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 Jun 2015 Mel Harcum
R Saba
the wind has lessened its grip on this house, and now
with the air settling 'round the eaves and twirling the leaves from the trees
lazily down to the ground, i have been released, hair pulled back
from my face and eyes closed as i stretch across the furniture
and breathing steady, i am in control

the sun has kickstarted summer with a sudden shower
of light, followed by wayward, anxious raindrops that refuse to hit hard
instead burying themselves in my collarbone and sinking into my skin
like grey patches that melt away the sun's warmth, and today
i was nothing but cold, and yet warm when i smiled at the sky
and brought out my umbrella, knowing
i am in control

your hand has lengthened the lines that extend
from my eyes, those pathways of expired smiles that left their mark
as your fingers wipe rain from my cheeks as if it mattered to you
(ever so much)
that they stayed dry, and your palm may be damp with honesty now
but you press it to mine and it's shared, and the knowledge
that the seasons no longer matter is there, because
warm and cold don't mean anything
with this kind of control
Why do you wear maroon lipstick?
Why are there lip stains on that stem-less wine glass?
Why are you staring at the sunrise?
Why are you smiling?Why are you laughing?Why are you yelling?Why are you smoking?
Why are you running?Why do you let mascara smears on your cheeks?
Why would you argue?Why would you snap?
Why?
to be continued...
She’s the type to eat a bowl of ice cream,
shoot a gun, and be fine. I’ve never seen so many pieces
under someone’s rug before, but she keeps
herself in cookie jars, in ink cartridges, in book binds,
anything she can find. I’m surprised she even looks
in the mirror anymore. It’s not possible that she’s herself whole.
But she braids her hair back when she rides her horse,
she channels old Miranda Lambert
and pumps that kerosene melody through her veins
like it wont’ catch fire. I’ve seen her
poke her head through old sweaters like she thinks
it’ll be something new this time. I’ve seen her paint
her skin in expensive body washes, the washcloth
like sandpaper as she tries and tries to smooth
all of the uneven edges she’s collected.

I bet you could watch her memories in a wishing pool,
like in a mini mall, with all the pennies heads down.
They would spin themselves around the surface,
suffocating one another so that only the good ones would shine,
but she dare not pour herself into something that reflective.
It would only reveal what she ties into the waistband
of her old American Eagle jeans every morning,
and that would just be too **** hard. It’s easier
to venture ******* with a crummy perspective
and a realistic approach than it would be to even consider
that maybe this time it wasn’t her fault
for expecting to much, and that maybe people just ***** up.
That maybe, for once she wouldn't blame it on it getting her hopes up
that made her fall, but that no one was there to catch her.
I’d rather watch her cry herself to sleep for months

than to pretend I admire the harsh falsetto she bites back
in all of her lullabies. But she’s the type
to burn old pictures for fun, to delete contact names,
to swallow all her sadness and paint her bedroom a new color
than watch herself come undone.
 Apr 2015 Mel Harcum
Teo
“It’s been trying to rain.” My Grandfather said to me over the summer
Not even looking at the bright hot blue sky with very few clouds
As if they each were a living thing, capable of trying to do anything at all

A couple days later, it rained for a few dozen hours straight
Y’know, for a long while now, I’ve felt like I’m finally on the path of self-discovery
That I’m mere inches away from self-actualization
Now, I wish that it would finally come

I’ve been relearning most of the things that I thought I knew
Like how to read and write and think and feel
I’m even learning new lessons
Like how to believe
And be strong
And be calm
Hoping to be wise one day
Like my Grandfather

And on the day he died, it rained all night
The world was weeping, its tears
Were frozen and bitter

I don’t know what to say
But I know now that I can feel because
I can point out the sorrow constantly in my chest
I can taste the burning sensation
Bubbling up the back of my throat

I have never felt this way before
I’m trying to be strong
But realization, it comes in waves
We never got to go fishing again
Never got to grow one more garden in the spring

According to mom, grandpa was my first word
And I’ve found myself speaking a lot more softly than average
Like a lone cloud in the desert when it’s trying to rain

I've been staring into the dark every night thinking of nothing
But when I do think, lately I’ve been thinking of, well
It’s hard to explain, but it feels like that self-actualization
It feels like it’s across some vast, empty part of my soul
And through much, much more pain
But it’s waiting for days later
When hopefully I’ll understand life and death
And my spot in between them both

I know nothing of death
That’s why I’ll always love the music that the river makes
That’s why I’ll always love the feeling of dirt under my nails
And the smell of the air when it’s trying to rain
Cause I know that this is life, life is precious
Life is the most beautiful thing in the universe

Two weeks later and the world is crying bitter cold tears again
And I know in my heart I’ll never feel the same warmth
I’ll never be used to this, everything is changed
My eyes are always trying to rain
But I’m learning something important
Hopefully I'll learn what
The lesson is
Soon
Rip grandpa and grandma
I love you a lot
We scuffed across the wide sidewalks, 3 AM *****
persuading us the dim-lit bridge wouldn’t fall away beneath
our curiosity to see the university’s emptiness, content
in August’s stagnancy. I tried to picture thousands of strangers
walking different paths to reach their point B,
but soon we stepped off yellow-toned brick and I saw hippies
laying on the ground outside a pub, smoking joints.
One woman with hip-length dreads, her face as wrinkled
as crumpled love letters hidden behind my dresser, pointed
and said, You’ll forget yourself some day.

Months later, I blinked awake in the tank as dawn crept
through my cell bars, quietly, like the disappointment on my birthdays
or Mom’s sighs when she browsed the mail for child support checks
never sent by my train-wreck, truck deck loving old man
who ****** me off when I mistook him for that self-righteous cop
hell-bent on teaching me a lesson of respect.
He had that patronizing presence, and it blinded me with magma
rage I felt in my arms, through my knuckles, right to his rib cage.
I still don’t remember the way back to that dingy pub.
 Feb 2015 Mel Harcum
Syd
on your first date you learn she takes her coffee
cooler than the starless sky
and by the end of the night you learn
she likes her showers hotter than the seventh sun
stepping out from the tub with her skin scrubbed
a scarlet hue that demands to be kissed until
dusk turns to dawn before your sleepless eyes

you wonder why she sweeps her hair to the side
after she says goodbye in the morning
why she seems so ******* guarded
all of the time
but you never ask
because you are afraid she may answer

she says she's never been in an accident
and you incorrectly assume
she is referring to a car
you swear up and down that she ought to be by now
because of the fashion in which she drives
like a madman
she says she doesn't believe in speed limits
or limits of any kind for that matter
she likes to get to where she's going and
she likes to get there fast
she's the kind of girl who doesn't believe in
taking things slow
maybe because she doesn't know how
or maybe because she doesn't want to know

she told me she loved me three weeks
before we got together by means of
mediocre poetry and a smile that
at the time
I couldn't quite understand

she says she's never been in an accident
and you incorrectly assume
she isn't referring to
all of the time
she spent
away
from
you
 Feb 2015 Mel Harcum
Coop Lee
seed can’t stay in the ground forever, see?
it has to grow
and yield.

    you wanna bite at the better years?
    wanna dig up some spirit of a reminiscent us?
    wobble for the thought of it, bobble for the memory,
    and weave.

            [the mind will spectrum with all the colors of a day,
                                                                                thoroughly understood]

            [the mind is lovely built on blood and air]

            [the mind will filter and you will receive and love]

& today i find myself lighting off the words you say.
fire says, you gotta be bold bottlerocket.
be bold kid,
& don’t forget to wear a rubber.
tonight is on the skin and we are singing for singing is the only way to go.
spilling the inks,
booming the bricks,
falling into the loves. the only way to go.

people by their nature are dying for deep love, deep years into it. dead.
they look beyond the void and darkness, they screech loud
beyond gasp of last black,
to clarify.

for matter is seed and subconscious and you will transit/tower/and wait -
a whole life time.
all time. dreaming, bold or wet
or stricken like wood on the ground and stood.
biding along and along for the truest most true attainment of truly great philosophical truths
&/or vibrations.
&/or jobs.
&/or love.
and you will love,
you will be loved.
and you will die for it.
 Feb 2015 Mel Harcum
al
possibly
 Feb 2015 Mel Harcum
al
I have a journal filled with quotes and poems
ones that strike me with emotion
and take my breath away in the moment that I see them.
A thought that excites me is that maybe one day
someone will have a journal like me
and my poems will grace their pages
and be written in someone else's script.
I'd like to leave my mark on the world somehow
so maybe this will be my chance.
sorry, just a little ramble on my wednesday evening
~~
Southern winds have gone away
The music player has hanged
When playing the last romantic song

The Chill North wind is Sigh of yours
Has grown the pale Afternoon
How stupid the fade trees Standing!

Distant garden flower's Petals
Wither,
Helpless,
Careless

Midnight dew
Create the illusion of Sound
Nearby Lamppost,
Standing in the dim light fog
Alone,
Retreat
As the Calling Owl of the Night

Smokes of Cigarette lost in the Shadow
Putting the day,
Slowly vanish before
As the Mist
 
Along the road that you have left
Looked at me Surprisingly
Opening the door,
Just want to scream for unknown reasons
Once Again
~~
@Musfiq us shaleheen
As the Calling Owl of the Night
/
dear poet/poetess
if like share your comments/ repost that inspire me..
/
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