"baselines" poems
Brighton on the seafront is shining like a silver dollar in the sun
And she is dancing to the rhythm of the seagulls and imaginary bass drums
It is winter, should be colder but the gentle breeze is warm
All around her is her own hair like the breakers of some pre-raphaelite storm
I see Bassie Gracie, Brighton by the sea, hey Gracie
She plays reggae, she plays ska, she plays jazz,
she loves them all, hey Gracie
I am walking back along the sea front, back the way we've come
The sun's kiss grows weaker and I miss her but that doesn’t get me down
For the rhythm of her baselines entwine the ripped fabric of my mind
And every time I see those breakers I'll remember that pre-raphaelite storm
I saw Bassie Gracie, Brighton by the sea, hey Gracie
She plays reggae, she plays ska, she plays jazz,
she loves them all, hey Gracie
Jan 9, 2019
Jan 9, 2019 at 5:23 AM UTC
Four kings rode in with strings and skins to bring salvation to me on the streets of New Year's Eve. My friend would lend contents of bookends that induced solutions to a common teenage problem. I became incepted and indebted to the greatest escape artist, plus drowned-out voice who talked me through the agony of lonesome pains. Though association fades, those days still replay in heavy bass, or on the screaming face of a DVD case. But when handshakes are met with drunken compliments, it makes me question what it all meant. Veins no longer contain baselines or nets because the rent doesn't even cover travel expense. There are hotel pillars in a lake up town, tacky Christmas decs have been taken down, while two Jags are parked up outside dad's house. The nice-eyed lad, Welsh running track, smiling dancer and security-defying chap in a flat cap keep me from collapse. As the album dies, benign podcasts thrive. Franchise rise, repeated lines, gym life, energy drink lies and paper bag highs make laugh-cry emojis hard to find. With Wi-Fi or offline.
Sep 28, 2020
Sep 28, 2020 at 11:57 AM UTC
Cameo -pink splotches lightly touch backcountry roads , lighting pastures , trimming hardwood baselines , forgiving wounded -
spirits on hidden , vine infested shore
Retrieving the cacophony of woodland musical notes
Sharing the harmony and perpetuity of the wind fueled rote
Reaching for pearl complexion atop wisteria -
blue vistas , faint Sunlight incarnations , boundless ,
cloudburst driven streams , foaming western rivers ..
Apr 14, 2016
Apr 14, 2016 at 4:51 PM UTC
So I loved you the same
Underneath the foggy stars
Your stripes burned into my skin
The first time I touched heaven
And I loved you
Though I taught myself not to
When you said nothing
To my wells of everything
I loved you the same
'neath flashing neon lights
Thumping baselines and breathing
that icy veneer you claim is care
I see it now, but I love you the same
May 27, 2017
May 27, 2017 at 6:18 AM UTC
I wonder if this old grade school
understands that I steal little
bits of myself back from it
even all these years later.
Despite the fact that
this building stole
a lot of my childhood,
leaving me with ******
noses, blackened eyes
instead of good memories,
I come out here,
to write poetry.
The sun warms
the steel bench;
its heat
softening the muscles
surrounding my crooked
spine.
My boys,
possessed of energy,
boundless,
climb monkey bars
or
slide down spirals,
maybe swing
for awhile.
I’ll do the same,
inside of my own
mind.
(Never forgetting the blood
I’d left inside.)
I write the line,
the lie;
“...stepping into silence.”
and think it a grand thing.
Recalling the morning,
standing outside
with the day’s first cigarette,
feeling that ‘connected to everything’
feeling.
Soon enough it
had all gone to hell.
Because, the more I thought
about whatever I’d meant
by: …”stepping into silence.”
the less accurate it seemed to be.
While outside smoking,
I’d gotten a message from
a co-worker.
The poor ******** mother had
fallen down the basement steps,
So…
“I bet that fall wasn’t very silent.”
sloshed around in my skull for
a minute,
then,
the woodpeckers
started in on the eaves of
my neighbor’s house,
their machine-gun beaks
strafing the silence even
further into ruin.
Soon enough,
“...stepping into silence”
ceased to be poetry
and turned simply,
into some
jibber-jabber
that I’d scribbled
into a notebook
earlier this week.
Nevertheless,
it’s mine;
silent, screamed,
or otherwise.
I’ve stolen it back
from this monument
to my terrorized youth.
Here in the sunshine,
by the slide, the swing-set,
the dandelion baselines
of the diamond behind me,
my sons kicking yellow
with every step.
I am grateful for the noise.
***
-JBClaywell
©P&ZPublications 2018
May 7, 2018
May 7, 2018 at 5:15 PM UTC