2014
there is a cold echo of time in the photographs
the clustered figures in uniform with haunted eyes
they each had a gas mask and a gun
could have been alive this very moment
with such familiar features...a father....brother...son

a hundred years ago they began yet another war
another bloodletting for
a game of brinksmanship of the powers that be
thousands of young men littered on a field
died in a gas attack is the simple phrase beneath
you can almost feel the concussion of the shells landing
hear the wiz of the bullets as the past so near at hand

these young men gas masks in hand
looking into the cameras lens with such horror
things too terrible to speak of in their eyes
father....brother...son

a hundred years later
the papers are filled with pictures
of shells landing in the gaza
armed men clustered round a
jet airliners wreckage in the ukraine
children running from a burning village in africa
we have learned nothing
father....brother...son
i am sorry we have all failed you
failed to cease all this useless warring
all this bloodletting
father....brother....son
mark john junor May 2013
I Write Poems
Feathered Freak

swaying in
the broken spring breeze
all most loosing my perch
above the the swill and swine
of quality hill park


the mental termites feed
on the foundations
of my reason and my calm
the insect approaches
with his hard nail footstep
and quietly as all most
to remain unheard
speaks a riddle to the air

what is in my head
what is the sound of silence
what is the thunder of thought


begone you feathered freak


i hop on my steel steed
and make swift tracks
southeast
all ways southeast

warmer weather
and no quality hill park
(the hill is not very good....so they
called it that in a attempt to cover their
inadequacies)
edit: it would REALLY help if these poetry sites had spellchecker built in....we are both really ****** spellers
mark john junor Apr 2013
with feet of clay

and how we have traveled this night
how we have lived a thousand lifetimes in these  hours\
while they wispered in desperate quiet
we sang and danced and let our hair free
your coming home to me lover
my arms and my heart ache for you

never ever leave again
with you i sail over this world with such freedom
without you my love
i am mortal with feet of clay

pennys on the pound broker the deal
we shall pay the ferryman to take us
back across the river styx
and away from the dark forboding hills

with you my love
i can defeat the world.
the reference to the river styx is an inside joke about the cherry creek that runs thru denver..foul water that you would not want to touch. my girl will be home soon...and i am so very very happy.
mark john junor May 2013
and how we have traveled this night
how we have lived a thousand lifetimes in these  hours
while they wispered in desperate quiet
we sang and danced and let our hair free
your coming home to me lover
my arms and my heart ache for you

never ever leave again
with you i sail over this world with such freedom
without you my love
i am mortal with feet of clay

pennys on the pound broker the deal
we shall pay the ferryman to take us
back across the river styx
and away from the dark forboding hills

with you my love
i can defeat the world.
mark john junor Jan 2014
he grabbed his shotgun and ran out into
the early morning light
the island was silent except the
sound of the waves and the dump ducks
his forlorn voice shatters the quiet
as he cast about in vain searching for her
in the empty fishing shacks
and the towns alleyways
under the cold canadian sun
sitting in the lighthouse she looked out to sea
and with hands folded neatly in her lap
she had broken the figurine and it lay there at her bare feet
its porcelain shards showing whitely against
the grey canadian wood of the floor
she had shed a single tear
for this life that she has broken and surrendered
and that tear lingers there still on her pale cheek
he finally finds her
bursts in like a shout of infidelity and curses
his face a burning red of rages
but the catches sight of the shattered figurine
and stops to stare suddenly humbled to frightened silence
and like the fool that he is
he gathers up the porcelain shards like a child
and mumbling his sorrow cradles them as he carries them home
leaving her there in the breaking day
with her broken heart and a new life to begin as she sees fit
but she will stay here in the lighthouse looking out to sea
because she is just as lost as he
the years will pass
he has his shotgun
she has the light
spend your loves with someone here and now
or spend it cold and bitter in the tomb
eventually she got rescued by a homeless man who gave her a rose
and they live happily ever after in the jewel encrusted cardboard boxes
in some southern town
he is still there on the island
standing in the shadows of his life
waiting for some reason to explain it all
enough to make sense of his own actions
he believes she will return someday
and mend the figurine make things aright
but like his shotgun he just rusted
and fell to dust
mark john junor Nov 2014
the dog in the neighbor's yard
trots his little path between the two fences
over and over....back and forth
the grass is threadbare when he runs
spends a moment hawkishly staring out one fence
at the world going by
angry barking at a cloud
then trot to the other fence to see what has
transpired there
a rain begins
he trots back and forth
leaves begin to fall
he trots back and forth
the wind gets chill
he trots back and forth
isn't my life such
sitting here at my fence
looking out at all of you
trotting back and forth looking out your own fences
trotting back and forth
in our own little universes
i only got one thing to say...."woof"
mark john junor Dec 2013
a thousand small mechanics
of thinking
labour to bend my actions to
the will of the arbitrary world
plans mature and rot on the vine
the fetid odours of their decay
is focused by the summer emblazoned sun
she prunes the shaft and maintains the
brick and mortar of the family's tradition
such pride taken in century's
but such is folly illustrated by footprints
drunkenly sketched by predecessors
forgiving is her heart
the past melts into
a portrait of porcelain perfection
issued like decree by oil and canvass
she is a pile of frowns
as she paints a watercolour
of the house cat
it lounges near total abandonment of consciousness
licking itself in slow mental appeasement
of the same dire need that makes it chase its own tail
a thousand mechanics of thinking
their brawny limbs weary of
the attempt to teach
the fearless path
fall to slumber and dream sweetly of
fields of green and
vibrant promise
mark john junor Nov 2013
fifty trees bereft of leaves
whipping back and forth
in a swift walking wind
by the cold waters of the river
the stone wall separates them from
the field
she sits in its shadow
facing the small stretch of sand
where we beached our rowboat
having spent the morning drifting down river
we take a rest in the shade
and eat the cold meats
salty and alive with flavours
drink the crisp wine
**** and warm
to the palate
the meal lay like an unburdened waif
sleeping sound in safe harbour
fifty trees with nothing
but a crown of birds nest
with naught but wind rocking stiff limbs
create such a sound
in the fall air
that is foretaste of winters solitude
of cold nights hand
the rain sweeps in with a
sudden rush
scattering the summer birds
that had come to sing for us
the humid thick air
shifts as the clouds overhead move
in swift silence
we sheltered in the fifty trees
till the storm had passed
i held her to me
and we made love
in the late day sun
now an old man
i wake with the fifty trees
imprinted on my thoughts
just as they had been that day
thirty seven years ago
mark john junor Jul 2023
I lay figuratively naked
washed ashore from a dark sea
alone in my room
alone with the thoughts that scare me
I twitch thru the movements of living
fits and starts
trying to not look too hard at what I do
lest I see the fruits of my labors
poisoned tree
poisoned mind

I lay figuratively naked
on the empty bed
starving slowly
crawling like a dog without moving
crying like a ***** as my visage melts away
I try to numb
but I am too alive to feel it
but I am too dead to deny it
sounds rudely awaken me
no rest for the wicked
no rest in a dark sea

I figuratively run fast as I can
not being able to breath
I figuratively speak to you
in rhythm without rhyme
I am figuratively still alive
in this dark sea
mark john junor Dec 2013
figurine of simplistic beauty's
she lay in the quiet afternoon shade
delicate sculpture of woman's beauty's
fine white lace
and the scent of roses
she lingers on all the senses
like smoky warm rooms of forever sunshine
like an endless caress of a tender lover
she stirs and opens me up to daylight
with just the lightest touch of willing smile
so deep runs the cool spring waters of her heart
and with silken words
cups my heart in her hands
kissing lightly away these troubles that
now are as forgotten as my name
under this earthy goddesses touch
she is the empire of summer
she is the heart of every mans desire
i stand in defense
of this true soft heart
bound by the gentlest kiss upon my cheek
and the sweet thanks of this
figurine of simple beauty's
for amanda
mark john junor May 2013
and the day ends at last
as we close our door to the
leaving of our last
drunken friend happy on his way home
sweep away the wine glasses
and put up the remnants of our feast
our friends left their loves
all around us
and that warms our souls
and the springtime night
all round us
turn up the sheets and lets escape
into eachother
into your sweet arms

i will wake tommorow
and will live again in your smile
and i will breath again in your laugh

but tonight lets just watch
that movie we like
and make love
drift off
in the middle of the night
not a worry to be found
not a thing stands in our way

and she whispers to me
tomorrow is almost here lover
and i will find it in your arms
i will find all my tomorrows in your arms
in her arms
mark john junor Aug 2023
I sweat a puddle 'neath my chair
so hot unbearable
neath my chair
The cat holds up near the AC
wild-eyed and silent
waiting for me to move
because nothing else can in all this fire hot air
is he sweating too
all that fur gotta be pure ******
but he has the soul of a saint
and the heart of a lion
I hear the lesbian next door chanting
something at four-am
but the sound is muffled as it is sweet
I sweat a puddle 'neath my chair
been roasting alive for near ten days straight
and my head is swimming
eyes can't see straight
but the cat
he knows the game
he will wait till I move
cause nothing else can in this fire hot air
mark john junor Oct 2013
this melancholy
drifting in thought like a skiff windless
on the cobalt blue
on the rich scent of salt and sea
on the deep memories of her
the mast tilts and wavers across the pattern of sky
like a pencil etching invisible patterns
among the ever silent stars

but it is not the seas vast salt tinge
but the harsh taste of my tears
that the mast writes of this night
that the mast scribbles madly into starfeild
far into the night
this story of loves known
and grand heights of lovers embrace
that the heart speaks
that hidden sea of the soul
made from a lifetimes loves and loss
they are
the peaceful and deep waters
of night that have always been the world
where my words could run free
sails unfurled
swift and rough breaking on wave crest
tacking ever eastward to open waters
out into
the deep quiet halls of the sovereign serenity
found in the solitude of night
where my thoughts undisturbed
could be true unabashed

cronos and the sea

this melancholy
and now i find myself
nailed here to the deck
by the turmoil of emotions
shore a sparkling light miles to south
and first breaths of dawn slowly
expanding along the east
i am caught between all the things i was
and am
i only wish to drift and dream
nothing to feel
nothing to worry upon
nothing to trouble my old heart
free me
let me forever drift now
free
i botched this one badly..."night" oh boy! gee wilinkins! goly gee!!! shoot me now, that was just horrid.
mark john junor Aug 2014
all good dreams begin with a kiss
that beautiful touch of soft lips
eyes closed
body poised on the very edge of yearning
and her lips taste so sweet
warm invitingly
passions flame a brief moment away
barley contained in this soft embrace of lips
but you can feel its fire ready to burst upon you
feel the deep ocean of her heart stirring to wild thought dreams
feel her surrendering to her wishes delights
pull her closer
yearn with her
let your heart run with hers
let go
let her
in a long sweet kiss
tumble back to breathless earth
tumble back to...
mark john junor Apr 2015
she suffered in silence
the inglorious dirt of rumor
as she tried unweave the web it wraps round her
far from being willing to live this way
the lies and the stink of deception settle in
but she keeps struggling against the tide
she is a sweet beauty incongruous
the late day clouds roll in
and she casts a weary glance at the troubled skies
trouble enough on my own
don't need another fistful of snakes
but deep down inside she knew she could handle
another dark day
long as there is the bright promise of someday
and as the rain and stink of decay settles in
she rises above like she always dose
people will always talk
spite is a hunger that is never sated
jealousy is a disease that has no cure
she suffered in silence
the inglorious dirt of rumor
but she is made of better steel
and this will never break the likes of her
and as she unweaves the web of lies
she feels stronger with the knowledge that she will win
mark john junor Nov 2013
the fast car speeds along the avenue
and she relaxes at the wheel
shell tell you she was born to drive
and with a cigarette grey haze
she leans into the telling
a story of her younger days
a summer back in the world
back in the dust of 1958
when the motorcycles rode on main street
she and her baby sister went to see
and stood back of the five and dime
marvelling at at the wild men
and the chrome machines
thouse were the days when
the future was brighter
and the dream seemed like it could be real
this light comes alive in her eye when she speaks
of thouse days
you can see the years fall away
you can almost taste the malted she drank
and almost see her in her blue dress
there at the five and dime
you can see the light in her eyes
when she is remembering thouse days
the sock hop and the drive thu
she is so much a younger soul than i
filled with all these beautiful memories
and as we drive down the hutchinson river parkway
middle of the night
in the pouring rain
robert gordon on the radio
i think to myself that she's right
she was born to drive
and i was born to be with a girl like her
oldsmobile cutlass 440 was her car
i was her man
.and rockabilly was her music
mark john junor Oct 2013
the five fighters push past
at a slow run
their sweating form
a unified theory of motion
their thoughts
a universe of devotions
to the craft of defeat and victory's
they move with concentration through
the steady persistence of rain
as a single
organism of denials of the ability to
surrender to the dull life

as they push past you
pacing the wet pavement with careworn step
you can feel the cheering crowd
you can sense the elation
of the upraised fist of championship
and the eyes of the world upon
as they push past you sense
what it means to be
undefeated
undefeatable

five fighters
at a slow run
in the steady uncaring rain
and as they push past your
broken wheelbarrow existence
they reach out from within to share their strength
for the greatest champion
knows the strength of frailty
mark john junor Jan 2014
the expanding shadows of my depleted day
stretch out like fingers
trying to gain purchase on my
fleetfoot soul
but the past is a parody of the now
with all the same actors playing different roles
and i know who will let me
slip unnoticed out the stage door
while the drunkard nightwatchman
sings sea shanties and laments the poorboy pay

out the door and up the alley
and skate along the thieves highway looking for treasures
with the maiden of dumpsterdivers in tow
she is carrying little red riding hood on a waitress's salary
but the two of em love eachother
so the three of us make scary bandit faces
and go on and on about how we don't
need no stinkin' badges
the alley treats us all to a few jems
and more stinky socks than a reformed
cheerleader like little red riding in the hood
can shake a stick at

by the time i shuffle back to
my home on the shooting range
don quixote had turned off the lights
and driven off in his VW bug
the band had packed its gear
and the bartender was three sheets to the wind
all i could do to mend my own fences
was sing old cowboy songs at a winter moon

fleetfoot to from the greasy lock of hair
to the itchy feet looking to travel
its all just another day under strange skies
we all got questions
but few got answers
i just got a pocket full of dust
and a pair of running shoes
so here i go....
dedicated to jaybird by tapeworm :-) the bird caught the worm, but they ended up just hanging round and dancin to some fine tunes :-)
mark john junor Feb 2014
light in the foot
walks gingerly near the top of the hour
with ear placed lovers close to the keyhole
the candle dim light twists in its reflections
until the burnished plates of steel have
kissed the features of the face with such gentle regard
that you have lost thought of what you see
in the dreaming of what could have been

light in the foot
sneaks away while the fat ***** chimney sweep
who sputters and moans derision of lesser men in his
restless slumbers on the rooftop
resting his weary head against the steam engines of night
their ceaseless labours fuelling the sleeping city below
watched over only by a gibbous moon

light in the foot treads back to
her chambermaids door
and with mock care places key to slot
and looses the yawning mad rabble within
they said her madness was from vapours
but light in the foot sheds new visions on her eyes
light in the foot
need sneak no more
because its candlelight face may have been
undone by twists of shadow
but it is married to the madness of others like her
and none hear what the wandering minds speak

light is fleet of foot
and is loved by even the nails that bind
the deep stone of hearth
to the old grey wood of the home
we sit at the table our dinner now only scraps
her hand in mine
and our eyes feasting on eachothers tenderness
silence skips a beat and
light in the foot sneaks past us unseen
trailing with its children flickering like dancers in
the ballroom of the night
watch them flow cross with such grace
watch them speak in their beauty with lips so cold
watch them dance
sleep slips you from your mooring
and you drift into slumber
drift like light in the footsteps of dawn
mark john junor Jul 2013
it tatters on  the edge
like a flag
but her shirt
is all black
cept the letters
which shout at you in your face real real loud
'you cant have me
motherf&@ker'
with a happy face knife in the eye

she looks at the pavement
and mumbles somthing
off tone
but my head is ringing and i cant
place her words on the paper of my head
its too soaked with rain
all thoughts a runny
and slide right on out

she grabs my collar and pulls me along
down the isle to the display case
where she points out a bracelet
she wants real real bad is
'aint that *******'
little skulls and guns in pink
like charms
just for a laugh i buy it for her
she gets a complex look on her face
and punches my arm several times
'cant pay you back for that f&#kface till i get paid'
nothing to pay back kiddo
just a chicken wing

thought id share that
for whatever it means to a babysitter
to be around a poet
in the strange world
in a florida state of mind
gutter punk baby sitter...dreadheads idea...worked out great, shes real good with my little girl.
mark john junor Mar 2014
the addled man sits
with his eyes wide as the photographer focuses
his lost scraps of tangible thought
he sews into a tapestry
of foolish creations
such charm may be found
in the playground of amused twisted creatures

but the grip the shadow he casts
crawls across the sun strewn lawn
like a creature of thirsts
tangled in its spoken vision is the
frame of the house of the mad
this shadow he bleakly thrusts at me
is rife with the rumours of tomorrow
but make for a thin meal in the aftermath of today

he sits with his glasses on
smudged with stained greasy fingerprints
like a visual history of his labours to seek this
understanding with a brutal sunny day
the scraps of his meager thoughts
swirl round and round the stew of his mind
the bitter things float
the sorrows pool to one side in toxic lakes
edged by the serene images of summer

the shadow his eyes chase finally reaches the church wall
and he bemoans a loud spectacle of a prayer
to the divinity of the photographers gentle hand
redeem me with your lens
stitch a new meaning to this tattered life
mere reflections of the world captured by her hand
through the lens
through the shadows he flings with
careless abandon wherever his raggedy preamble
of a life gathers him
mark john junor Oct 2013
an utterance of folly
her natural unvarnished thoughts
spill slowly from her adorned lip
and crawl forth to battle his opposing view
her words crowd his ear
a thousand angry little versions of her
with sword in hand coming to slay the misbehaving dragon
of his free will
his own thoughts flee as one
from the opposite side ear
with furtive glances back
hoping to escape unscathed

his own folly
childlike in form
plays marbles
looking for that elusive Aggie
called inner peace

together they amble down
country road
both shouting the random formulas
for completing and mailing
the required forms for
a visa to paradise
its roads are paved with candy
she insists
its hills are carved from
pure chocolate he  interjects
neither realize its paradise because
it lacks the likes of them

he kisses her adorned lip
and tastes the metal of her
resolve to  endure
she french's her tongue into
the small spaces of his mind
and savors the spices of his
need to flee
whats needed here they devise
compromise is a plate of cold fish
seal it in a bottle and cast it overboard
perhaps their lives shall find a sandy shore
to rest their every weary
makeout machine
mark john junor Apr 2014
i came upon a girl in the wood
her sun floating smile could not be repressed
the light of her inner shone clearly
like song simple and true
i asked her and i begged of her moment
how far must i travel
before i am loved as deeply as you
she could not answer

in the middle of the long night
came upon a man walking in the stars
the beauty and wonder of the mysteries of his world
spun like whirlwinds and shone from his eyes like tenderness
and i asked of him i begged of him to tell me please
how deep into the wilderness must i wander alone
before i could find loves sweet harmony like he has
he could not answer me

in the resonance of morning dancing upon the worlds edge
i found a girl who was painting a masterpiece of freedoms
a scene of sweet adorations and gifts of souls kiss for all
who are drawn near
i asked her and i begged of her to please tell
me how long must i study at the dusty dry bones of fear
how long must i sit in the stillness of autumn never ending
before spring finds me like it has her
she answered me
in a voice thick and rich
in a knowledge sure
that i had all these things
and left them all behind to folly's quest
to find the love within
mark john junor Apr 2013
dry winds blowin all night
pushin the grey sky north
pushing the storm into me
put my boots on the hardscrabble

looked out to see
the ruin of a homestead burned
in the wilderness
long forgotten
these stones once gathered
and placed with care
now scattered to the winds
now cold without the love that they once contained
without the love the once protected
just like me
just like me

the night passes slow
and i find little comfort in the sheets
my mind flows far distant
my bones rest uneasy in this cold place
my heart turned to dust long ago
but it still feels
and the feelin that grows in my soul
and the knowledge that grows in my soul
there is distant voices that call
where are you tonight
why arnt you here in my arms
with me
mine

put my boots to the hardscrabble
i go to find you
out there in the world
you are my lover
and i need you in my arms
as much as i need air to breath
mark john junor Jun 2013
racing a vanishing sun
his running shoes tap up dust clouds from
the hardpack sand
entranced by such a strange sky
enchanted by her dreamy voice
whispering distractions
in his minds ear
like her immoral thoughts
or her tunnel visions of nevermind illusions

like a distance runner in a cascade of tropical rain
focus on each stride
each care placed footfall
ponder the sand and coral in the shade of a tree
ponder the depth and breadth of a soul
wonder at thouse who live out their lives never having
known love

footfalls in the dusk
and the distance between his todays has grown narrow
as the gap between his sense of reality and the image his reflection lies to him with
footfalls in the dusk
echo with slight delay
as if he were being chased by a shadow
and he thinks to himself
"how true dat"..."how true dat"
his small brown pet keeps pace
but exhaustion is written in its threadbare bones
and it looks at me with such fear
as they sweat past at slow run
racing a vanished sun
and the strange skies
azure with dust clouds and deep with dreams

he feels alone
but he has become too accustom to
the pace and while he is burnt out but cannot cease
she may return someday
with her long brown hair flowing in a florida coastal breeze
so he keeps running slowly up the roads
running slowly in the shadows of a hasty sun
that was too quick to flee into the night
f%&k-nuts; i rhymed in this one...ill come back and fix it later, so dont worry, i wont go compleatly ape-s@%t on it and hack out a bunch of lines like she would have
mark john junor Jan 2014
forgiven the yesterdays
for all their flaws
for all their hesitations and mistaken paths
see only their progressions through your years
see your growing older
and the solutions easier to think of
but harder to pull off
see the loved faces lost or faded away
and still you wake alone in a cold bed
and still it seems like no-one hears you calling out
no-one understands your shadow's home
forgive all your yesterdays
don't want to keep on down this road
want a new song
want tomorrows not yesterdays
mark john junor Apr 2013
would it be so wrong would it be so terrible to taste the forbidden fruit one last time one more time

just a taste till the day is lost in hazy glow till my thoughts are wrapped in that soft place

would it be so wrong would it be so terrible to go back and taste that forbidden fruit

been here all day and my soul is do weary just a little just a load
LOL..i sleep with a *****,  she wants to go back and have a *******...i write poems about my ex whos been dead twenty years...she likes the poems...i write one poem about doing a load swear to god thought she was gonna ****** me..
mark john junor Dec 2014
she lingers as long as she can in the mirror
trying to be perfect in every way
trying to see herself as i will see her
trying to be as radiantly beautiful as i see her
biting softly her lip she turns
and walks with the grace her shoes allow into the room
to the bed where i wait for her
feasting on her with my loving eyes
she smiles
she knows i am pleased
she wants me as i want her
she melts onto the bed
flows like forbidden sweetness into my arms
a song to her body against mine
a beauty that has no sound
but fills every sense
a living breathing as one
that cannot be defined as anything but one word
love
mark john junor Apr 2016
late day sunshine
warmly scattered over us
and stirred imagination
revealed sweeter than summer  dreams
my heart lived a song for her alone
rising and flying on each note that
passed between us while we made love under the tree
shared between us without a word
lost in every sense of eachother
magically as one heart one dream
drowned and brought back to life again in the
beauty of touching with such
powerful passions and the heart's lusts
late day sunshine scattered warmly over us
weaving into our memories forever that moment shared
that beautiful place in ones life where we
touched life's perfect union body and soul
the matching heartbeats rhythm
two young lovers finding deep universes in eachothers eyes
laughing sweetly holding hands in that forever moment
that is cherished a lifetime later
late day sunshine slipping away
but the memory will stay with me forever my love
my sweet love
do adding tags to a poem have any real impact?
mark john junor Mar 2016
in the softest sound of a hopeful heart
she awaits you
she mesmerizes with the delicate flower of her smiles
cascading down your nightly path laughing sweetly
you know shes there
and so you whisper a soft song to her
you bring into it every touch of love
every tender intensity of devotion
and caress her soul with your heartfelt desires
you tell her of bright beauty of tomorrow shared
you sing to her of the swift velvet sea where
the two of you will forever be free upon its deep waters
you sing to her of the love your heart feels
for her alone
you know shes there next to you
holding you close
close enough to breathe as one
its not just a dream
its not just the beautiful night kissing your heart
she is there in every thought your heart feels
she is there ‌every song beautiful hearts dream
sing to her now
in just a whisper
she is so close to you
you breathe as one
delicate dance of fingers on each others softest soul
sing to her of futures to be shared
tell her of all the things that you hope for
tell her that your devoted love will last forever
forever just for her
forever just for her

© 2016 mark john junor all of my poems are my exclusive property
and all rights are reserved
mark john junor Feb 2014
her simple pure lines
her light footstep in frigid gloom
open lips tremble over the broken phrase
she casts glances behind as she sneaks up the alley
as if the thing crawling up her spine is
any other than the aftertaste of her own dark urges
anything but the small sound creeping in conscience in the night

she packs her self deceptions into the pockets of her ***** jeans
and shudders at their wet stain slowly spreading
with their stench mocking her and her ridicule
she ***** on her cigarette greedily
the tip glowing like a furnace in the darkness of the room
its thick smoke laden the air with its fearful premonitions
like an oracle she casts the bones like cigarette ashes
and speaks of the future she sees
but my finger traces the dark lines on her arm
a thousand holes of individual crime
a thousand times compounded unholy union between dark and light

but she breaths a smile on me
and i must surrender to her world of mystery's
i must submit to the silence of her dark reverences
her alabaster skin flows beneath me
like a frozen river
each moment a lifetime in the presence of her spoken disturbances
like ripples on the still and dark waters,
of her sorrows released like doves caught in fading light
like scattering dust motes on the bitter winds

forever lingering in the absence of
forever in the desire but never the attainment
please hear me now like you have never heard me before
i cannot bear another moment in this cage of vices
in this silent dark place
forever lingering in the absence of
her
and her touch
mark john junor Sep 2016
i just want to tell you
because your all i ever wanted...
all our night on the dancefloor
under the lights so magical....
all our beaches in moonlight romantic
embrace so enticing.....
i just want you to know
how much every moment with you
has meant to me....
every walking hand in hand
in sweet summer sunshine so warm....
every moment we whispered **** things
to each other and how it makes you blush and giggle
so wonderful....
just want you to hear
how special you are to me
how deep our love truly is.....
every day i find new love for you
find the beauty between us
so forever sunshine in my heart.....
every kiss shared softly
lips caress with a loving soul song
so much of what my heart has longed for
all my life.....
just needed you to hear
i love you
forever magical love together
mark john junor Dec 2013
the words had been carved into the wood
long ago summer day
in unsteady hand
but concentrating got the whole thing
on that tiny scrap of heart shaped space
her name put with such care
with love
and the word forevermore
only you can heat me up babe he had whispered
these years later and a dozen coats of paint
you can still make out the heart
but time has all but wiped away the feelings
where is she now
what long windswept road claimed her
she had turned to look back trying for one last time
but the fire had faded
and now it seemed she only thought of him
from time to time
in the fall after a pouring rain
in the depths of a sleepless night
that childhood ago
her name carved with such love
in the wood bench by the riverside
in that town she was born so long ago
she imagined it was still there
forevermore
dedicated to lindsay jorgensen a wonderful poet and kind soul
mark john junor Apr 2013
there are days
that float to the surface
you were one of thouse
we walked in the woods
as the last days of winter came to a close
and we the warmth that friends reached out to
and we were the warmth that made a home for all

you made candles to pedal on the corner
with bright colours flowing round
that wax scent still fills my senses
just like your smile
while i wrote songs and built my machines
to bring our bread and butter
and we would end our day wrapped in that old blanket
with the cabin in the woods on it
wrapped in each other in our love

there are days that come to me
there is only the wind
where her whisper once guided me
there is only silence where her smile once brightened my day
sleeping here miles away from
where we started
sleeping here ages from when we started
there is only the song that calls to me

thouse days are gone
and so are you
if only you were alive i would tell you
how much you still mean to me

forgive me for not being there to save your life
i would give anything to have that day back again
mark john junor Nov 2013
as daylights shine wears thin
and evening is leaning on you heavy
like the engine of time has
forgotten to grease its wheel
your futility fueled smile has lost ground
in the struggle with the grin
of the man wearing a clown suit
he is a rainbow of laughs
he is the face behind the face that
you look into with approaching dread

the obvious winds of encroaching rain
tread briskly past my quiet ear
a motorcycle engine winds up its gears
in the summer like distance
like an echo in this autumn brink of evening
pretence of the storm
a few scattered cool drops of water
fall casual to the hard red surface of the patio
its faded and tattered paint beset with taint
here once sat a small brick wall
its remains scattered amongst the litter
in the overgrown weeds
as the rain begins in earnest
she leads me inside the house
and to a bedroom not used by shooters
the two of us sit in silence and listen to the passing storm
a woman without a word enters and
gathers herself in a corner

outside the window
sunlight creeps back over the world
reveals the man with the clown suit
sitting waiting for you outside the window
he had waited all his life
and he waits still
in his comfort chair
its worn plastic form strains but holds
his heavy thoughts
as the world passes in two's or threes
all the laughing faces
and the desperate lookers eyeing the safe harbour
he had waited all his life
inspite of the noise and garbage
he sits here and plays with the firebox
its heat keeps him from getting
a frozen heart

the three of us
leave the shooters house
making roads for the soothsayers den
only she can settle our earthly delemia
me, her and the clown
full on night gathers around our swift feet
the lights of the carnival
reflected in the puddles left by the last rain
the already stale the water is disturbed by our passing
the air smelled like cotton candy
and is full of noise
the soothsayer is mute
her lips sealed with beeswax
because she is mourning her camera
cause the camera was once her ticket out of town
it was gonna be a one way nonstop to hollywood
but it ended up being hollyweird and it wasn't in california
the four of us head for the interstate
if you cant solve it
run
mark john junor Aug 2013
forlorn figure standing
on a grey skies beach
gives rise to
thoughts of cold wind and dire essence
a saddness surrounds this misbegotten creature
this mispoken essence of a person in desperation
this crafted image of despair

many years have passed
but isn't it this very thing
this very place
that is the crux of what and who you are
she died on a beach
now you linger here
deliberatly
you cannot will not get past this

she awaits in dreams
clothed in the dim spectral next world
garments that come to mind
a beckoning figure
calling this one on the beach to join her

she waits for me
I think that's what it really boils down to...I lost her.....and untill I join her I will never have lasting happiness
mark john junor Jul 2013
the parade begins
as the homeless men struggle their
burdens and bags down
thru the blinding sun into the east
to the nearest bus stop
while police cars circle looking
to pick off a few randomly take to jail
fill some quota or just **** some time
perhaps just throw a beating for fun and giggles
*******

there the old man
must be in his seventies struggles for air
but know he must hurry on
lest he get caught up
get on the wrong side of the upper hand

they call it social compassion
they say that these men are all filth
but iv talked to them
iv shared my dinner with them
they are human beings too
need
but who dosnt
sorry...perhaps i should be a little more sympathetic to something or other...just hard to watch a couple of young cops pushing around a seventy year old man cause they got nothing better to do.
mark john junor Jul 2013
never dreamed that you'd be here
in the harsh light
of rolling wind
unfettered by toiling fingers
free of the recoil of shames blank face
some write some
some read
some dare to dream of a paradise
only to find a land of disintegrating smiles
seeing both sides of that hot coin
makes my eyes dust
read what iv written in her eyes
with my unsure hand
with my fractured heart
with the knowing
that after this
i am alone on this sea
with naught but starvation and stormfront
she quickens
its abyss or absolution
turn my eyes away from the open sky
i cannot face whats written there
she walks up to me
but frowns at something she perceives and drifts away
some write
some read
some dare to dream of paradise
only to find a land of desintergrating smiles
and the infestation of mirror cracked rooms
whos occupants are at best shadows of
the root of all evil (womens pink loafers)
mark john junor Feb 2015
fondly the fragments of childhood memory gathered
a smile so decorated with sweet sunshine of summer day
a carefree moment of pure abandon
where the world seemed endless
where possibility boundless
seems so far away from the bed you lay in
its night in this moment of your remembering
but you can still feel the sun on your face
still taste the sweetness of the breeze
can you imagine where those days have gone
can you believe in the magic as you did so long ago
can you pause in all this getting old
to live once more in the summer moment
breath the magic
live the day
take a chance and believe
that your heart can still be young
that the world is still beautiful in its way
that there are still rainbows to chase
mark john junor Jan 2014
she estimates the night
counting the stars laid out
in a sweeping gesture in dayglow paint
across the ceiling
with technicolor comets
and a ladder from the plush carpet
to the dusty shelf with the snow storm crystal ball
a tepid little scene with a campfire
and a small grey wolf
the ladder has a small man climbing it
Jacob

she lets her hand wander to the
plate next to her
two thousand one a space odyssey plays
silently on the television
she picks up a chicken bone
holds it up to the dim light
whispers 'show me some magic'
and smiles to no-one in particular

bright blue hair
knee high rainbow socks
one lip pierced and a hungry for hope eyes
there's music playing
some neatly polished teen heart throb
and his prettier than thou *****
her walls are coated with
random pictures trimmed from magazines
some neatly polished life she dreams on sometimes
where she is fashionable
and the world is her playground

she drapes herself on my lap
all the while speed talking about a hundred things
and touching each subject
like a queen bestowing gifts
she playfully teases
'show me your magic baby'

she a neo-glitter kitty
ninety seven paces from the surface of the moon
but she keeps complaining about the dust
wants to take a vacuum cleaner to the whole place
i'm gonna clean too
tongue bath
starting with her earlobe
mark john junor Mar 2013
The tilted pet noise
haunts us as we roll down the narrow hall
its diseased bark echoes oddly in this cold hollow place

my legs ache
with the portent of coming snow
i must reach the exit
i must not be a victim of chance

the scurvy beast falls behind
its bark giving way to a note
of sorrow
he will have no-one to trumpet down the hall
when we have fled

he will be ;left alone with his dark doggy thoughts

homeward bound
homeward bound
just down that hall
mark john junor Nov 2015
gone into the deepest part
of summer sunshine
where i was blinded to my own heart
all that i have whispered to the darkest of night
hoping to hear answers unique

desperation has no cure
except in the mirror of the minds eye
where the wet soul hungers for light
where the better angels of loves delight wait
like brides to be on wedding mornings
the day dancing before them in beautiful eyes

wait now for the words to come
as easy as they once did
as right as rain
soft wet warm

i have gone into that deepest part of
summer sunshine
i found it while brushing my lips
across the freckles on her shoulder
like a roadmap to heaven
tasting of such bedroom intents
soothing the soul like a dark wine
in moonlight

i have gone into the deepest part
of summer sunshine many times before
lost there in the sweetest moments of deranged thought
where there is no fear
where there is no tears
only the whisper of my lips
on the freckles of her shoulder
mark john junor Mar 2015
...she kept her heart on a chain
never let it run mad like it was born to do
she kept her head in a box
never let it see the light of day
she has keepsakes for a heart
and romance novels on shelves
little dragons decorate her hallway
with little knights to slay them
natural and homespun as can be
she lives in her books
and lives for the day prince charming will come her way
she knits and tinkers her days away
always busy never stops
she is a model prisoner in her homemade jail
ever ready to pardon the thief for a kiss
ever ready to take the burden from the beast
she thinks someday will come tomorrow
and itll be better than promised
itll be sunshine cakes and sweet wine
and she will be done doing time for being a lover not a sinner
she kept her heart on a chain
and her head in a box
and never gave chase to the wild boys
now grown and old
mark john junor Dec 2013
she has the word free
written on her hand
holds it up to the glass
i instinctively reach down place my hand
over hers
whisper that i wish i was
but even that small device of the heart
that small giving by her true soft soul
helps me sustain
through the glass i can almost feel
the soft warmth of her hand
smell her sweet perfume
hear her voice
telling me not to weep
for these things iv lost
that she will love me always
and i will never be alone
written freehand inspired by an image i saw
mark john junor May 2016
the painting was literal
figure hunched walking a dirt road in rain
its hues and tone spoke
mute but vividly
each brush stroke matched the images birthplace
in the authors crippled heart

each leaf a burnished gold of autumn
each a dying fragment of the withered tree
even the mans footprints in muddy soil
one can almost feel the squalid mud underfoot
his uniform and helmet named him a frenchmen
from the great war
his boots rendered with bloodstain

figure hunched walking dirt road in rain
a great dying had come to france that day
swords drawn they charged into deaths embrace
this man and his comrades in this awful place

the painting hangs in some museum
an awkward moment for the viewer
is he going into the storm of battle
or going home after
the tale is left untold
it is just the tale of a man on a road in the rain
a frenchmen in the world war
a lone figure in rain
re-write of old piece
mark john junor Aug 2014
the painting was literal
figure hunched walking a dirt road in rain
its hues and tone spoke
mute but vividly
each brush stroke matched the images birthplace
in the authors crippled heart

each leaf a burnished gold of autumn
each a dying fragment of the withered tree
even the mans footprints in muddy soil
one can almost feel the squalid mud underfoot
his uniform and helmet named him a frenchmen
from the great war
his boots rendered with bloodstain

figure hunched walking dirt road in rain
a great dying had come to france that day
swords drawn they charged into deaths embrace
this man and his comrades in this awful place

the painting hangs in some museum
an awkward moment for the viewer
is he going into the storm of battle
or going home after
the tale is left untold
it is just the tale of a man on a road in the rain
a frenchmen in the world war
a lone figure in rain
re-write of old piece
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