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Tanner Bryan  Nov 2012
Bean Yhett
Tanner Bryan Nov 2012
Vignette, vignette, vignette
A vin yet
Have you been yette?
Vignette vignette vignette
This is the first of many poems I wrote from 1996 to 2011.  Most of my work, as you might be able to tell, is heavily influenced by the Beat school of poetry.

thunderbeat vignette

I’m fresh from an interview with you and I’m filled with more than I can bear to hold inside.  I hope you don’t mind my saying so but you were beautiful today, an elegant goddess glinting in the bohemian daylight.  I’m seeing right now that golden star dangling between your black turtlenecked ******* and I recall that tiny dark stone high on your necklace and when I held it in my fingers I had this  mad short vision of my hand repelling down the necklace letting my knuckles gently caress the curve of your ******* as they fell and kissing you and I recall how that kiss was what I really wanted even more than feeling you up.

I hope this doesn’t scare you off it’s only like what I said about spontaneous prose the idea is to get everything out get it all on the page and then go back and work on it fix it up make it pretty for history and isn’t that what’s just happened with us?  I believe it has though as is typical with human encounters things worked out just a little bit backward didn’t they moonling?  because all that talking I did all that talking and writing and explaining I practically drew you a blueprint of my beatup heart and as far as I could tell you were more bored than anything else but then I tossed all that chickenshit stuff out the window and I came back and dumped all my cards on your lovely table with just one short sentence and I was amazed to see that it was just that one short sentence that impressed you and maybe touched your heart.

I walked away from you a little shaky but proud of myself because I rediscovered my daring and I’m happy because you want to be my friend even though its probably still scary for you and things haven’t really changed.  I still have grief in my heart I’ll never escape that but maybe now my grief will be a little more bearable.  I don’t expect you to rescue me I know no one can do that and funny but I didn’t really believe it until today.  listen to me I’m making it sound like we’ll be lovebirds any minute now when really we haven’t even had coffee yet but the door is cracked now and who knows?  maybe this will lead to my secret vision of you and me as modern day beats, kerouac and ginsberg, true bohemians linked in history by our great minds and poetic spirits people will point us out and say “there they go those two” and we’ll be to all the world like brother and sister or maybe this will lead to warmth and tenderness (those fables) I really don’t know and I feel uneasy speculating it takes so much away from the moment.

but you know I am completely insane sometimes a real blank and life is such a dark sorrow but I think of you and I hear thunderbeats and drumfire and I think of how all that selfimposed frustration and exasperation can be justified so easily if this could lead to just one sweet kiss from you.
Patrick H Aug 2014
The freshly severed heads
of dandelions
explode, silently, at the gentle
puff of a child’s breath.
Their hollow stems shed milky tears;
the seedlings fill the air.
tranquil  Dec 2013
tranquil Dec 2013
sinking echoes lined upon
the purple skin of night
past a curtain of her dreams
strewn into lumpy skies

a wave of solemn emptiness
a taste of seeping prayer
be melt into a blue of dreams
and banished to despair

truly this core of twisted mind
karma in disguise
feeds upon my every pore
and trace the stony eyes

you linger on as traces still
vignette of phantom love
but into the shades of gray
chased upon by world

yet know my muse the arms of sea
were made to hold the sky
when brims of time fade to dust
my love shall survive
Bus Poet Stop May 2015
dedicated to all the better poets here...*

don't know much about a quatrain
don't know how to write a refrain,
surely could not compose a
courtyard elegy
maybe after
and still untilled,
I been buried,
'n checked out
the neighborhood competition...

as for limerick,
that is Dr. Seuss
and Ogden Nash's shtick
with whom, eye,
a believed descendant,
cannot compete...

Oh dear me,  
no ode node-ed within,
as for a pastoral,
kinda hard to feat,
where I live,
a pastoral is grass cracks
surviving under,
breaking through to the other side
of concrete and blacktop rulers

Maybe one of you
will haiku,
send us a senryu,
send off, see ya!

the doc once diagnosed
a severe case of inflamed iambic pentametery,
with antibiotics and a diet of Hamletery,
was cured most satisfactorily

this silly pen-man-sinking-ship
ain't capable of dat,
boy how 'bout
an epitaph
for a graveyard stone,
should be plenty of room...
as it will be plenty short...

all eye see and all eye know
is vignettes that birth in me
walking down the street,
that's my bread and butter,
my soul's delicacies...
and moments that recorded
here, for a posteriored posterity,
as noted in my all my living
drinking and spilling the vin,
from the uninvented igniting vignettes
that consecrate and connect our
knowing each other though odds are
we will never meet...we can yet
drink together
"Don't know much about the French I took.
But I do know that I love you,
And I know that if you love me, too,
What a wonderful world this would be."
eyes eye eye ** ** ** ha ha ha
Tim Knight Dec 2012
Taken, whisked, picked from the plug,
grass grows inside crack walled shrugs,
built by hand by a northern named man.
His dog lays still in the heather,
in the fog,
on the hill,
by the river;
resting in the bleak hill town, morning weather.
In another life,
We must have met
And with undying passion,
Admitted our love and
Lived by it
We must have made memories
And framed them in
Soft vignette
Of holding hands and sharing kisses,
And saying, in our last breaths,
That we would find each other again –
We must have embraced
And remembered the harmony
So that in this life
We could keep our promise
And not ever dream
Of breaking it.
Old one again.
Gossamer Jul 2013
I look over at my clock for the fifth time in the past hour. 2:07 a.m. I pull the sheets closer to my face, as if that alone will help me fall asleep. But, as I turn to check the clock for the sixth time, it is apparent that I won’t be sleeping anytime soon. I sigh as I get out of bed and pull on his sweatshirt. It doesn’t smell like him anymore, but if I close my eyes long enough, I can sometimes remember. Sensory recall, I think; yes, that’s what it’s called. I’d just call it love, but I guess a technical term can work, too. I head over to my window; it’s already half-open, so all I have to do is remove the screen. After setting it aside, I climb through the space linking my room to the outside world. The shingles on the rooftop are gritty against my bare feet, but I don’t mind. I just like the comfort of the nighttime summer air, with its coolness and distinct scent. I gingerly tiptoe to my favorite spot on the roof; it’s not too far from my window, but it’s the highest spot. And the highest spot is the best, because it has the best view of the sky, and all the stars that encompass it. I sit down and look up. All I see above me is a dark indigo blanket, dotted with hundreds of little shining specks. I trace them with my finger, searching for the brightest one. As I do this, I begin to talk to him.
“Hey, Ash. It’s really nice out tonight. But you probably knew that already. I miss you like crazy. School’s been rough…I’m still trying to find someone as smart as you to help me with my calculus homework. English is good, though. We have to write a paper on someone we admire. Don’t tell mom, but…I think I’m gonna write about you. There’s so much I could talk about; how you chased the monsters out of my room after dad left. How you cooked me pancakes on Sundays when mom got called in to work- and how you gave each one a chocolate chip smiley face. And then there’s the time we went sledding and I tried to use my sled like a snowboard - like you did - and fell. Remember that? I couldn’t stand up on my own, so you carried me home. You were so strong- and not just physically. You were there for me when dad left. If you hadn’t been there during that first year after he moved out… I don’t know what I would’ve done. Or what mom would’ve done, for that matter. You kept us all together, Ash. You were like the glue in our broken family. And I never did get to thank you for that. I wish I could thank you in person. You know I would if I could. There are a lot of things I would say and do and….I just miss you. So much…” I stop talking to wipe a tear from my eye. I try to stifle the sobs that are threatening to escape my mouth. I have to be strong, like Asher was. I gaze up at the sky again and continue.
“I really hope you can hear me. I’d like to think you can. Mom said that you would always see us, and hear us, and feel us…but I don’t know. I just need a sign. I need to know that you’ve heard every word I’ve said on this roof for the past six months. I need to know that you’ll hear every story I’ll share for years to come. I need to know you’re still here with me somehow.” I search the sky for an answer. Nothing. Tears stream down my face, burning like a liquid flame. He couldn’t hear me. He never has and he never will. He’ll never know how much I miss and need him.
The stars are blurry now, the tears in my eyes clouding my vision. But even with this distorted perspective, I see it. The flash- incredibly fast and incredibly bright, like a mini supernova. It was right there one second, and gone the next; just like Asher. It was a shooting star - something I hadn’t seen since he and I sat on the roof last summer. A grin spread across my face, tears still falling onto the black shingles.
“I love you, too. Goodnight, Ash.”
Frankie Apr 2012
When I think back to the past, my memories seem to blur together as if I have spent twenty one years on a non-stop merry-go-round. Ups and downs, too much to take in at once, the people you love only a splotch in your spinning, ever-changing field of vision. You wonder how long they’ll stay, leaning over the metal railing separating them from you; you wonder if they’ll call out to you until they become hoarse…but no one stays for long.
You think it’s fun and harmless until the carousel stops and you realize you’re the only one left. You clamber off the platform in a drunken stagger and wait for your mind, still caught up in the whimsical whir of charisma and carelessness, to catch up with reality. Eventually your thoughts slow and your vision steadies. Everything comes into focus. It seems eerily quiet compared to the cacophony of conversation and carnival music that was swirling and intertwining in the air just minutes ago.
Now there’s silence and you’re left to contemplate your past…and your future. This is the reality check, the wakeup call that sends so many adolescents into a panic; an early mid-life crisis if you will. Twenty one years spent so quickly, so carelessly…only eighty more to go.
And you can only wonder, “How will I waste those?”
Reece Jan 2014
The rain was dully falling
and the cats were hidden
Under high rimmed cars
with the lights turned off

His Mother was out calling
when the lightening struck
And his charred body scars
were stains on the new road

They sat inside and watched
furor in the streets; mourning
With the television on real low
eyes fixed on smoking remains

Street cleaners came and washed
adolescent flesh from the street
Ajar window *******, put on a show
there's a certain perversity to death
Miss Masque  Apr 2011
Miss Masque Apr 2011
Sing me a berceuse,
Sweet melody abound,
In your astral glow of your effusive vignette,
Play with your celesta sweet
beguiling with evocative speak

Turn with your astral glow
abound with pungent, redolent snow
and gaze at the symphony
before you

Sing in sweet felicity
Joy you bring,
Asylum you bring,
None shall come,
but the brave warriors who
knock and question.
Diane Oct 2013
houses so close you can’t have sunlight without voyeurism
but how can one resist this air of night’s invigoration
her thick ankles can be seen through the lifted shade
next to the beer and rumpled magazines on her coffee table
it is 7:30, the kids are in bed, the husband, who knows?
it’s pull-tab night at the corner bar,
he likes that young girl who sells them
flicker, it feels good to sit down
how ironic that my long awaited silence feels so lonely
flicker, maybe if i bought that he would look at me again
flicker, do i even care anymore?
*** is more work than it’s worth sometimes
flicker, Jacque and Lisa keep me company, maybe
i DO want the deluxe faux ruby necklace and earing set
flicker, i wanted to be a ballerina when i was little
my god this house has awfully low ceilings
flicker, all this thinking is making me tired
inspired by passing my neighbor's window last night and saw her watching the home shopping channel.

— The End —