Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
TJ Struska Mar 2020
Its begins with one word,
And one word become five,
And five words fill a line.
And the page fills with fire,
And fire consumes cities,
And cities smolder in ruin.
And the world revolves in eon,
And eons fill spaces,
And space fills with light,
And light fills stars,
And stars spin in galaxies,
And galaxies spin to infinity
And infinity is but a lash,
And lash is but an eon,
And eon is but a time,
And time is but a space,
And space is but a void,
And void is but a beginning,
And beginning is but a sea,,
And a sea is but water,
And Earth is but a rock,
And life comes from a sea,
And a frog is but life,
And life is but a shore,
And a frog leaps from a rock,
And a ripple wakes a pond,
And a wake fills the Earth,
And one word becomes five,
And five words fill a line,
And the page fills with fire,
And fire consumes the pen,
And I become the pen,
And the pen begins the word.
This poem is new. I never wrote a poem like this before. Please let me know if you like this. I had fun writing this...TJ
TJ Struska Mar 2020
Never mind The implosion,
I've got all worked out on paper.
The implosion been delayed
By Person or Persons Unknown. Hop Frog and
Rupunzel were Lost to the wind. I dare not dash
My foot upon the stone,
Lest I end up on an island
Which has no name.
And I see patrons line taverns
At 7 a.m., but it may as well
Be midnight.
I pass them on my way to work,
Country music soured in the stench of beer and peanuts,
While I show all the chinks
In my armor.
I'm not here for semblance or
Plot, I'm here to keep the
Structure from falling in.
Hard to do when you
Willow the Wisp at midnight.
Try it with one hand tied,
Why I bet your old
Aunt Sarsparilla could give
Her a go, though I hear she was trained by the Old Masters, Though I hear they come cheaper on the Internet
I bet it's all jerry-rigged from
The get go. Just some discrepancy in the
Time/ space continuum.
Why I wore my knickers
For such occasions,
They gleam like pearls
In the moonlight,
And you save like 40 cents
In the long run. But added
Over a factor of one, The
Quotient of such division Remains a mystery.
I've consulted Witch Doctors
With the equations, They
Said to factor Venus in retrograde, But left to the
Wily hands of dietians,
It becomes pate in the end.
While you can serve it ala
Carte, it wears well at parties
I've wore it with or without shoestrings, though
It seemed a wash in the end.
I'll admit, it wears well on
My hair shirt, though it
Hangs like a hag after rinsing
And the epilogue been postponed by the latest
Outbreak. Its just hyped up
Measles on steroids, But
Will it sell on Wall Street?
That's why I consulted the
Witch Doctors, Perhaps
Medicine Men can clarify
This hazy recollection.
Well, I've just been Informed
We've been shut down
By corresponding radio waves, I'll bet 3 apples
And one petunia this goes straight to video. It may make
For late night titillation,
At least make you warm all over.
I mixed it in herring and cream sauce, but I bet
It won't sell in Nevada.
But that's a story for
Another day. Until then:
This is C.H. Mackelroy Signing Out.
Hi friends it's good to be back. I hope my good readers respond. This and several more poems are brand new. Please let me know if you like them..TJ STRUSKA
TJ Struska Mar 2020
The specter resides in ghost light,
A tree, a dark wind.
I saw her,My Love, My Ghost Light.
I saw her,
Over the rise of trees,
Her laughter,
I knew then the turning inward, The backing
Of the rusty ***** from the hinge.
A slapping, a screen door broken,
As the wind turns East,
Carrying you with it.
I found this poem in an old notebook, I wrote this in 2002,
I was writing for maybe 6 months. An early gem...  TJ.
TJ Struska Mar 2020
Nothing left,
Spilling over into the tank,
Running on fumes since Denver.
Man, I figure it's a trick,
Some play off the light,
Like sunrays blurring off an eyelash.
And I pass endless cornfields,
Lost in the Holy Bliss of isolation, Not even a woman
Can take that from you.

None taken,
I'll let you off by the Junction,
Down by the hallows
The poor region,
Where nothin good happens for lifetimes. Thinking of
Redemption and Original Sin,
The even draw that turns
Men Saint or Sinner
Since way back when.
While Sunday evening darkens quicker in late summer. Before the
North wind rustles the dry cornstalks.

Out here, it's only crickets
And a man's thoughts.
While I dream of warm woman, all leg and blue smoke,
And the cool wind carries
The harbinger of night.
A lone set of headlights
Sweep up the highway.
And the cornstalks whisper,
Calling out a dry fate
You'd rather not hear.
I love to write of solitary characters tied to a fate perhaps not of they're choosing.
TJ Struska Mar 2020
My, what a radish rose,
I must say.
I'll trade in Poe for this Zen.
I imagine it's all zithers
And strings.
I'll play you a melody
On my lute,
Most minors and fifths.
I can't explain the number
Or pattern,
Bells or Pennywhistles,
What can I say,
Losing 17 seconds on the reentry. Where the grainy
Black and write
Finally wears you out
While I wait on 65.
What a pleasure
As half the family dies off.
And what, with no kids and all.
And it all goes 180,
Even if you find a woman
To go Karma Sutra,
Its too little too late.
I'll cartoon this ending.
All blue and humming.
And hey, What's a guy
Gotta do to get a drink
Around here anyway?
After the somber mood of that previous poem.I figured a Litlle levity goes along way. Thanks my reader friends..TJ.
TJ Struska Mar 2020
Blue wind gathering brown leaves, Spinning them
In angry circles
Under snow clouds with a
Witch wind carrying the sound of freight trains,
Coal and syrup tankers,
Box cars covered with graffiti
Hieroglyphics of the inner city. Dark cars blurring
Brown and black,
In rhythmic clacking order,
One then another, then 126,
Then a caboose, with a conductor you never see anymore. And the gates lift,
And the cold wind rocks
The car as you drive along
Numbly. And you slowly learn the lows and highs
Run on parallels,
Like dark trains along the
Clackety rails of your life,
And the cold front defies
The sun, While I draw
This dark stone,
And the images of winter
Engrave my heart like a stylus, And the mantra
Of dark memories
Become my dark comforter,
And I draw them to me.
And I count the dark horses
Running over darkened hills.
And I picture a barroom,
And I'm lost among the wolves, And I study the **** on my finger,
And my life runs red in my hand, While I wait upon the
Spaces, looking for my pearl,
My red pearl of abandon,
And I draw the wound within me,
I am, I am my Normandy,
As I count my breath between spaces, As I
Gather the darkness around me.
Odessa, Odessa, lying in the sun.
What fable you bring me,
What fate have I wrought?
O tepid sunrise,
I beseech your graven order,
And laugh at your presumption,
And I draw the dark hand,
And the Joker smiles at my
Misfortune, While my millstone draws me to
Deeper water,
As I plummet the square root
Of infinity.
And it's a dark hole,
My dark star,
Pulling my being to abyss,
As I laugh, laugh upon the
Graven ground, And haunt
The dreams that haunt me forever.
I hope this poem doesn't scare any of my readers away. Times have been hard the last few weeks. That's why my output has been less. This poem is brand new. I wish all well during this hard time. TJ.
TJ Struska Mar 2020
See the sleeping dogs
And sea captains
With a pipe in the heavens
Out the back window
Of a 63 Oldsmobile,
As a storm front builds
Over the desert
On the drive back from Phoenix, As Grandma
Hums to the radio.
I watch horses jumping
Over pillows, Smiling
As their snouts draw
Into spinning wheels
Turning dark in the clouds
Building over the mountains
A sweet true memory of a the man who was once a child
Next page