Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Erik McKee Mar 2018
in that hopeful sunrise i listen to "little green" waiting for you
that hope
feeding me
feeding you
(feeding our love)

in that cresting midday i would strum "all i want" to you.
that warm light
feeding me
feeding you
(feeding our love)  

in that succulent afternoon i would hum "blue" to you.
that sweet air
feeding me
feeding you
(feeding our love)  

in that misty goodnight I would sing "river" to you.  
that spring rain
feeding me
feeding you
(feeding our love)  

in that hopeful sunrise i still listen to "little green" waiting for you
that hope
feeding me
feeding you
(feeding our love)
Joni Mitchell's "Blue" is a really good album
Erik McKee Apr 2018
I see you dancing in the moonlight a ha
And it is quite a lovely scene

Those lovely lights  they rain above you a ha
And I turn back to the canteen

My hands they're worn like my leather a ha
Won't you please come back with me

And your eyes are blue
Yeah your eyes are blue
Erik McKee Apr 2018
My body is rigid
     when it is against yours

There is no flow of blood
     nor yearnings of heat

Just a topography
     of stone and bone and rubble
Erik McKee Apr 2018
My love in the corner, with a hole in his heart
     Even when with him, I still feel apart

Each night by my bedside he stands, a sentry
      Warding off the world's ego, the gentry

Some days he'll come out, and we'll sing a nice tune
     "Farewell. I don't give a ****." sang the sun to the moon
Erik McKee Feb 2018
Pecans cracking under the weight of the world,  
and Chimney's left to fight the good fight against tyranny.
And Reni is still here, rapping on the brunt of the neglected woman,
who has no face, but for the bruises, and no name but for the statistic.
They feel like unpeople
less real than Atlas holding up the bough of the sky,
more ethereal than the stolen fire of Prometheus.
But I'm born from it all: the sky, the fire, the fist of the immigrant,
the gun of the lover, husband, father, mentor.  

Charcoal leaves remain, shredded by a mower's blade.
And crimson hedge trimmings, glittering with the Fall dew,
and the sanguine spray from Eddie's cleft finger.
His contribution to the job; his payment?
Possibly. Were it given willingly, rather than taken,
forced by the circumstance of winter and fatigue,
smelling of Cheetos, tortillas and coffee.
Written after a long day of work, and a lot of bad news.
Erik McKee Feb 2018
What will it take?
Must we all die, leaving no one?
Will the world be a giant crater before you see,
that despite your prayers, despite your promises,
a gun will not grant my little brother safety?

A gun won't stop the bombs from falling.
It won't keep the flailers from flailing.
And it sure as hell won't bring you peace of mind,
because that's not what you want.

I know druggies, and I can see the signs.
You're a bunch of addicts, you can't kick the bullet.
It's lodged in your brain, and **** it feels good.
Every shot is pure ******.

There's more to say about this issue.
By God, I won't let this conversation cease.
I won't let your addiction **** my little brother.
I won't ******* let you take him too.

                                    a very beleaguered Texan big-brother
                          I'll die first.
Needless to say, I'm not in a great mood.
Erik McKee Apr 2018
In that arbitrary sunrise can be seen the fruits of my labor:

A washed out painting of a deranged panic beast,
The ashen limbs of a salivating curse fire, obsessed with trinkets,
An elliptical cycle of recurring memory that plagues me~and it's a Face.  

But for whom was I laboring, if not for the quotient of society?

Is it right to plague me with worries of another's love,
Or to expect me to spike that love across the court of romance,?
Does it give you something to work with, something to remember Me by, or is it enough to break your spirit with my callousness?

I'm sure you'll remember that, because I do, and I'm like stone.

A pair of sea-blue eyes; a swimming pool.

Unnatural facade~
Not a mirage, but still unpalatable
Clean, but unsavory
My humor like chlorine ~ absolute poison.
Erik McKee Feb 2018
twinkling in the foreground there
short of breadth and short of hair
wearing at that which was...

breaking in the mock pursuit of
some cracked conception: my _ love...
is never yours because

i am not to be considered.
i'm too young, you embittered
by her; staring to freeze

space in the space which displaced yours
and mine, but that only bores
you... will not see, but he's  

          so quiet,  so mean
          and you... so pristine
Hey y'all! This is my second poem to write for Hello Poetry. Hope you enjoy...
Erik McKee Sep 2018
I'm happy to see you.
I always am.

You're the first dew of Spring,
heralded by the Wren.

And you're the titillating chill of Fall,
sending the weary maple leaves to bed. ~

So wonderful, the brown cushions ~
are your eyes in the sun.

Sequestered in the dark shade of your lashes,  
nervous and waiting like the chrysanthemum's bud.

                    And I crack under the strain,
                    like the leafy floor underfoot.  

As your silken softness caresses my cheek,  
like the monarch alights upon the waiting milkweed.  

                     The warmth of Spring floods my face~

                     recalling the blushing red of Autumn's grace.
Erik McKee Apr 2018
Seated at my desk, with a song in my heart~
Since the day I left you and my soul came apart ~

If I were King, and you were Queen~
Then **** we'd make quite a sight on the scene~

My wrong, your right~
My song, your fight~

People woudn't glance, they'd stare~
As the light danced in your quivering hair~

And I'd be staring too...
Because honey, my world begins and ends with you.
Erik McKee May 2019
It's a strange feeling.
I can't remember what you were wearing that night.

Leaning up against the railing, with the San Antonio skyline
framing your neat, unfair figure; as though the city felt it was its duty to mitigate such disparity in beauty (what a communist).
And the light nesting in your hair, like young gray foxes.
I could no longer here the pulse of the bass, nor the blurt of the trumpet, nor the snickering of the piano keys. Not even the sardonic tremolo of my oldest friend, the trombone.  

You were the coral, and I was looking in.
Of another age: were you to believe in the grace of
the night, filled with music I could no longer hear, in a setting now so distorted by the light drawn to you, that I couldn't help but acquiesce to the ******* of those little photons; for whom-else could have a clearer notion of perfection.
Erik McKee Feb 2018
it's 2 in the mornin'
i already messed up. i know that
my heads in a vice, cause i couldn't play nice.
but my God i pay the price every day.

for what i didn't do.
i keep messin' up. i see it.
my back's filled with knots, cause i could never take your shots.
but my God i loved you lots when you were angry  

despite everything.
your face, your eyes... like a kaleidoscope
what makes me cry is how many there are; could never go too far
but my God i still remember the swirl of hair on your cheek

and that's what bugs me
the blissful imperfection
that grown-up attraction, never promoting action
but my God i never feel a fraction of shame for a crush

it's a part of...everything
but it needs to build
like a crescendo (and forgive my innuendo)
but my God, (in the end, though) maybe you'll be the ******  

the end-all, be-all
the next step, in a stairwell
hopefully going up, so sure I'll take your cup
but my God, don't corrupt, be gentle
happy belated valentines
Erik McKee Nov 2018
a big red dog in the sky
baby's breath in the chest of her mother
the uncertain notes of windchimes in the summer  
a glint of silver at the bottom of a wellspring
and an unsolvable mystery
Erik McKee Feb 2018
the air is static
i can hear a buzzing sound
****, i need coffee
Erik McKee Oct 2018
Faces blur
Like radio tower lights fuzzily blinking on the horizon
Flashes of red, orange and green
Fading to the chocolate brown of the night, her eyes in the dimming light.

The words, "I love you" drifting through the swirling dimness,
Her hair playing upon the milky moons of her cheeks
Her eyes flicker and become closer, closer.
Again, closer

My nose taps hers, the cheap wine making me sway to and fro,
The wonderful scent washes over me: Mint and lavender,
Wine on the breath, the tinge of bitter sweetness.
     "I love you"
     "I love you, too"  

Her tied hair falls, like the cherry brown leaves of winter
Onto her freckled neck, her moony face outlined
In the dark chocolate of her hair.  
     "I love you"

I feel the surge of want building in my chest
I sway forward, steadying myself on the soft carpeted floor  
My heart's drumming
A shock of static, when flesh meets flesh

I shudder, as I'm carried into the Fall rain
The frigid cold bites at my nose and lips, numbing them
Her face, blinking merrily, becoming further and further out on the horizon
I fall into bed

The birds are chirping and my head hurts
Erik McKee Jan 2019
i don't need
the drug that is
your smile

the high that is
your laugh

or the ecstasy that is
your breath
Erik McKee Nov 2018
My eyes are blue
Blue like the sea, or a chlorinated pool in the suburbs  
Or a balloon,
Lost to the sky after escaping
From the small sweaty hands of a kid just departing an amusement park.

Without gradients from green to gray
Lacking for complexity,
Like the scratch
from a dollar-store pack of colored pencils    

But I get compliments
"Such pretty blue eyes you have"
"Like the sky in summer"
"Like blueberries in spring"
"I wish I hadn't my eyes, but yours"  

All of these so well-meaning,
But I disagree
For I love the dark brown of yours
And the hazel glinting coyly in their intensity
The gradient from light to dark mirroring the mosaic of your character

So when we gaze into each-other's eyes
And you say
"Your eyes are so pretty"  
I can't help but laugh

Because to me their simple beauty
Is only made manifest
When reflecting the oaken luxury of yours
Erik McKee Feb 2018
in the flow, we melt.
like slipping off pajamas
we sneak from our skin.

our faces are cleaned.
lips shift from the bone laid bare.
small, immature shells.

bright eyes, virtuous.
but our briny hope crumbles.
and then, a flicker.

worn by the pressure,
our skin, bones, eyes to fine sand.
mixed in glass, draining

then sifted apart.
as at the start, new.
Erik McKee Feb 2018
Where am I to be,
when the day has gone, and the sun has set?

In the draining apathy for which I have become known,
or in the slumbering lascivity I wish to own?

Who am I to be,
when the doors have closed, and the lights dimmed?

A terse, underwhelming giant, awaiting his giantess,
or a filling busker, who would hold, and caress.
     And for lovely you are awaiting me there;
     light blue, framed by shimmering crimson,  
     as the sun dips into God's lap, which contains us.
Erik McKee Sep 2018
Here is the quiet interrogation of God by the burning bush:    

     For what good is God's majesty vested in a shrill Jeruselum?
     The cleft sea of night and knighthood escaping from the reverie of
     history's eager nest of downy heaven.
     The very womb of life nestled in the gushing billows of your
     grace and power, awaiting the sign of men.

And He answers:  
     The wayward nature of life necessitates freedom of choice.
     The infinitude of my word is but a muttering of Their spirit.
     For in their wakeful and dreary day lies the potentiation of
     my longing, of my need for finitude.

The bush looks on, smoldering.
Erik McKee Oct 2018
Falling softly like a juniper leaf upon the dry-hardened soil
as the morning dew does tease me with its sighing breath.
Your softness pressing into my arms, kneaded by the sun,
My heart comforted by the warm glow of your smile.  


The clouds dashed to hell again, the cold of winter blows
and your warmth has spilled over and dried on the pavement.
Staring down at the puddle forming, freezing to ice,
for I forgot to save some of your love for the cold.  

But such is the fate of a man who knew no scarcity,
who spent the frigid months hidden in the folds of you,
and who was then dashed to the hounds,
left alone to face this summer's end.
Erik McKee Oct 2018
Every pimple, every sigh
Every wrinkle, a lullaby.
For what have you to hide,
With your beloved by your side?

The bliss of your smile

Crinkling your lip,
You shudder against the nip
Of Fall's playful breath,
Nuzzling your fuzzy nape.  

Your beaming eyes

The flash of playful resentment,
God, my every dream's torment,
As I lie awake tonight,
Just pondering your every shape.
Erik McKee Oct 2018
your dark hair plays upon your cheek
dancing in the willow bush of your lashes
eyes brown - the dark oak of the aged park bench,
we sit quietly in the noon twilight

you whisper in my ear sweet nothings
books and film lost to me
as i nuzzle into the burrow of your neck
your skin soft as the spring-born hare

the playful breeze brushes a lock from your nape
as i hear the quiet hum of an approaching aircraft
the sound draws my eyes
  you pull my chin to meet yours
  and you plant a kiss like the heart of a plum
  with the optimism of a morning orchid bloom

  this gift you've given me is one worth sharing
  but i'm a selfish man  
  this, the last day of summer spent toiling in the sun
Erik McKee May 2018
Rio Grande Valley Grapefruit
Straight from the citrus groves

I offered up my innocence
The men came out in droves

And from the buttered palm trees
The letter cleft her cheeks

As the tears followed swiftly after
Forming tracks as her bitterness leaks  

     And the staining of the fruit's oil
     As it rubs against my palm

     Did nothing to staunch the bleeding
     Or instill a marriageable calm
Erik McKee May 2019
Love is the breaking
Of my spine
The burnt hair (yours)
Wrapped in a tight bundle
And held with nothing

But the twine that cuts our  naked fingers  

And sleep (beside you) is the savior
Of our fractured minds
The healing
Of the little broken things
Kept in the hazel (blue)

Of our eyes
Erik McKee Feb 2018
i begin with a "Hey. What's up?"
and You glance at me, with those eyes.

Eyes that dump me in a pond, leaving
me staring up at the moon --
gray, blue, green - all at once.
like freshly whetted clay, but with so much
life, and wonder (not for me) -- cool... and warm...
alternating, Your gaze passes over me, brushing mine.
my eyes like a Texas winter sky,
all the clouds drifting west, making room
for You to fill me up with whatever distaste, and
moody vitriol i'm sure must follow.

but behind Your eyes I see a brilliant craftswoman
at work -- taking notes, sculpting the complex minutiae of
every word deployed from
Your plush, pursed lips. like the scales of a cichlid, candy-apple  wine, emerging from under those gray, blue, green celestial orbs in the sky. and then You speak, and instead of a trickle,
a stream pours forth, every word charging forward with intention,
purpose, each with more direction than anything i could ever
hope to write. each syllable a warrior aching for redemption.  

You speak of the World as You see it.
with those clay moon Eyes, up on high.
i can feel Earth crying, still submerged, the sky coming down,
feeding Your anger, my light hair burning up the Atmosphere. and i'm so **** happy to be Here, with You.
and of course my words sputter forward, like muddled children,
mimicking a cloud on a cool Austin day, as it is suddenly shoved
away, to be replaced by a desperate rain, a torrent, never ceasing.
the water falls, unflinching, hoping to fill You up, to satisfy.
but it all drains out through the porous clay, and my heart sinks, like a slab of Granite chucked into the pond by a young boy with
long blonde hair; no distance, not a single skip on the water, and the energy goes out of my eyes, becoming liquid in Your hands.

i could never hope to match that little creator,
molding each phrase like Pygmalion, with enough
Passion, Anger and Love for the fallen, for the
dispossessed, to give real life to the words, to have them love back.
You're a Greek tragedy waiting to happen,
the Hero of a retrofitted tale of love and war.
not Helen, but Menelaus, come to destroy paris for
daring to presume love. You always know the truth of the matter.
You know your worth. and of course, so do i.
i suffocate, stuck in the clay bottom of the pond, staring into Your
refracted Image above the water,
begging for an audience with that
infinitely fertile kneader of clay, who forces perfection from Mineral, paralyzing me as the clay hardens.  
The cottonmouth are aroused to action, as the words end, and like
Her words, the venom is unequivocal. I shudder; the Eyes are gone.  
The clay, algae moon is below me now, forming a halo as I sink down.

i cough and clear my throat. you're walking away. i wish i could do the same, but I'm stuck to the floor, and I think my shoe is untied.

— The End —