"automobile" poems
dark hearts lost down dusty path
her soul within inches of my grasp
why must our time be numbered
when we see the angels weep
ill show you solitude
my finger prints were missing
when I washed away the sin
do you fear the things that may be
I turned my back on the crowd
dont turn your back on me now
I ask you your ***** ways
and you felt strange
I gave you everything you want
and then you run away
you always run back my friend
and let me feel your soft hand
the sound of buckels and metal ring
from this chilly automobile
take in the passion of the night
and bask in the warmth you fe
Feb 27, 2015
Feb 27, 2015 at 4:09 PM UTC
walking out of the liquor store
wine bottles double ******
asphalt concrete curb stone
the great expanse of the universe
the mundane
welded water tight
that Escher print
of ribboned minds
personal accounting
money as abstraction
automobile documents
layers of bureaus
the great and powerful
realm of ideas
shared fallen history
the strike of the pen
ideals ethics
the avoidance of sin
cold is coming
warmth is rare
plug into existential wetness
yet suffer banality
Friday, November 1, 2013
Nov 1, 2013
Nov 1, 2013 at 12:06 PM UTC
"Beep-beep.
BANKERS TRUST AUTOMOBILE LOAN
You'll find a banker at Bankers Trust"
Advertisement in N.Y. Times
When comes my second childhood,
As to all men it must,
I want to be a banker
Like the banker at Bankers Trust.
I wouldn't ask to be president
Or even assistant veep,
I'd only ask for a kiddie car
And permission to go beep-beep.
The banker at Chase Manhattan,
He bids a polite Good-day;
The banker at Immigrant Savings
Cries Scusi! and Olé!
But I'd be a sleek Ferrari
Or perhaps a joggly jeep,
And scooting around at Bankers Trust,
Beep-beep, I'd go, beep-beep.
The trolley car used to say clang-clang
And the choo-choo said toot-toot,
But the beep of the banker at Bankers Trust
Is every bit as cute.
Miaow, says the cuddly kitten,
Baa, says the woolly sheep,
Oink, says the piggy-wiggy,
And the banker says beep-beep.
So I want to play at Bankers Trust
Like a hippety-hoppety bunny,
And best of all, oh best of all,
With really truly money.
Now grown-ups dear, it's nightie-night
Until my dream comes true,
And I bid you a happy boop-a-doop
And a big beep-beep adieu.
4.7k
The moment I spoke
your name
for the last time,
you felt it.
You had to throw
the net again into the sea,
to trap me
in my pathetic
admiration of you.
You felt it when
I forgot you existed.
You had to weasel your way
back in to
my heart.
But the space reserved for you
has grown
so small.
How many years
do you plan
on pulling me along?
Dragging me behind your
reckless automobile, my face raw
from rubbing the asphalt. Skin chaffed from
repeated abuse. You are
the madman behind
the wheel.
I forgot about you
until you reminded me that
I'm simply not me
unless I feel
discarded, abandoned,
unloved by you.
Sep 18, 2012
Sep 18, 2012 at 1:13 AM UTC
You once told me that
I reminded you
Of Icicles.
They were cold like my hands
And short like my tolerance
For you.
I never enjoyed the taste of them,
But I liked the idea of them.
Remind me that icicles have no taste.
I'll recommend you try one
That is holding onto
An Automobile.
You'll tell me that you already have.
Jan 22, 2012
Jan 22, 2012 at 4:20 PM UTC
early morning
and the same sun rises over distant lands
and close-by skyscrapers
searing rusting infrastructure
with its harsh orange glow
spreading westward,
stretching over asphalt pathways
that connect, divide, structure, and destroy
alighting wearied faces of automobile drivers
careening through their morning commutes,
consuming caffeine like *******
while they deftly maneuver their 2,000 pounds of steel behind,
along, aside, and ahead of their neighbors
this,
is New Jersey,
where all roads lead to Newark
and there is nothing left but roads
approaching the colossus,
the cars cram and crawl into curb-side cases
narrowly avoiding calamitous collisions and condescending traffic cops
doors, fly open
and a mad flurry of arms and legs,
boxes and backpacks
come whirl-winding out onto the entryway
rushed goodbyes and abrupt adieus
color the palette of the doorway
dripping inside,
bleeding into the harshness of late businessmen
and screaming families.
Shoes Off.
Laptops Out.
and pray dearly that the TSA
doesn't shove their fingers inside of you
today.
arms up, legs spread
exposed to the imperceptible energy of American exceptionalism
the magnetic arm swings,
impregnating its subjects with the Joy of Fear
and the awe of empire
swings again,
and releases the hapless passenger from its total control
Through.
Checked.
Complete.
Pass Go, collect $200.
and into the international installation itself.
Enjoy your flight.
Jan 8, 2014
Jan 8, 2014 at 12:36 PM UTC
I sit amongst rampant consumerism,
Yet I smile as I sip my Starbucks tall Pike Place.
To my left, old ladies decked in Tiffany decry their neighbours folly,
Even while they sit blind to their own.
To my right, Chapters!
Book store that offers so much more,
A perfect monument of society's needs answered in one storefront.
We don't shop here for a read, or for the escape some unknown author's words spell for us.
No, this masterfully crafted shop answers our shared need of empty spending on soulless items that will lift us from the mire of our meaningless lives for one instance,
Before that scented candle or witty greeting card is left to collect the dust of our fallen gods.
Behind me the street is full of noise but no one is listening,
Busses carry the many but each is a world onto themselves,
Thoughts not of their making wrestle for attention with smartphones,
Before long the thoughts echo what the eyes read on the digital screens glowing below them.
The enemy of my friend...
Don't let consciousness wake!
Combined the noise without and the noise within will drown whatever chance we had at relevancy.
And so Oprah wins,
Look under your chairs,
It's your new life,
Not to be mistaken with your old one,
This one comes with a shiny new automobile, trip, ring, dress, shoes,
Anything but enlightenment.
Before me,
Possibilities.
You?
Jun 23, 2014
Jun 23, 2014 at 2:42 PM UTC
I've never had a fistful of love,
because my fist is too full of dirt
from digging graves.
And the greatest fist I've ever known
is the one leaving bruises all over my insides.
But that fist has graduated
and been granted tools to be used as weapons.
And my insides which were once diamonds,
are now nothing but sawdust.
And I can feel the knife.
I can always feel the knife.
And stab me just for kicks
because it tickles my fickle chest
and makes me feel like I'm living in a French city
with a quick and fickle tramway system
that can take me anywhere I want to be.
But instead I'm always going to a town
a mere hour away
and sitting in traffic
in a stuffed automobile,
wishing I was where the trains are.
Because the trains that have always sang me lullabies
whisper melodies to me all the time now,
through smoke and haze and swirling lights.
I can feel the knife.
I can always feel the knife.
Call me Miss November
because I'm the first snowfall after the best time of year,
and I cut the world with my icicle sword of a soul.
Can you feel the sword?
I hope you can always feel the sword.
And I will leave and the world will be warm and happy,
and upon my returnal,
I'll give you beautiful sweater weather
and stab you with my icicle sword when you least expect it.
I can feel the knife.
You can feel the sword.
It tickles.
Me and Miss June sing a sister song,
making harmonies with our weaponry.
My icicle sword, her scalding torch.
Just call me Miss Emmy Lou November.
I'll sing a duet with you and depart for almost forever,
and leave with my sister, Miss June.
Wake up.
It's November.
I'm here.
Wake up.
I won't be here for long.
I was born red all over.
Never knowing if I'm meant for love or anger.
But angry leaves fall in November,
getting their revenge.
But nobody listens to anger
when it's falling to the ground so gracefully.
So come to my November house jam
and we'll all be angry and loving
and cold and happy and dreading
the latter end of my company,
and I'll be wishing sister June was with me.
I'm a blackhearted lover.
I'm a blackhearted grave digger.
I'm a blackhearted skinny lover
with skinny arms that'll never be able
to cover anyone from my frigid aura.
Nov 1, 2013
Nov 1, 2013 at 4:54 PM UTC
poisoned well of the antichrist littered with ground cover
picking out ****** flecks of gravel
blacktop kneeskin
patience pieces of scattered space time
to go back to the future of continuity
lack of genius ingenuity
and the suckling of the pig entourage
riding in a flat top hatchback
cadillac of the daily grind
upperclassman japan onii-chan
brother in arms from anotha motha
hug from afar colliding with crackpot theory
terrible fantasia cooling bricks in soggy sun
swallowed his pride with a glass of self-worth
and these ***** don't cook like they used to
I don't look like I used to
warped veil of camouflage chameleon leather
with a ****** level of automobile salesman
tried to get closer to god
ground him up, picked out the stems
twisted him into thin paper
touched flame to his finger tip and a son of Adam was born
gum shoe gaze
or the emptiness felt at the end of reasonable doubt
correctional text messaging system
sent from hoarse corpses
tenderly poignant in their ****** coffins
will think for food
cries from an outdated MENSA
over ***** and under-appreciated
siting on hunched shoulders to get a better look
to be a martian in a plain port
wharf warehouse whaling boat
red tide in a Shanghai **********
floodgates made of bitter premise
that last bit of purple yam
**** Okonkwo
Things Fall Apart fell apart due to faded highschool ambitions and bloodshot eyes
cruel like the shade of off-cerulean
champagne fizz tickles at the soft meat of his tarnished throat
and silver tongue
as the matchstick framework
so fragile in comparison
fizzles out on drenched sidewalk
while cigarette ash floats by
like gray gnats
May 30, 2013
May 30, 2013 at 4:03 PM UTC
i.
What occupies thy soul and being? Worldly knowledge, book's, gold, material thing's; Diamond's, jewelry, ring's, automobile's, weapon's that **** Poison's that we put into ourn spiritual bodies.
ii.
Where is thy heart? Into plastic, stuck in a casket, pulling apart?
Art thou striving to a life of just surviving, or actually living life;
What cometh first? God, family, friend's, or earthly trend's?
iii.
Whom doth thou serve? The thought's of the devil? The grave and the shovel? Art thou on another level? Or dying to get rich; Living as a slave? Choked in a cave? Giving all, as all the lord gaveth thee.
iv.
What doth thou fearest? Mankind? With bomb's that shineth, and gun's to smoketh? Or thy creator whom hold's the key to life and death, art thou like all the rest laying thy treasure on men's step's? Or in Jehovah's kingdom? The great architect's ringing the doorbell at thy being; ding **** Ding **** Ring. Ring!!!!
Wilt thou let him in?
Or serve the world and men?
©Brandon Nagley
©Lonesome poet's poetry
Oct 27, 2015
Oct 27, 2015 at 7:35 AM UTC
Animals abolishing apples and apricots,
angry astronauts abandon Abraham's automobile,
algae acting after ant at Ally alligator's aunt's apartment
Aching antsy alpha aardvarks arranging afternoon arguments
After Amanda ate anchors, Anna attacked Alabama
at Abbey Road Alice anounced an aristocrat arriving.
An acceptable antonym!
Apr 16, 2010
Apr 16, 2010 at 3:32 PM UTC
Exchanging or replacing an old automobile
can be an intensely emotional experience for anyone
I still have the license plate screws from the first car my mom sold
although I didn’t care at all when my dad sold his car first
I remember crying at the dealership when they took my mom’s Toyota
I don’t even remember my dad telling us he got a new Ford
backseat on the left, behind the driver, was my designated spot, still is
I kept them in an empty Hubba Bubba OUCH! Gum tin, the screws
sometimes I’d open it up just to hold them
and wonder why I’d cared so much about that car
Jul 31, 2018
Jul 31, 2018 at 10:52 AM UTC
My heart beeps
and grinds but mechanics
apply WD-40 and I grind no more.
I am plugged in (only to charge now)
and soon I'll be free
to travel as far as the wi-fi
allows.
It's new ish,
my technology
and a lot of people are afraid.
I am not
the Terminator.
I can not
fix myself.
I have no
mind
but
people are afraid
because I'm not what they're used to.
If you fear
me,
then don't watch colour
tv
or
use digital clocks
or
drive an automobile
because they're new ish too,
just like
me.
Jan 12, 2015
Jan 12, 2015 at 1:46 PM UTC
i.
we drove north
on highway six
the night a perfect black
close about us with
neither moon nor stars
to shine their light and
cut the darkness
ii.
the pines hovered at the very
edge of the narrow road
making a long, dark tunnel
when, after a curve
just north of Nisswa,
we emerged suddenly
in to a birch stand
iii.
the car lights caught
the white birch bark
which reflected the light
an eerie white stand
of bright, white birch
in a pitch black night
the trees on either side
rising in a gentle slope
iv.
i heard the breath catch
in every passenger
and then, just as
suddenly, we are
come upon an
automobile accident
v.
the glitter of broken
windshield glass
flashed in the car
headlights as i stop
a car had wrapped
about a pole, the
driver's door open
vi.
soon, the drama was over
we got in the car to drive home
the whine of the tires on road
filled the silent cabin
the white lines of the road
the white birch trees with
their black shadows
the far-away moon in
the sky exactly over the road,
seemed now living their own life
apart and incomprehensible,
yet very near to man
vii.
it was the beginning of April
after a warm spring day
the night had cooled
a faint touch of frost fell
the breath of spring
felt in the soft, chilly air
the highway ran endlessly
through the northern woods
viii.
on both sides of the road
the night was lit by the
the headlights and birch trees
in the brilliant, peaceful
moonlight night
and all were silent
sunk in thought
everything around seemed
kindly, youthful, akin,
everything--trees and sky,
and even the moon,
and one longed to think
that so it would be always.
Jan 19, 2012
Jan 19, 2012 at 9:52 AM UTC
these faces on the wall that have no eyes,
the young children with blood escaping from their hands
as they pick up a mound of the Earth and throw at genuflected roses.
these battered men in parks searching for light
and my woman is no longer with me.
it’s all vaudeville: this obnoxious working of continuance,
these redundant flutings, these unprecedented fluctuations.
opening the yellow gates to death
as the automobile churns the last of its exhausted snarl.
we are children peering through glass cases
as death laughs at his hopeless clientele,
sad, desolate progenies in working-classes,
in parks, in factories, somewhere along Mendiola,
or just treading the waist-high hellish froths of Dapitan,
there’s always death in the nooks of the quiet
and from where birds stir in sidereal circles, death
with his hands resting on the cage, chases us back to our homes.
death the changing of the gatekeeper.
death the telling machine.
death the dentist.
death my next door neighbor.
death, this boorish broken-winged Maya twitching in front
of my dog’s shadow shot out of the Sun’s shameful recoil.
death, my loud and loutish muse,
death the truant,
death, the copious fog somewhere in Kennon Rd.
death, in my hands through darkness and light,
death through troves of enigma,
death through undisputed clearings,
death the long line of red beads in EDSA,
death the gates of Plaridel,
it’s the moon following you, trailing your measure,
i hold my woman’s used shirt, pick up her photographs
and there’s no tender movement left but the still-seeking lion
prowling the jungles of my heart, seared by lovelorn undoing.
through the bottom of the sky and the unchanging roof-beam,
the weathervane ceases to a sojourn and the wind is trapped
in a place where we cannot utter any word between the gnashing
of our teeth – through the wasted years, through the sleeping in and out
of homes filled with beatings, to cathedrals swollen with tribulations,
and to the vineyards wrung out of wine, my lover, walking through fire,
sound silence.
Jan 2, 2016
Jan 2, 2016 at 9:20 PM UTC
Mind body lump
sushi tastes people
blanket's warm sausage
loopy plaid pants
mimosa fueled mathematics
map making pancakes
waffles don't know ****
Add chicken and enjoy.
Dance like a coked up Napoleon
ecstatic to heard Vincent Price reading Poe
while Moby **** writes rhymes opined to killer wale
princes and lords.
Service the dinosaur's automobile
when you get a chance
don't dance on like a midnight acid FLOWER
power of the hour scours the loud crowd
to life after death.
Dec 27, 2012
Dec 27, 2012 at 12:26 AM UTC
How is that we take everything for granted
And we don't realize what we have until
We see others suffering or barely managing.
We believe that they have some sort of good-will.
Took a plain, train and automobile,
Aside the monuments, we walk the streets.
These people are destitute; hungry and lonely.
Sleeping on the concrete floor and ***** seats.
When we see the difference in our lives to their's
We how much we have in comparison to them.
They savor every piece of food and fresh water,
Why wait? It's our turn to be the supporting stem.
We walk, we cry, we sleep, we pry.
We wait, we see, we hear, we touch.
We sense, we pray, we love, we hate.
We teach, we learn, we strive, we watch.
What is the difference between them and me?
We are human. Our blood is red.
Where love exists, there's only positivity.
Just to see them smile when you give - is enough for now.
Dec 15, 2013
Dec 15, 2013 at 10:16 AM UTC
At a time where it seems so very hard, for me just to feel alive.
all I wanted then, was to drive
As ridiculous as it seems
it was the stuff of my dreams
all I needed was my car and vacant 4am roads.
Going through the gears, as if they were my final years
piston tatted-ring finger; hand firmly wrapped around the wheel
braking late into the corner
locking up the alloy steel wheels on my automobile
the tires squeal
waltzing them back into rotation as I find the threshold
clutch in
twist of the leg at the hip, I blip the throttle with my heel
down into second
one swift movement
un-burnt fuel erupts in the pipes.
blitzing through the off ramp
keeping it tight, clipping the manhole cover in the apex
pedal flat coming out, bounce the tach' as its not worth the upshift
pitch the car into the long sweeping overpass bend
the back end kicks out on decel'
counter steer and slam the accelerator back into the bare metal floor
front wheels clawing in the direction that I please
keys slapping my knees
straighten out and I ease her back home.
reverse down into the narrow; dimly lit garage
as I climb out, I can feel the heat radiating from the machine I built
hot oil ticking as it finds its way back to the pan
I stand and watch my car slowly disappear behind the garage door
it is but another night survived
for both of us.
Sep 18, 2017
Sep 18, 2017 at 1:47 AM UTC
Every morning I must slay a mighty rusted dragon. His jaws gape as he waits for me. I climb his belly slowly, but persistently. When I reach his mouth I throw myself in. I burst from his stomach and slide down his back and he lies with his wounds and waits for tomorrow. I will slay him again today. These dragons are everywhere, waiting to be destroyed every morning by commuters and diabetics and dialysis patients. We must grit our teeth as the needle pierces the skin or as the engine starts again. We take that bitter pill and emerge victorious. But to what end? The dragon will be waiting the following morning as he always has, as he always will. It is the curse of the modern man. Each day we will slay this dragon until one of us is too weak to fight.
But I know, too, that this dragon is necessary. He is the grain of salt in my morning that seasons the bike ride down his back. I have learned to enjoy riding through the rusted iron bridge that is his throat, and yes, even the climb I must endure to reach it. Each day I must slay this dragon. I must. It is for me that he exists, not the other way around. And I will slay him each day until I am struck by an automobile or die of a blood disease.
So when I rise tomorrow, I will look him in the eye and he will wink. And I’ll know that he is not just a hill capped with a rusted iron bridge. He is the plight of modern men. He is the eternal struggle that must be, else life would be tedium. and we need each other, him and I.
When I wake, I will rise and slay him again.
And again.
And again.
Oct 24, 2013
Oct 24, 2013 at 1:30 AM UTC
-Studying car lights from outside- an automobile's slow flash-
Primary colors of headlight reflections, flirt in their dance-like dash.
Here I sit in the back of my van, in the corner on the side of the street; I've been right here since 5pm, how the hours lapse with deceit. Its been just over 5 full hours that I've been paralyzed in this seat; Now as it's pushing 10pm, documented my defeat:
I'm more than done with this pit of fear,
overcome the paranoid gap,
all I need is to now pause, re-evaluate
Exiting this trap.
To wrap it up in this conclusion
To iterate the hours ceaseless delusion
Is to redefine isolations inherent seclusion- with confidence, strength-
dispel illogic's confusion.
Sep 7, 2024
Sep 7, 2024 at 3:17 AM UTC
Introduction
_____________
some words
chase you around
infiltrating and winking,
in emails and poems to
your attention dispatched
undeniably messaging
a wanting to be
realized, completed,
teasingly speaking
you know
a poem newly birthing
in your left brain,
tender pleading,
love me already,
just write me
like you would
make love to a woman!"
messages from others employ
the self-same word r e p e a t e d l y,
you start to get the hint
very very v i g o r o u s l y
the rumbling,
the back-seat tumbling,
you're driving
bipedal composing,
guitar and piano
gas and brake
pedals to the mettle,
and the speed limit
was 15 mph under
where your brain is fermenting
all tuning you up to
meet the guild's
product quality standards,
yet unlike an automobile,
a poem, like a life,
has a unique DNA,
cannot just be
recalled,
for repair
and additional tinkering,
jes' because
once it is out there,
it has been outed
sure enough in my
my "started but *** file,
a lazy layabout,
overlooked and undercooked,
the poem below,
a dabble and a muddle,
so ignored, so berefted
for so long
it got this
special introduction
by way of an apology....
Incarnate
She is my poem incarnate
She is the carne of my body
She is the innate of my soul
She is my woman incarnate
she is all I need
in form realized and invisible imagined,
angel and thank god,
devil as well...
Jun 26, 2014
Jun 26, 2014 at 11:06 AM UTC
I have never been in this situation before
trying to decide which of the two girls to go after
I am a lion with two gazelles in his cross hairs
Both looking graceful and delicately desirable
But I can't have both
I would like the one who whispers into people's ears
about how she feels like an unfinished automobile
helplessly being carried on the assembly line,
moving centimeter by centimeter, towards me.
But whenever the two of us are together,
she would pretend to be miles away
Then again, I would like the other one
whose subtle glances, though transient,
are like the worms you put at the end of a fish hook
or the aromatic meat left in an animal trap
that makes you brush off caution
from the end of your sleeves
or put on the helmet and jump
It's going to be one way or the other
I tell myself as I lay all alone in the room,
one foot already over the threshold of sleep,
strange faces beginning to appear in the air
and very soon I would be pulled below the surface,
sinking slowly, towards the dark bottom of the other world
Before then there's a decision to make:
I can either go left or right
but I can't have both.
Especially when they're room mates
Oct 2, 2012
Oct 2, 2012 at 2:08 PM UTC
If you were an automobile,
You would be out of my price range,
Yet here you are, parked in my bed,
Complete with all available luxuries.
Your revving engine, sends a thrill through me,
When I'm sad, your wipers clear my tears.
When the night is cold, your heat keeps me warm.
I love to run my hands along your sleek chassis.
Polish up all my favorite bits.
I love you more than a vato loves his low rider.
I love you more than a redneck loves his pickup.
I love you more than speed racer loves his Mach five.
I love you more than Barbie loves her pink convertible.
You're my Hot Rod,
You take me places, nobody else can.
You and I will be riding of into the sunset,
Until the wheels fall off.
Sep 18, 2012
Sep 18, 2012 at 10:06 AM UTC
They told him to be a carpenter.
His stupid black fingers could never form equations of substantial value;
they were simply meant to grow callused and rough,
like his soul,
as they built the large houses he could never afford.
They told him to be a painter.
He lacked the skill to be an inventor-
to create light or wind or space like his God.
His hands could never create sound
as they floated through air in front of an orchestra.
They could only transform the house his brother built into a color he couldn't spell.
They told him to be a miner.
The coal could blend with his skin,
hopefully thick enough to smother him out of society.
The soot from his skin would cover the beakers and test tubes,
making him incapable of performing the experiments necessary
to develop a more reasonable resource in a lab that could save the world from death.
They told him to be a mechanic.
His hands were meant for hard labor, oil and grease,
not healing ailing bodies as their organs began to falter from an automobile collision.
He was too dumb to save a life;
he could only fix a car for a dead corpse.
They told him what he could be
in order to tell him he was incapable of greater things
as he held his dark face with darker features in his hands, weak from wiping tears.
People build their dreams based on encouragement-
this man knew no such words.
He told me I would be a doctor.
My hands were meant for healing hearts and multiplying white blood cells,
as well as lives and smiles.
I would save a nation, a dying breed of people
because God has given me His own hands.
He told me I would be a lawyer.
My hunger for justice would fuel a revolution
and all would know their innocence held true value.
The rights of men were of sincere importance and I would protect them at all costs,
especially young men told to be painters and carpenters,
because I was one of the few with the integrity to do so.
He told me I would be a president.
My words would meet a standard higher than those on the political spectrum.
I would part the seas flooding a nation
because I had been blessed by the Holy Waters of God.
The theory that peace was in a land too far away would be broken
as I carried the world to the Promise Land.
He told me I would be an astronaut.
I would defy the status quo while defying gravity
as I became the greatest pioneer since Sacagawea.
My brilliant mind would fill with every star I peeled from the sky to light my path to Heaven.
And I would show the globe how to fly despite the odds.
He told me what I could be in order to tell me I was capable of great things
as my small, tan hand intertwined with his dark hand, callused and rough from raising a child of God.
He knew that people build their dreams based on encouragement-
and I know the words he never had the chance to.
--For my Dad
May 13, 2011
May 13, 2011 at 5:28 PM UTC
The power of now
the energy flow
the focus
driven
all effort controlled
and plans are in making
the winds roar through the screen of the window
the green leaves nearer than the the milky sky
beauty is in the eyes today
the automobile soars as well as the breeze
my ears tell me this story
the power of now
this very second
if desired
renew
chilled or steady
my body exists
my mind is the video of all I have
my hands are the maker's of all I craft
the power of now
the touch
smooth
keys
electricity such a powerful presence
a vibrating vein
to the world of components
the power of now
this age of time
this shiny day
this is now
-
William Crowell September 9th 2012
Jul 7, 2014
Jul 7, 2014 at 11:39 PM UTC