Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
.
A million glassy-eyed morning dewdrops falling easy--

We raise our empty glasses of daylight and salvation.

Disguised minds tell crazy stories through their blind eyes,
diamonds refract a symphony of dancing mother of pearl angels.

Love left the western heroes mothers dying in the sunset-

Questions waiting on your father, so old and ailing,
falling blinded, wind swollen eyes streaming tears.

The daylight blues swing as low as a wet December.

Where bee stings ache like exploding stars--

A hundred madman songs sang a thousand years ago.

Miracles always crystallize and slowly drip from Heaven,
prodigal points of view which had really never left my mind.

Children seem to look in the direction of greener worlds,
a lost lady sings soulful blues on the east side side streets.

Tonight the city will walk a mile in the devil's shoes...

Someone heard the cry of pilots at J.F.K. International,
where the street sounds wind through the streets like melting snow.

God knows your way is the alleyway to the Harlem House of Blues,
tell me my son, can you read my mind?

Listen to the simple sounds of
growing, gleaming, learning, laughing because-

New York's feet never touch the ground.








.
This poem was created using words from two U2 songs.
Where the Streets Have No Name & Angel of Harlem.
.
Building castles out of stardust--
and sprawling cities lit by starlight.

The arranger stands on
geometric borders--

unobtrusive to the rebel's dream.






.
The poem was created using heavy inspiration
from "Subdivisions" by Rush
.


Can you feel the rhythm rise,
but never, ever leaving the ground?
The bridges sway with every song that  they play,
I can barely wait for the sound.

A sonic exhilaration
crosses dreamstates of predecision.
While wild wizards are haranguing the warlocks,
the devil makes a quick incision.

In the hearts that are subdivided,
to those full of James Brown soul-
there's an evil wind that's suddenly pinned
your face to the totem pole.

Echoes from dragons seducing a sigh,
there's an ache to leave in their blood.
Some-
when they run, run far, far away,
while others are still stuck in the mud.

Can you feel the rhythm rise,
but never, ever  leaving the ground?
The bridges sway with every song that  they play,
I can barely wait for the sound.





.
.
How deep will he go
inside his self?
Will he apprehend the poet--

or set him high on the shelf?

When given the chance
he tries and he tries
to release his words
like wild butterflies.

A prisoner in chains,
yet parchment bound.
He's a book full of sonnets--

He's a book come unbound.

He's an unspoken treasure
inside of a book.
He'll come up to play
if you drop him the hook.

When given the key,
my eyes never show it--

because you are the door,
and I am the poet.






.
.
My passion
              my words--


Form arrows in my veins,
              and aims for my heart--

like origami stones
              tumbling in a river,
honing and moaning.

Suddenly,
their crunchy chrysalis cracks
             to produce
                             the written butterfly.




.
.
Spiral City-

mocks far away eyes, where
rains' vibrant voice cries

out for pity.

Like an echo to a visionary,
darkness seeps in with a sigh.

Where small planets dart
in and out like honey bees.

Someday we'll all understand,
the day we hold cold wind in our hand.
When the downcast boys are fully grown,
when the magic candles are finally blown.

Unforgotten lullabies cascading on their own,
brings back to life each king and queen
that's fallen from their throne.

Someday we'll all understand...




.
.
Sequestered points of balance,
metal quick to melt down.
Rhythmic explorations
martyr
it's steely style
for melody.

Scraped,
no friction-
sans no science fiction,
because
the whiteness of reality
always winds up
in the light.

Withering apocalyptic
grape clusters
still clinging
fast to the vine as
Bacchus belches
and staggers
away.

Dissimilar similarities
changing continuous like
wild flowers
in the desert.
(One dies, one will rise...)

Life's dependent on
the rain,
allow fluctuation
in your flow of frustration
on your
yellow brick road
of life.









.
Next page