So many vacancies.
Vapid halls and streets.
No air. No hearts.
Vacant lands and souls.
Be a hand.
Be a thread.
Be a source.
Be love.
Be the patience.
The light . . .
     the empty chair.
Where you can invite someone to sit
Spend time.
Where each other can
fill up the world again.
Willingly wise, adopting time.
Fractures will fade
Patches of hope emerge
Color of
Grass
will grow again.
Sweet fragrant spring grass.
Practicing progress
For each season
A seat for everyone.

I am an empty seat waiting to be filled.
All I want is to be seen and claimed,
Only to be released
Once a better seat is open.
In another life,
You and I,
We sat here for forever.
I gave you support,
And you stayed on me for comfort –
And that was fine with me.


I am the empty seat at the table,
Glanced over, and never heard from.
Louder voices grasp your attention,
While I’m squeaking out for your affection.
The server reaches over me,
You place your bag on me,
Hang your coat on me,
Place your feet on me,
And never before have I felt so important
So please get comfortable
And stay here with me.

I am the empty seat,
Unclaimed and forgotten.
Maybe it was my position or over-eagerness
That repelled you on to the other chairs around.
But at least I can share in the moment –
Quiet beside the table –
And pretend like you wanted me there.

I am your favorite empty chair.
The building is being torn down;
The chairs are being pawned off.
I wait to hear if you want me,
But before long, I’m thrown among the pieces of my friends
And wait until that glorious moment
I’m no longer an empty chair.

water
chair
thoughts

25.11.18

Two together in this mystic place
My heart creates a rhythmic bass
Every time I see your face
Until it's erased
And replaced
By the terrible treble of trouble
Popping our soundproof bubble
With lyrics that are subtle
And screeches bringing rubble
Sounding like a symphony
Expressing the imp in me
And how I'm a **** indeed
No need for Web MD
To see I'm my own enemy
Who'll bring about the end of me
After all the entropy
That entered me
Mentors me

You erotically
Melodically
Fed off of me
Taught not to see
I'm not to lead
But you followed
I made us bleed
Until we hollowed

War drummed
Sore thumbs
Up in the air
Covering despair
Beyond repair
I want to share
But I'm scared
You won't be there

Drowning in my grave
I heard your song play
Through sonic waves
Which wither and fray
Like a donkey's bray
In a beeping den
Playing EDM
Before 3pm
So I fled

The crescendo
Of the innuendo
In your tempo
Made me explode
After a violent violinist
Told me I was finished
Because I was impish

Your guitar
Led to your car
Which took me far
Into shining stars
That became bars
That had me ensnared
But what did you care?
Tired of blank stares
Your tempo flared
Pushing me down a stairwell
After I didn't fair well
In your musical chair hell

I'm losing hair
As I'm losing air
For what isn't fair
In your electric chair

You strapped me in
And kept me waiting
Your craft of sin
Got me hating
The pain on the other end of the line
The pain that tortured away my time

You're an executioner
With the flesh of Lucifer
And the keen nose of a hellhound
So you can bury me in the ground
And return as you like
To shock me back to life

I feel your electric pain
In a lightning rain
I am reborn
And you're sitting there
I begin to mourn
The fact that you don't care
My death is repeated
After I am defeated

I feel the pain
And need to gain
Someone to share it with
Instead of your electric chair grip

Look around and see
People who don't have
Everything that they need right now

Then look at the ones
With guns in our schools
Taking others with them in suicide

So just feel free
To sit there in your chair
Doing whatever you could possibly want

Without checking to see
Where your children went
After they told you that they felt depressed

Yes I know this world
Is still messed up
But could it possibly hurt to try

A young writer
sat in my regular chair
inside the bookstore cafe.
He banged at the keys of his typer,
angry and without mercy.
Once he drained his coffee cup
the writer kept ******* at the rim
for a few remaining drops.
After staring blankly at the wall
for several minutes, the writer packed up
his supplies into a ratty backpack,
and walked out of the joint.
Finally, I figured, my chair had enough
of the games. It felt my presence
nearby and thus decided
we had sins to paint.

-Ron Gavalik

Closing my eyes, I sit on my chair with tea,
sipping and cupping my chai with please.
Its cinnamon scent wafts through the air,
sending pleasant shivers everywhere.

Hints of cardamon slide down my throat with ease,
the musky mix of spices and black tea.
Slowly, I release my back to rest comfortably,
on the back of the old chair, that my mother gave me.