"armchairs" poems
In frames as large as rooms that face all ways
And block the ends of streets with giant loaves,
Screen graves with custard, cover slums with praise
Of motor-oil and cuts of salmon, shine
Perpetually these sharply-pictured groves
Of how life should be. High above the gutter
A silver knife sinks into golden butter,
A glass of milk stands in a meadow, and
Well-balanced families, in fine
Midsummer weather, owe their smiles, their cars,
Even their youth, to that small cube each hand
Stretches towards. These, and the deep armchairs
Aligned to cups at bedtime, radiant bars
(Gas or electric), quarter-profile cats
By slippers on warm mats,
Reflect none of the rained-on streets and squares
They dominate outdoors. Rather, they rise
Serenely to proclaim pure crust, pure foam,
Pure coldness to our live imperfect eyes
That stare beyond this world, where nothing's made
As new or washed quite clean, seeking the home
All such inhabit. There, dark raftered pubs
Are filled with white-clothed ones from tennis-clubs,
And the boy puking his heart out in the Gents
Just missed them, as the pensioner paid
A halfpenny more for Granny Graveclothes' Tea
To taste old age, and dying smokers sense
Walking towards them through some dappled park
As if on water that unfocused she
No match lit up, nor drag ever brought near,
Who now stands newly clear,
Smiling, and recognising, and going dark.
18k
Nima showed me
her aunt's apartment
in London. Posh place,
up market. She had
her own key to get in,
and once we entered,
she closed the door
behind us and leaned
against it like one having
found the Promised Land.
So what do you think?
She asked. Lovely place.
Does she live here alone?
No, she has a daughter;
moody ***** has her
own crowd, sort of in-lot.
We wandered around,
room to room and stood
at last in the kitchen.
Coffee? Tea? She asked.
Tea, please, two sugars,
little milk, I replied.
Take a seat in the lounge,
I'll bring it through.
I went in the lounge;
posh place, a settee
of white soft material,
chairs brown, aged,
but antique and fragile
looking. There were
paintings on the walls,
water colours, rural,
country scenes, horses,
fox hunts, red coated
hunters, hedges, trees.
There was a large table,
armchairs, lovely carpet,
and a lampshade in one
corner. Nima came in
carrying a tray with two
cups in saucers, spoons,
sugar bowl, jug of milk.
She put it down on a small
coffee table by the settee.
She sat down next to me
and kissed my cheek.
At last,she said, just us,
alone, no nosey parkers,
no nurses or medical
quacks to interfere or
spoil our fun or lives.
I sat gazing around
the room. You been
here before? Of course,
as a child I often came
and stayed if my parents
were too busy with their
careers or away on the
matters medical. I smelt
her perfume, sensed her
thigh touch mine, soft,
moving against mine.
Why were you sectioned?
I asked, looking at her.
Drugs and a sudden mental
breakdown and attempts
on my life by me, she said.
I see, I said, studying her
closer, each aspect of her
features. Forget that, she
said, lets drink up our drinks
and get to bed and have ***
Whose bed? The spare, not
Aunt's, she said, smiling.
Is it a single or double bed?
Double with silk sheets, so
watch out you don't slip out
of bed while having it away.
We drank our drinks quickly,
then she showed me the bath
and the toilet and the bedroom.
What if your aunt returns?
She's in Ireland with her moody
daughter, won't be back until
Monday week, Nima said.
First a bath together, then
hot ***** *** in bed, she said.
Nov 29, 2015
Nov 29, 2015 at 2:21 AM UTC
The decaying mansions of English language
Rot and recede
into teenage grasses
with each unspoken year
The hired help have left their hair unmown and surrendered their uniform dress
Content with the neglect of nature
taking its timely course
When the architects and master masons of linguistics
Survey their forgotten plans in the heaven of English literature
They are not dismayed
but patiently sit and sit
The pristine edifices of the classics
Once grand and clad in deferential brick
Stand scaffolded and unread
The doors unlocked, ajar and hopelessly inviting
Into the library of the English canon
The dusty cloak on the carpets of grammar
Sheets thrown over the disused armchairs of archaic words
Echoing the plink of the out-of-tune pianoforte of the perfectly crafted short story
Bathrooms of formal poetry
With the rusty plumbing of metre and rhyme
Whereas the temporary outhouses,
hastily arranged huts of slang and idiom
are adorned by the living grasses of new forms,
creepers of half remembered dreams
mulching leaves of half formed thoughts
forests of half forgotten loves
writhing in living incompleteness
Which will in turn harden and fossilize
And we can then rue the passing of our once organic lingo
Dec 14, 2009
Dec 14, 2009 at 10:18 AM UTC
Under a large, round, yellow
Full November moon
The chill of the cold, dark night
Slips in through my window
It fights against the heating
To send a shuddering shiver down my spine
Under the full November moon
People spill out of noisy pubs
Leaving heat, light, music
A false, inebriated happiness
To stagger, swirling home
To warm beds of love
Or cold, empty houses
And late night T.V.
Under the full November moon
Teenager's breath leaves clouds in the air
Hanging heavy and mingling with smoke
From spliffs secretly held in cupped hands
Hanging around shops, parks
Even the disappearing phone boxes
Feeling the arrogance of youth
Course through their veins
Under the full November moon
The middle aged sit
In armchairs with tea mugs
T.V. droning as they dream of their youth
When they were slim and ****
Or hungry and virile
Before it all slipped so quickly away
Under the full November moon
Swingers swap flesh and fluids
In hotels and motels
With no more passion or emotion
Than passing the salt
Under the full November moon
Prostitutes haul their tired, aching bodies
From car to car for the price of a hit
The dealers swagger, stoked full of *******
With the power and arrogance of mediaeval lords
Under the full November moon
People sweat in police cells
Under grey, itchy blankets
On blue rubber mattresses
In a white - tiled nightmare
Under the full November moon
I think of them all
As I sir writing ideas
In a cheap, lined pad
Then turn off the lights
As the full November moon
Bids goodnight
To us all
Nov 25, 2017
Nov 25, 2017 at 4:06 PM UTC
Creased lines in your cancer bed sheets
and red wine spills still remain
from that time you celebrated
your chemotherapy success.
Drug-blue cocktails were swapped
for beers from cans,
needles for straws and hospital-stock-
comfortable-armchairs for the advertised sofa in your part furnished floor.
Friends came with warm welcomes prepared
in the back of taxis coming from the city,
they came in wide eyed staring,
holding wine bottles remembering your once real wig of hair.
Jan 29, 2014
Jan 29, 2014 at 9:50 AM UTC
Do you solemnly swear or affirm that you will faithfully execute your role as a citizen in this democracy, and will to the best of your ability, preserve, protect and defend the constitution of the United States?
Do you expect your president to? Your congress?
You don't have to believe in politics because even if you don't
they will still exist.
They will still make decisions that effect your livelihood.
You could move away, sure, but if you lived here long enough,
you're an American.
And wherever you go, they will see you as your country.
They'll hear it when you speak.
You could refuse to preach for a country you're not proud of,
that's fine.
But the grumblings often heard from these masses, the complaints,
the horrified hushed whispers and the disdain,
those shouldn't be uttered either.
Those masses were the students in school who never received awards for participation,
they're embarrassed by their government but have never stepped foot in a polling booth, better yet, never even registered to vote.
I know, because I was one of them.
We know the arguments.
We all fear that our vote wont matter.
I'm part of a generation where it seems that
giving a **** isn't cool anyway.
Dank memes are meant to be liked and not followed up on.
Armchairs are in every home and those who sit in it keep it warm.
But there's more on our heads, guys.
And even more in our hands.
They can blame us left and right for the indifference we practice,
but we'll only justify it in our silence.
Give a ****
Give two.
Sitting around in echo chambers
only results in deafening noise.
And you can't run away if you can't hear them coming.
And the voices, they sometimes make me sick to my stomach.
but I'm stronger than fear mongered puke.
And though it's "cooler" to bask in your sickness amongst my peers,
It doesn't move anything.
I don't need to know or be a minority personally to know that they're being hunted.
To believe their stories, that have been proven countless times anyway.
And I strongly believe that neither does anyone else.
Bystanding up to the man will result in blame games.
Do something. Even if it's not much.
There's promise out there.
You just have to make an oath to find it.
Mar 22, 2016
Mar 22, 2016 at 3:49 PM UTC
i.
We've seen armchairs yarned in factories
as they take away great grandmother
with cancer of the lungs, a string of long
fluid woven into her assembly
apt for a tapestry, a long room
that is woven of her memorized thread of choice.
A Volta television swamp floats until breath emerges
gentleman like, heated from its length of rope nerve.
Six looping pythons in one belt
4:44, a tilted mirror and
a bookshelf.
Feb 25, 2012
Feb 25, 2012 at 10:28 PM UTC
Bukowski, Cash and Dylan
Whiskey, twisted cigarettes and Thai take away.
How much can fit inside a room?
Boxes, armchairs, carpets and glasses.
I count them on my fingers, weight them, bump into them.
All based in the laws of physics, - space and volume.
The sheets on which you laid upon.
The mirrors that showed you forms and figures
-forms that meant to replace emotional loss.
The lips of glasses you used to bite.
-body movements as the expression of an inner void.
Repeated patterns of disorders - food for my poetry.
The plumes of countless cigarettes,
that offered the necessary filling for my insides.
Background noise that comes from the TV
Content: Chlamydia and young people in excitement
-reality show for cowards.
Your manhood spread all over like an octopus
expanding his 8 legs.
Open legs, so that your testosterone can take some air.
A packet of cigarettes, a mobile phone, lighter and a cotton swab.
All in line: from the largest to the smallest object.
Absolute symmetry of declining placement.
I walk naked to the shower,
Winking to your manhood
While you remain
looking at me with your legs wide open.
I pass through you like a ghost
ghosts as you are.
Just like if I never existed
-just like you never existed too.
Jan 26, 2019
Jan 26, 2019 at 5:05 AM UTC
Melancholy,
I stay behind these guarded windows
Staring out at all the commercials
And noisy car horns
And people
That covet and pervert
with their greedy, grasping eyes-
That revel in their desire and need
to possess everything new
And exciting.
They slowly peel away their humanity
Like expired bananas,
Left on the table too long,
Exposing the rotten fruits of their labors
That haunts them in their dreams.
I have no need of phones,
Or appliances,
Or whatever they're selling
At sales where everyone is
Shopping
Pushing
Stepping
Shoving
Grasping
Stealing-
Where everyone is lying to themselves.
I'm not a crazed housewife,
Or a greedy collector,
Or a corporate sales exec;
I'm just a quiet observer,
Hiding from the spiraled descent of mankind.
I'm just thankful that these events,
That these sad, depraved people
are can't touch me in my quiet corner of heaven.
They are unimportant,
And in their chaotic rush
for power and possession,
They've forgotten the reason we draw close around the fire,
Why we share food and drink and memories;
Why we celebrate the sacred bonds of friendship
And family.
They've forgotten the smell of cider,
Boiling on the stove,
The taste of roast turkey,
watched and checked with patience absolute,
The comfy armchairs next to the window
That looks out on the freshly fallen snow.
They can't remember the warmth of a house
On a bitter cold night,
filled with laughter and love,
Where stories and tales spring from lips to ear,
Recounting the years long past.
They can't stand still to cherish the beauty in the simple moments,
The richness of the holidays,
when the only thing you want to possess
Is a wide smile,
And a special hand to hold.
Yes indeed,
I look out my window at this day,
a day so dark it deserves is nickname,
And I pity then-
The sad souls that have forgotten
why this holiday is called
Thanksgiving.
Dec 3, 2015
Dec 3, 2015 at 4:16 PM UTC
your poetry is the
timid surgeon's
blade
your brainwashed disfigured filth
posing as poetry, glitter sprinkled
over horse ****
parasitic eager beavers
rattling off hollow sanitary words
from suburban armchairs
when you speak of passion...
I want the ivory joy
of licking teeth in black
cold nights of February
grabbing fistfuls of flesh
and desire
not your stiff ******** advertisement,
marketing zombie climaxes and red roses
of compulsion
when you speak of loss...
I want the acrid smell of burnt
hair, a scene of cinder and ashes,
a house of dreams smoked
by the arsons of addiction
and stupidity
not your camouflaged metaphors
of two dollar sunrises and legislated
loneliness, echoing off the empty walls
of narcissism
when you speak of hate...
I want cold bacon grease and blood
stuck to my tongue and dripping from
my mouth, to become a carnivore of ******
and liberated violence
not your confused assault
of cheap mouthwashed words
spat in basins of shallow
************
ah, **** it,
write what you will
but give more
poetry should
Dec 27, 2018
Dec 27, 2018 at 2:42 PM UTC
In our subset of society we
worship sweet caramel syrup and
double tall soy lattes with extra foam
and extra shots of whatever
can keep us pumping through
marathon long meetings
where we meddle
in our market’s perception
of health savings accounts,
a muddle of mindless
power point presentations
and persistent pencil tapping
on a cold granite table top.
We cannot blame the
young baristas with tattooed
arms and early morning
smiles for simply slipping
us the goods- we must blame
the comfortable coffee pushing
peddlers with heavy pockets,
the evil executives
who sit in their soft leather
armchairs and export
expensive beans from South America.
They empty our leather wallets
but fill our bladders;
offer less calories for
a slightly heavier price-
only $4.15 for a Grande
Caramel Frapuccino Light,
so many in our stomach
that we undoubtedly
will email ourselves into a
caffeine induced coma.
If we could see the constant account
debiting that swarms cyberspace-
millions of dollars transferring
between molecules-
we would drown in
the onslaught of dollar bills into
the hungry
Starbucks black hole that is
never full.
Mar 31, 2010
Mar 31, 2010 at 12:27 PM UTC
and that shadow passes
like shadows do
and i drift awake to find your smile waiting for me
grab up whats left of our castle of sand
and explode onto the road
cause tomorrow never shines as bright
as that special yesterday
like a penny that gets tossed
like a shinny piece of rain
it just keeps fallin and flying
keeps the heart going
and your smile is all i really need
don't know where we going but we going in style
you wrapped in your Tye-dye blanket
and me in
my Walt Whitman hat
we gonna dance on distant beaches
we gonna tickle eachother on far off mountain tops
we gonna cheer the world on
from our armchairs
and smile for all the beautiful things we can find
cause shadows always come to an end
and that shadow has nearly passed us by
so lets grab up our bits and pieces
and see where that road takes us
see who we can find
baby lets dance on distant beaches
tickle each-other on far away mountaintops
and sleep in the forgiving arms of foreign lush forest
there is some nineteen twenty's blues
playin far too loud on the turntable
and there in the distance
a train horn lends itself to the moment
i run off a few lines
that are just as empty
looks like heaven
but its not
the world is no different
here than it is in your silent room
i would give anything to be there
in your room
perhaps we could talk till dawn
bout George Sanders
Charles Butterworth
and all the big ones
pills
he shot himself
pills
car accident
pills
jez left this morning
she said she needed some time
that relationships are too complex
and she needs to think
and didn't like the idea that
i don't want to marry her
i think
i just no longer have enough faith
that she or anyone could stay
not trade me in for a needle full of drugs
not trade me in for something faster newer
a better model
there is no magic left
i can still dance on the sand till the tide comes in
but there's no magic
shopping carts chase
but its just a lone set of strings
played slow
and deep
like tears
there is some nineteen twenty's blues
playing far too loud on the turntable
but even the five bottles of wine
haven't set the past out to sea
think i should go now
before i say something foolish
Sep 22, 2013
Sep 22, 2013 at 5:24 PM UTC
All shrubbery around is shaken by the wind
As smoking grey clouds threaten rain.
But I sit snugly in my lounge
Idly contemplating a chicken-breast tea.
The long heatwave is over
For now.
Atlantic air has swept the mugginess
Aside.
Thermometers have settled down
While cooler moisture sooths our very souls.
This lounge of mine presents a landscape too:
Of settee, armchairs and table
Along with dining chairs and TV:
Mountains over carpet savannas.
But the kitchen calls me from next door
So no matter how lazy I feel
I really have to eat now.
This interlude must end
So very soon.
Paul Butters
© PB 29/7/2018.
Jul 29, 2018
Jul 29, 2018 at 12:45 PM UTC
Armchair and arms up.
Bottle on the side table.
Eyes open wide, unable
to sleep. Thoughts creep
into a shaking skull.
Hands shake and grip the bow.
He pulls his scream across a string,
because his throat won't voice his weariness.
The sound's more than just pain,
and it tells more of his aching bones
than it should.
He plays the tears he can't show,
and it's understood
as the instrument moans.
That's all he needs to show a world
that doesn't know what his pain sounds like.
He'd talk about it if he could.
Rachmaninov understood.
Oct 9, 2015
Oct 9, 2015 at 10:09 PM UTC
(はっけよい)*
HAKKEYOI !
two stout armchairs squat
like Sumo wrestlers
the room holds its breath
* "PUT SOME SPIRIT IN IT!"
The phrase shouted by a sumo referee during a bout, specifically when the action has stalled and the wrestlers have reached a stand-off.
Dec 2, 2015
Dec 2, 2015 at 1:49 PM UTC
She was little, smart and brave. Barely five
her thoughts reflected an older woman.
My sister looking at me to survive,
Her silly smile asking me this question…
Whatcha gonna do when the day turns blue?
When the sky fills with the many lonely tears,
You ask and beg then nobody comes through.
You're left soaked to the bone when no one hears.
The day becomes all time, slowly filling
with blue. Overwhelming and contagious.
You can’t stop it, but you are not trying.
That’s what you have to do, fly when wingless.
Not because you can, but because you must.
Fill the world with the light inside your soul.
This is what I told her, and I began
to tell her of how a mare loves her foal.
The honey smell of thunder clouds, the feel
of a dog’s soft wet tongue rinsing your cares
down the drain. Every wound can start to heal.
Of sitting by a fire in big armchairs.
These are feelings she has yet to know. Soon
she will touch the velvet of a lambs ear.
My wise butterfly leaving her cocoon.
Of all I wish for you, one thing is clear.
Never feel the blue, and think no one will
break through. Because you will be forever
laughing in sun. At last your worries still.
I will always be there your one anchor
Jan 7, 2013
Jan 7, 2013 at 9:28 PM UTC
the sky was purple tonight.
i thought that maybe you'd littered the clouds
with the parma violets you never used to be without.
i remember how you always tasted like them
and i'd occasionally find one under your tongue,
and you'd say you were saving it, just for me.
our song started playing today
in that little cafe you used to take me to,
the one with the soft wooden tables
and those armchairs that seemed perfectly made for me and you.
do you remember all the times we went?
sat together and hummed the tune to that song.
and you never looked more beautiful
than when that milkshake was pressed against your lips,
and the bright red cherry tickled your delicate skin.
the sky was purple tonight
and i miss you.
Jan 28, 2016
Jan 28, 2016 at 3:49 PM UTC
the only book you can plagiarise from is the dictionary; enter plagiarism: platonic definitions of a single sound.
spa spa spawn a spandex bubble on the rims for elongating width
in french inches of the waist.
but i liked my walk, took the scenic: empty street, night, solo,
solo, night, empty street -
not many donkeys sweating tears -
not many relations to see: i understand money in
the manual labour professions, but outside
of manual professions? don't have a clue... have a poker though
for a ***** you randomise whatever you want in that:
never read a philosophy book that utilised grammatical categorisation
efficiently: aristotle started it all off with nouns (proper names),
naming and layering as i might call it:
but who the hell needs plato these days given television:
oh right, that's why: shout into a cave the worded nuance...
what do you get? ecce echo.
i appreciate god as an omni-relevant vocabulary / shouting into plato's cave
provided me with thus:
noun, plural i's or is, i's or is.
1. the ninth letter of the english alphabet, a vowel.
2. any spoken sound represented by the letter i or i, as in big, nice, orski.
3. something having the shape of an i (floating head on a total amputee).
4. a written or printed representation of the letter (sound) i or i.
5. a device, as a printer's type, for reproducing the letter i or i.
well so much for those paper folding idiots of shadow:
i shout i into plato's cave the idiots are still talking in sign language
having been fed images throughout and no phonetic symbols
of breaking knuckles.
pronoun, nominative i, possessive my or mine, objective me;
plural nominative we, possessive our or ours, objective us.
1. the nominative singular pronoun, used by a speaker in referring to himself or herself.
noun, plural i's.
2. (used to denote the narrator of a literary work written in the first person singular).
3. metaphysics. the ego.
that's many more echoes to come - plato was ridiculous counting
six fingers on the shadow hand doing all the masturbatory
talking into rabbit population truths in australia.
oh **** i just shouted red into plato's cave and i heard synonymity come out!
what's crimson? words with many meanings have rats in the armpits of armchairs,
those eager dental riggers of bucktooth chew
made fudge into glue within dental analysis conclusive in lance stance
of a knight in rusty armour wishing it was oiled up copper.
Sep 16, 2015
Sep 16, 2015 at 7:56 PM UTC
I read it once;
I wonder if they'll ever know, the hell where youth and laughter go
I've seen it.
In soft armchairs.
And plastic tabletops.
And bibs so the food doesn't get on the clothes.
Stripped to your skin and exposed to the world,
You'll say nothing.
Stand and let yourself be cleaned.
You hadn't noticed the wet between your legs.
Or the smell.
Sit calmly, placid.
Watch as one bites another,
Scrapes at a neck,
Screams for them to go away -
visible to no one else.
She will kick and grab and pull and cry.
But alone she cannot stand.
She will crumble to the ground,
Fall into your arms,
Tell you "Really, I've had enough this time."
But such notions soon fade.
Back to the hatred.
The little one in the corner cries for a mother she buried years before,
mama, where are you?
And someone removes their top, throws it to the ground.
This one here will follow you.
He's a lost soul.
And he wonders,
Could you find it?
These were once fresh and young.
These shriveled and confused faces before you.
Their youth and identity and sanity,
vanished to unknown depths
Decayed with their minds into a lifeless state of living.
Dec 28, 2011
Dec 28, 2011 at 5:36 AM UTC
It's all I've ever wanted.
A 50 year, deep and true love.
A sweet, romantic old style courtship.
A walk to my front door and a lingering kiss goodnight.
I wish for a beautiful, love filled wedding.
A porch swing hung under the shaded awning of our charming home.
A slow dance to a Frank Sinatra in our kitchen while making dinner.
Two aged and worn armchairs in our cozy living room.
The idea of it all clouds my head with the sweet and heady haze of a fairy tale romance.
And yet, I will admit, I am the first to scoff at the very thought.
Sep 5, 2013
Sep 5, 2013 at 6:24 PM UTC
You've finally got the life you always wanted, but never had.
And now you're apparently happy and I believe you.
Happy, but without us.
We don't mention the times when you were with us any more,
the times when you held our hands, whispered goodnight to us, tucked us in.
The easy times when you laughed at something funny, sitting there in the living room or standing in the kitchen.
We thought you were happy,
but behind the gentle warm smile and pool of blue eyes that reflected our own back at yours,
you were harbouring a secret.
A secret you'd likely held onto for a good, long and 'apparent' 17 years, possibly more.
Who knows.
It's hard to mention you at home now,
because it's always met with a stone cold silence or, even worse,
a harsh, bitter remark, that can render itself so easily from the one man you thought you loved's lips.
But how easy it is to remember.
To remember you before the outbreak of change, of a new life.
Easy to remember you lounging on the armchairs watching television in the evenings,
to hear you talking and laughing on the telephone out in the hallway,
back in those days when landlines were the norm,
as if nothing was wrong,
as if you were happy.
Now, I see you in the brief few minutes of the mornings,
when you drop me off to college.
A snatching of an encounter, and even then it's in secrecy.
But it's nice to have that private time with you;
it's even more special.
Our time.
But I'm really glad you're happy,
and that you're able to live life free.
I'm glad you've got the life you wanted.
Maybe, one day, he will too.
Jan 25, 2013
Jan 25, 2013 at 2:39 PM UTC
CHRISTMAS TODAY
Christmas comes gently to our mountain town,
As softly drifting snow draws a glimmering veil
Across our forests, slopes and valleys.
Festive lights of blue, green, gold and purple
Cast a magic spell on our streets and promenades
Where neighbors bustle about in search
Of the perfect toy or sweater
For a friend or cherished aunt or cousin.
The sound of bells cuts the December chill
Rung by a volunteer Santa at his kettle
Or pealing from a steeple across the valley.
Christmas is here and the time is nigh
To celebrate the advent of a sacred child
With joyous songs of hope and gratitude.
MEMORIES
Let us journey back to a time when we
Curled up in the safety of our parents’ arms.
We remember
The aromas of holiday meals that filled our homes
With the promise of the grand feast soon to come.
We remember
Aunts and uncles poured into sofas and armchairs
Recounting slightly embellished tales of family lore
While we children dashed about the yard
Heaving snow bombs and building the grandest snowman ever.
We remember it all -
The sounds, the scents and faces of our kin
That taught us how to love and be loved -
For after all, memories are the sacred shrines
Of our origins, our present and our future lives.
MOVING INTO THE LIGHT
Christmas illuminates our souls and transfigures us.
Lost hopes are re-found and promises renewed.
A better world seems once again within our grasp
As we bathe in the glow of fresh new possibilities.
This is a golden healing time when
Disagreements are ushered off our stages
And supplanted by beacons of filial gratitude.
In that hallowed night of silence,
God whispered his plan for us
And we listen in wonder as we treasure
That miraculous night we call Christmas.
Robert Charles Howard - 2022
Nov 19, 2022
Nov 19, 2022 at 3:09 AM UTC
In times of drought, you tend to forget
that your conscience was once as cautious
as a crow’s wings upon landing.
But now your armada sleeps,
and your oaken hallways stained in crimson,
are tucked in and snoring a gluttonous ignorance.
Things that make you think—
the men who built this house
meant for better things.
So strange the ways we cannot see,
we’re running out of everything.
Drunk on wine and mead,
waking memories rising from the time
we crossed the Arctic Sea;
The ice, the earth, the sky, this land—
the vastness that spins under God’s listless hands,
as we walked on water
above abyssal planes as dark as space.
We never quite perfected our escape, in the end—
always the frigid indifference in how the man
becomes a gentleman, then a caveman,
and, perhaps, a gentle caveman,
and at times, a barbarian,
ever thus the everyman.
But on this night, the captains rest
in armchairs, if they can,
and the cupbearer’s hungry looks and filthy rags,
make every dying toes even colder.
And you’re terrified by the thought—
the dread that rests on the precipice;
there won’t be enough in your cup
to help you forget
the city is burning tonight.
Aug 15, 2015
Aug 15, 2015 at 8:26 PM UTC
I was in the hospital on Sunday, I had stayed there overnight, and I was in a room with big armchairs and low lighting, which was very strange for a hospital. I was sure I could leave whenever I want, so I don't know why I stayed.
They took my blood and I don't know where they took it. I don't even know if they needed it.
All I had to do was smile at the psychiatrists and they believed me.
But nobody wanted to see the poisoned hole that had begun to infect my insides, so I let my hands lie limp and gave my mind to the stars.
May 30, 2014
May 30, 2014 at 2:55 AM UTC