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Viki Jun 2014
In the night of twinkling stars,

I spied over a gorgeous man.

I wish if he would be interested in me,

So I spied over him through the binoculars.

 

He lives across the window, and I am not so far,

Still I watch him through the binoculars like watching a migrant star

I don’t want to keep him out of my sight.

No matter what I am doing is crime and is not right.

 

I sit and hide in the window curtain by the gable wall

Linger around for the night to fall

Just to watch him walking naked through the hall

That's the secret, and I am not going to tell you at all

 

I chuckle myself on what I see

And wonder if he is just like me

He jumps on to the bed naked

And that is what the interesting happening

 

So I keep watching him through the binoculars

And wish if he would be interested in me.
Michael Hoffman Oct 2013
My friend at Wal-Mart
let me into  the inventory warehouse
where they keep the products
people kept returning
and I found them –
the Quantum Binoculars
beautifully handcrafted
with seamless joinings
glove-soft leather grips
polished to a glisten
with a big red switch at the top.

Switch it left to Bourgeois View
and you see the world
as most people do
through lenses of logic and contradiction
happy and/or sad
right and wrong
young or old
rich and/or poor
but there isn’t enough room
in the field of view
to hold all this conflict
and when you look through it too long
everything goes fuzzy gray
and your eyes start to cross
and you get the headache of the century.
which is why
everybody who used Bourgeois View
wanted a refund for the binoculars
regretting their purchase
terrible product they would say
never having bothered to flip the switch.

Flip right to Quantum View
and your headache disappears
as every person, place and thing
pulsates with vibrant rainbow color
brightening, shading, winking
expanding and contracting rhythmically
in a hypnotic dance
and nobody has to purchase or sell
and the mountainous toy robot displays
and the Special Today Only neon signs
and the shoppers and greeters morph
and the milieu turns glorious.

Then you see
a tiny point of intense blue light
in the center of each object
and it grows and starts to spin
and the next thing you know
you’re being pulled into the viewfinder
first by your eyes
then your cheeks and forehead
and you think uh-oh,
what’s going on here
and you’re reluctant
to let the eyepiece
**** you in any farther
but then you hear angelic music
and the blue lights
crack open like supernovas
revealing the infinite molecular structure
inside everything you see
electrons and neutrinos spinning
atoms racing across the panorama
and you realize
you absolutely must
take this wonderful machine home.

Imagine the quantum universe
hiding inside Wal-Mart’s inventory chaos
calm and rhythmic
instead of razory and cacophonous
soft shapes with vibrating edges
scenes arising and passing away
and you watch entranced
mindful and equanimous
as the view transports you
past the electric sliding glass doors
into the auditory memory
of your mother’s soft lullaby
and the innocent tenderness
of your first kiss
and the smell of the grass
on the last day of school
before summer vacation
and images of big silver trout in clear water
and Jesus and Buddha and Mohammed and Rumi
drinking lattes
in the Wal-Mart coffee shot
and they see you
and wave you over
to come sit down and chat.

So you ask your friend
how much for the binoculars
and he says
you really don’t want them
because if you take them home
you’ll like it so much in there
that one day you’ll let them
**** you all the way in
and you won’t come out
in fact
we don’t know
how many people
are already in there
but Wal-Mart optical department shoppers
have been disappearing for months
and nobody can find them
and you ask
if he takes American Express.
startle cracks
and curtain calls
my eyelids back

diaphanous dropped
and veils up
dewy bloom spotlit

monkeysuit chauffeur
denigrated daily
scratch behind his ears
you're doing OK
just mistook
vehicle for passenger

relax in seat back
let clear and present ever
steer biospheric lit

allow etheric hum
up the bony ladder
to outlook attic
bindi blinds lift

pretty *******'
46-bit binoculars
these holy puppet
hands have got
Lucey Snyder Jan 2010
In hidden heights, of window's sights
I've seen the people pass
Across the way a light shines on
A man paints, what simple ease
Two lights above, some people stand
No curtains mare their joy
Yet in between these lively homes
Empty is it's name
Not once did I yet see the sign
Of human life a flame

I'll wave at them and let them know
Watching is my name
Not a crime, or creepy act
No binoculars do I hold
And honored they should be
With lives so vivid and so riveting
That my attention, they have held
Enough to merit them a place
In writings to unfold
Eriko Mar 2016
watery eyes squinting against
the pink glamor of the setting sun,
casting marvelous streaks
of cherry cream soda foam
radiating from the heartfelt
warmth

dusk settling, a quiet raven
swinging in the swaying trees
and a fence line lining
the edge of evergreen forests
a white picket fence
cluttered with the ghosts
of memories

a pair of binoculars
held by a silent girl
olive and freckled
of the shower of tear drops
which cascaded from those nights
of aching compassion

facing the other side
solitude presence of one
walked of a thousand steps
back splayed by the salty foams
spat by the restlessness of the sea
an umbrella clasped in his grip

the rain drizzled, throwing
the pink sunsets into arrays
of sweet, sweet melodies
the girl of binocular
and boy of umbrella
a picket fence in between

a relief from destiny,
a rain check into reality
figures of speech echoing
slurring syllables
recounting marbles
that used to roll off
from their laughters
on lovely nights

a girl of binoculars
and boy of umbrellas
dreamt of once a meeting
of one such like this
the raven cries
fear not, deal not
what has there
to be done
when the pink
ceases to refill
your sweet dreams

and the girl smiled
the boy climbed over
the white picket fence
and held her hand,
holding the umbrella
to keep their warmth
sheltered deep within

the girl picked her binoculars
held it close to her pretty cheeks
above her lips,
navigating sights
knowing their memories
will far exceed than that
of the white picket fence
Jim Davis May 2017
Kevan Fuchs died today in his sleep
In a similar way as his father of one
And actually, also my father did too
Of those bitter, big cancer scourges
Which always come in unexpected
In this short enough life, a bit early

I've known him ever since first, when
We were knee high to Dad's shotgun
Throughout our small neighborhood
We would all roam to see and look
For ***** toads and such other fun
Without any known end in our sights

We often, came all together, at once
In his parent's, little Clovis back yard
In the under ground, in our deep dug
Wild little clubhouse of our new pride
Approved by our jealous Dad's stare
Made all by ourselves, with great care

Eight by eight, with three feet of deep
Shagged carpet floors, walls around
And places to hide stuff with those
**** magazines we wished to remain
Unseen by our parents, although they
Surely lived through similar wild times

Black lights , fluorescent mod posters
Fans to cool, while there in the deep
Kept the place comfy, from several
Hot summers in New Mexico's heat
Staying nights over, in conspiracy we
Came colluding, while hoping no fame

This place was our place, of known
Refuge from all of the big crazy, with
Frightening world still yet to come
Giving us our youngest freedoms
And also so much being in trouble
As kinda neighborhood hoodlums

Far up his Dad's, tall, two-way radio tower
One of us in care would climb
With binoculars to see the dark night
With our pair of walkie talkies held
Warn the others, carousing around
Of any plight, in appearing headlights

Kevan's brother, still alive,  Keith
My other brother by another,  Buddy
Also at first, a weird guy, named Chris
One other member, as second cousin
Who actually, was my very first kiss
When it was hard to aim, lips to miss

All bound as one, by made up signs
And part of something called PSO
Which, if you don't know well, what it
Truly means, then you were definitely
Not a part of the so very high bliss
Which we suffered through so often

Kevan's true nature is clearly proven
Finally, most completely, at his end
In the nature of his wonderful loving
All his family, who also so loved him
And all those other parties to trouble
Who also so loved, really all of him

©  2017 Jim Davis
Kevan passed away over a year ago.  I just wrote the poem recently.
Soul Scribe Jul 2018
She was beautiful as she sat there
I stared through foggy binoculars
Red rings around my eyes from staring
Too long.

A migrating bird encapsulating an entire
Ecosystem's aroma.
Each feather soft as seafoam spun from silkworms.
She gazes into nature's greatest gifts of nectar.
Sweet and rare.
She sits across the class from me.
Never to glance over to her humble
Bird Watcher.
This is not meant to seem stalkerish but in an effort to emotionalize how a shy kid feels when looking at a beautiful girl
Matt Roberts Oct 2012
He watched his sons football game
with a set of binoculars
from the parking lot 300 feet away.
His ex-wife sat on the sidelines
texting her latest boyfriend
while making eyes at her sons coach.
She didn't care for football, or
for her son much for that matter.
She would go so far as to beat him on occasion
when she'd had a bad day, but he did care,
to him that boy was everything.
For her that was all the reason she needed
to file the falsified police report
which lead to the unnecessary restraining order.
He watched his sons football game with binoculars,
she didn't even know what number was on the back of his jersey.
TB Sep 2014
Your binoculars are cracked
You've lost your sense of sight
Alone in the dark
You're filled with utter fright

Your targets been missed
And there's no where to go
Your binoculars are cracked
And now you've nothing to show

Your binoculars are cracked
The only way to see
But you're so far in the future
You forget to stop and be

Your hindsights 20/20
And now you realize
Your binoculars are cracked
But you have perfectly working eyes
The birds fly away from  the evergreen pines
As I stir out of bed
And open the window to see
The mountains still asleep
Behind the thick veil of fog.

I fix the binoculars,
Adjust the lenses
Pierce through them
And lo, the mountains now seem awake:

They glide on the wide plains.
A hide-and seek goes on between us;
Till the start of the rain
When the vision melts,
Like the words of love
The time will wear slowly away.
published in 'Indian Literature'[Sahitya Akademi-New Delhi] journal in March-April 1981
Cunning Linguist Jan 2014
I tore the fabric of space
Interrupting my affectionate stalking
Spurts of longing, interspersed
with spasms of premature *****

In vain, hankering to attain that next level rush
Oh you're a ***** girl aren't you
That's when I was discovered...

Her shrieks royally flushing my cheeks with shock
-Superseded by pallid chagrin
I fumble to bail,
Pants entrenched around my ankles

Premeditative,
Of absent-mind, in haste
Prime directive a method of escape
Evasion failing
Detection:
Imminent

Reflecting a grim lack of circumspection,
accursed *******
Trying to conceal my turgid *******

Her father particularly beyond reason
And not fond of my indecency for his daughter
Proceeds pummeling me to death with my beloved binoculars

Devoid of clairvoyance;
I am coincidentally sent
outward toward oblivion
Bon voyage through the portal
Falling facefirst into an abysmal wormhole

Its then I voyaged backward through time
To the moment of Creation
And witnessed the universe
**** itself from naught to existence
Spewing forth such cataclysmic splendor
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Voyeurism
Bunhead17 Nov 2013
[Verse 1: Drake]
Versace, Versace, Medusa head on me like I'm 'Luminati
This is a gated community, please get the ******* the property
Rap must be changing cause I'm at the top and ain't no one on top of me
****** be wanting a verse for a verse, but man that's not a swap to me
Drowning in compliments, pool in the backyard that look like Metropolis
I think I'm sellin' a million first week, man I guess I'm a optimist
Born in Toronto but sometimes I feel like Atlanta adopted us
What the **** is you talkin' 'bout? Saw this **** comin' like I had binoculars
Boy, Versace, Versace, we stay at the mansion when we in Miami
The pillows' Versace, the sheets are Versace, I just won a Grammy
I've been so quiet, I got the world like "What the **** is he planning?"
Just make sure that you got a back up plan cause that **** might come in handy
Started a label, the album is comin' September, just wait on it
This year I'm eating your food and my table got so many plates on it
Hundred inch TV at my house, I sit back like "**** I look great on it"
I do not **** with your new ****, my *****, don't ask for my take on it
Speakin' in lingo, man this for my ***** that trap out the bando
This for my ****** that call up Fernando to move a piano
**** all your feelin's cause business is business, its strictly financial
I'm always the first one to get it, man that's how you lead by example
Versace, Versace, Versace, Versace, Versace, Versace
Word to New York cause the Dyckman and Heights girls are callin' me "Papi"
I'm all on the low, take a famous girl out where there's no paparazzi
I'm tryna give Halle Berry a baby and no one can stop me

[Verse 2: Meek Mill]
Versace, Versace
Its killers, real ****** that's all in my posse (shooters!)
I'm getting so rich that they making up rumors that I'm illuminati (rich!)
Just me and my ****** we killin' these *******, go body for body (murders!)
These suckers be hating, they praying to God that I don't cop a Bugatti
Hold up, drop the top on the rari
Pull in the club and I'm stopping the party
Hold up, got ******* on *******
They poppin' on molly's I'm prolly at Follies with PeeWee and Tip
Of course i went with Lou
I did everything that I said I would do
I really won't tell you that I'm better than you
But we're not on the same level as you
Cause the G55 got a hell of a view
Regular ****** make regular moves
With ya regular ***** and ya regular crew
And you ***** still smokin on regular too? Like word?!
What a shame, my *****
Louboutin blood like Game, my *****
Get left tryna aim, my *****
Like Saddam Hussein, my *****
I'm whippin' this brand new machine
100 bands in my jeans
Call yo ***** Barry Sanders
She done ran through the team
I got hoes out the D
They playing on the team
Do anything for me
I mix that xan with the lean
Hold up, let me get it back
Versace, Versace
I'm gettin' this money, I'm stackin' my broccoli (racks!)
I'm running my city
You might gotta pay me if you land on my property (tax!)
I bought the boardwalk and I parked on the ave
****, my life's like monopoly
You caught a new case and you got outta jail
Boy, you look like a cop to me
(Get out of jail free card?)

[Verse 3: Tyga]
Aughh! Versace, Versace, I brought that **** back, all these ****** they copy
Medusa head on me I'm at the hotel, Versace Palazzo
I rented the yacht for a week, but I bought the convertible Lambo
Six mill for the mansion
I see haters coming I need some more ammo
These ****** gay that's Elmo
So much green I turned camo
Some hoover ****** on flannels
Light light you up no candle
Grip on that handle Yosemite Sam ya, that ***** bang like a banjo
Told my arms dealer no need for a box, I don't read the instructions, I throw out the manual (WOO!)
Versace, Versace, my brother king Trell he in a Ferrari
I don't look the same, my camera the same, I made too much money (WOO!)
Paul Pierce is my neighbor, I told him he should of went to the Clippers
I got some crazy ideas for Versace, get them and tell'em my number
Versace, auggh Picasso, Basquiat I'm cocky
23, 15 mill I'm just getting started
Pop water my water
I walk around on my wallet
I don't **** with Saddam but, that's gold all in my toilet
Statues of Horus, and the annubis is polished
I don't got to, rap about, coke for you to enjoy it
I'm bout' to join the money team, just holla' to Floyd about it
Versace, Versace, I'm taking my money to the Cayman islands (WOO!) Versace Auggh!!

[Outro: Quavo]
Versace, Versace, Versace, Versace
Versace, Versace, Versace, Versace
Versace, Versace Versace, Versace Versace
Versace, Versace Versace, Versace Versace
I love this song!... lyrics to  "Versace" by: Migos ft Drake, Meek Mill, and Tyga ****. by:  Zaytoven.
blushing prince Nov 2016
The house smelled of vacant parking lot gasoline
it always had that odor, the one where things are very seldom touched
and the flies build their nests atop the sweaty ceilings
my  footsteps were perfectly carved into that carpet, like snow angels

when we had first moved in the floor was a soft white
with time, it bared resemblance of an old man who hadn’t shaved in two
days and wore the same tweed jacket every day
coming home was like a war kissing a forest fire,
those days the air felt colder
the television spit into the raw eyes of a man who called himself a father
this could have meant something had it been years later
and it would have been important had it happened twenty years before

I will say with confidence that in those days the earth was colder
specifically numb in those people whose hearts are like plastic containers full of
marbles, however, the world could seem like a refrigerator at times
to a 15 year old girl with the eyes of caramels
You could say that the poetry started with the dead houseplants
or the mother that secretly smoked cigarettes inside the laundry room
but the beginning starts with finding cherry trees in the
mouths of two twin girls that lived across the street, the
one with the lawn intestines spilling from their front porch

there is no one in the universe like you, that holds true especially
with people who play with guns and the boy that was born with fins
but, there is a difference with identical twins
Siamese children who lick each others’ spoons
and never have the correct name assigned to them
spending all of eternity looking in the mirror
******* telepathically, and who can blame them
                                                    
2

Pe­ppermints.
All of my memories have the taste of peppermint being
rolled around the tongue on an afternoon
and my mind waters.
I am especially reminded of this when I walk up the subway one night  
and the shadows seem liquefied and I could be anywhere but instead I am
in a city where no one makes eye contact and
my jacket still has the tag as it bites into my skin
I can hear the clatter of my shoes on stark concrete, the wobbly way I never grew into my own shoes
as a man approaches, jogging quickly carrying with him a suitcase
I notice he has a slight misstep to his walking and suddenly he sprints into a jog  
rushing, he slams into my elbow throwing me off balance
and the smell of peppermint is stronger now, resilient,
powerfully filling my head like nicotine  
as he violently slips his hand into my pocket
darts quickly back  and starts running ahead, never  looking back not once
Within seconds he is gone
I don’t realize what has happened, afraid that someone somewhere
in the dark distance, inside a car with tinted windows is watching me
observing my movements, wondering if I will call out to someone
My mouth is dry as I feel into my pocket and realize there is a note inside
it is a metallic sheet of paper with an address inviting me to paradise  
in the back of the card, there is nothing but  a meticulously engraved
spider, sinister in its appearance and yet reminding me that I am no longer a child.

Suddenly I remember; it’s Valentine’s Day.
3

In those days the screams of crickets were louder, much heavier.
Like the dew couldn’t stop them from rubbing their legs against their backs.
As if summer was an aphrodisiac for the mentally suave and the utterly alive.
Such convictions never last, I was an insect that year
an everlasting metamorphoses slowly molding my body
an eternal cocoon coating my veins and never shedding
these nuances of growing up, despite all this I was still a child wrapped
in a blanket that didn’t cover my feet anymore.
My mother used to go down to the basement on a regular basis,
I called it the swamp because it always made me feel as though I was
trudging through quicksand in a valley down below, separate from our own house
but that place was heaven to her I realized, the carbon monoxide clouding her head
the grassy windows, the way the clothes shrank in on themselves, like lungs but
never actually breathing, just inhaling
I don’t think she ever knew anyone was watching her, but I always was.
I would wake up at exactly the time my father left for work, or what we believed was work
and I would take my red binoculars and glide through the living room causing friction
with every step I took, passing the rooms of my older siblings down to hell
opening the door carefully, I would walk down two steps and stay there motionless
pressing my eyes into the glasses and staring
These endeavors proved futile, and once I had the ability to leave the house I never
looked back with nostalgia, never missed the coughs or the curled fists
but in those moments, I felt  time move slower, I could have stayed down there
a shameless spy, a trustworthy confidante
But life had better things for me than looking in on death, thought it more
suitable to touch horror than to always be catching glimpses of something
As boring as suicide

There was a day when things didn’t match the rest
I can blame this on naïve intuit or the childish way I chose to see things
It was Saturday and it was the 14th of February
Normally, my father was home by noon but today it was different
the air was stale, there was no movement in the house
It was beautiful outside and the only rarity was that there was a
taxi car parked outside our neighbor’s house
I stood up, poised as ever in the middle of the hallway
Had I looked deeper outside I would have noticed a strange man
next to the taxi car looking into our house, nodding his head with the
Rhythms of the grandfather clock, but I didn’t and who was I to know
As I gripped my binoculars walking into the place I knew so well
I didn’t know what I was to expect, there was an uncertainty
Behind the door that I felt what I had never felt before and have never felt since that day
However the long pause was it didn’t stop me from opening the door
walking down two steps and peering into my treasured binoculars
I didn’t know who I was supposed to find
DieingEmbers Jan 2013
Spying
upon a lovely pair of ****

gives me...


pleasure
Bird watching behave yourselves lol
Can you spot those wild zebras,
trotting across noisy plains of green?
Can you spy them with binoculars,
huddling together in familiar scenes?

Can you observe these wild zebras,
emblazoned with their traditional stripes?
Can you recognize distinctive patterns
of opposing colors of black and white?

Can you form an opinion regarding
the thoughts of wild zebras at play?
Can any semblance of ‘Fashion Sense’
force a duality of stripes to rule the day?

Can you number the size of the herd
or even call out specific zebras by name?
See their necks encircled by dangling whistles,
as they continue… to officiate the football game.



-Joe Breunig,
Poet/Author, Reaching Towards His Unbounded Glory
Tahirih Manoo Aug 2018
The path i tread has many unknown particulars

The good choices appear in only perpendiculars

I find at times I get trapped in the luring  circulars

I seek the butterfly but i come across confused caterpillars

The path is flooded with sad, intrusive manipulars

Some are merely spectaculars

Whilst some dare to strike your jugulars

...I wish to find spiritual teachers but I'm surrounded by lost seculars

I peer and search even using my invented binoculars

But this path i tread has very few, calm examplars
A hidden path among all paths
Can you spot those wild zebras,
trotting across noisy plains of green?
Can you spy them with binoculars,
huddling together in familiar scenes?

Can you observe these wild zebras,
emblazoned with their traditional stripes?
Can you recognize distinctive patterns
of opposing colors of black and white?

Can you form an opinion regarding
the thoughts of wild zebras at play?
Can any semblance of ‘Fashion Sense’
force a duality of stripes to rule the day?

Can you number the size of the herd
or even call out specific zebras by name?
See their necks encircled by dangling whistles,
as they continue… to officiate the football game.



-Joe Breunig,
Poet/Author, Reaching Towards His Unbounded Glory

Learn more about me and my poetry at:
http://amzn.to/1ffo9YZ

By Joseph J. Breunig 3rd, © 2013, All rights reserved.
TW Jan 2019
You once told me that when we die,
we become another star in the night.

I never really cared about your zodiac and lunar signs,
I never paid attention to the solar action shooting by,
You'd wonder if it's magic plans or broken scrap that flew the skies,
You were psychedelic dresses, I was only wrapped in suit and tie,
It never blew my mind until I finally gave your truth a try,
I glimpsed the puzzle pieces in the time before the moon would rise,
A tapestry on galaxies, depicting myths, and human lies,
I guess you proved me wrong again, I was quick to scrutinize.

Now, I'm studying the subjects and sitting in observatories,
Thinking back to when I'd write them off before I heard the stories,
Earth is boring now you're gone, I hope you're up there yearning for me,
Every star's a soul, I'd see you but there's nothing worse than stormy
Nights and light pollution, it's a blinding kind of nuisance,
I'd be admiring your fusion but the sky has turned translucent,
But still I'm plotting charts of stars, I'm always making observations,
Waiting for the day I get to see your face in constellations.

I wanna chase you forever, whether heaven or hell, I'll go,
Can't let you float away, I'll take a world tour with my telescope,
The way I speed through hemispheres, this night will be the death of me,
But otherwise I'd only see you half the year, you're my Persephone,
I'll trek from Arctic harbors, give binoculars to polar bears,
Shiver in my igloo, hands together, say a hopeful prayer,
And no, I won't be lonely there, your soul will be a solar flare,
You'll whisper an aurora, northern lights to let me know you care.

I'll whistle Canis Major and Minor, and let Orion guide me,
I'm quite unlikely to quit, what kind of guy would I be?
To search the Seven Sisters for an eighth and get inside their psyche?
I'll question Cassiopeia, Cygnus, and Pisces nicely,
Ask if they've seen something fishy, and then I'll talk to Taurus,
An orbit tourist, I'm daunted without the gall to forfeit,
So if you're gone, then I'm glad that this was all you taught me,
I live each day for the night and just endure the morning.
Emily Steves Feb 2012
Dad finally built
the treehouse
I've wanted
all my life.

Up high in the sky
we climbed,
my brother and I.

Binoculars around
my neck.
Ready to see
from up above.

Up high in the sky
we climbed,
my brother and I.

Up we went
into the trees.
Giggling like
little children.

Up high in the sky
we sighed,
my brother and I.

In the trees
we couldn't
see much
of anything.

Up high in the sky
we sighed,
my brother and I.

Our respective children called
from below.
"Mommy!" "Daddy!"
But we ignored them.

Up high in the sky
we cried,
my brother and I.

Dad finally built
the treehouse
I've wanted
all my life.

Up high in the sky
we cried, "Climb!",
my brother and I.

They rushed to
join us.
In the treehouse
Dad finally built.

~E.M.S.
11/20/11
6:32 p.m.
I recall from some time ago
a pink plastic tea set
a white plastic rocking chair
and a yellow plastic pony
with blue plastic hair,
     which
was impossible to untangle
except for with the green plastic brush
that belonged to my blonde barbie doll
out of her plastic vanity cabinet
beneath her plastic vanity mirror,
     which
she checked her makeup in
before meeting her plastic boyfriend
in his plastic van
to go to a plastic diner
that served plastic pizza,
     which
was really just a sticker
on a tiny plastic plate
that would get lost in the bottom
of my plastic toybox,
     which
had a plastic lid
that was also my sailboat
that brought me to a plastic castle
with a plastic princess
who had the prettiest plastic eyes
and the most elaborate plastic dress
and the shiniest plastic crown,
     which
was the envy of all the plastic women
in the entire plastic kingdom,
     which
was really just a plastic castle
surrounded by an enchanted plastic forest
filled with furry plastic creatures
all atop a clear plastic box,
     which
held the plastic dishes
and plastic glasses
and plastic food
in case a feast should be thrown
for an unexpected plastic guest
from a plastic kingdom in the far east,
     which
was really just a plastic plate
placed on the plastic-coated windowsill,
     from which
I would peer into the blue sky
through broken plastic binoculars
while standing on a yellow and green plastic step stool,
     which
when turned upside down
became not simply a make-shift plastic sailboat,
but a glorious, luxury plastic cruise liner
for my pretty plastic dolls

     and I would board my toybox lid
     and we would sail into a perfect plastic horizon

     which
was really just a white plastic baby gate
that kept me from tumbling
into the world downstairs
where things are wooden
and glass
and cloth
but not plastic

for plastic is synthetic
and plastic is superficial
and plastic looks bad
against gilded wallpaper

but plastic is cheaper
and plastic is safer
and plastic is durable
and childhood is plastic
Cassidy Claire Johnson © 2012.
Pennsylvania, 1948-1949

The garden of Nature opens.
The grass at the threshold is green.
And an almond tree begins to bloom.

Sunt mihi Dei Acherontis propitii!
Valeat numen triplex Jehovae!
Ignis, aeris, aquae, terrae spiritus,
Salvete!—says the entering guest.

Ariel lives in the palace of an apple tree,
But will not appear, vibrating like a wasp’s wing,
And Mephistopheles, disguised as an abbot
Of the Dominicans or the Franciscans,
Will not descend from a mulberry bush
Onto a pentagram drawn in the black loam of the path.


But a rhododendron walks among the rocks
Shod in leathery leaves and ringing a pink bell.
A hummingbird, a child’s top in the air,
Hovers in one spot, the beating heart of motion.
Impaled on the nail of a black thorn, a grasshopper
Leaks brown fluid from its twitching snout.
And what can he do, the phantom-in-chief,
As he’s been called, more than a magician,
The Socrates of snails, as he’s been called,
Musician of pears, arbiter of orioles, man?
In sculptures and canvases our individuality
Manages to survive. In Nature it perishes.
Let him accompany the coffin of the woodsman
Pushed from a cliff by a mountain demon,
The he-goat with its jutting curl of horn.
Let him visit the graveyard of the whalers
Who drove spears into the flesh of leviathan
And looked for the secret in guts and blubber.
The thrashing subsided, quieted to waves.
Let him unroll the textbooks of alchemists
Who almost found the cipher, thus the scepter.
Then passed away without hands, eyes, or elixir.


Here there is sun. And whoever, as a child,
Believed he could break the repeatable pattern
Of things, if only he understood the pattern,
Is cast down, rots in the skin of others,
Looks with wonder at the colors of the butterfly,
Inexpressible wonder, formless, hostile to art.


To keep the oars from squeaking in their locks,
He binds them with a handkerchief. The dark
Had rushed east from the Rocky Mountains
And settled in the forests of the continent:
Sky full of embers reflected in a cloud,
Flight of herons, trees above a marsh,
The dry stalks in water, livid, black. My boat
Divides the aerial utopias of the mosquitoes
Which rebuild their glowing castles instantly.
A water lily sinks, fizzing, under the boat’s bow.


Now it is night only. The water is ash-gray.
Play, music, but inaudibly! I wait an hour
In the silence, senses tuned to a ******’s lodge.
Then suddenly, a crease in the water, a beast’s
black moon, rounded, ploughing up quickly
from the pond-dark, from the bubbling methanes.
I am not immaterial and never will be.
My scent in the air, my animal smell,
Spreads, rainbow-like, scares the ******:
A sudden splat.
I remained where I was
In the high, soft coffer of the night’s velvet,
Mastering what had come to my senses:
How the four-toed paws worked, how the hair
Shook off water in the muddy tunnel.
It does not know time, hasn’t heard of death,
Is submitted to me because I know I’ll die.


I remember everything. That wedding in Basel,
A touch to the strings of a viola and fruit
In silver bowls. As was the custom in Savoy,
An overturned cup for three pairs of lips,
And the wine spilled. The flames of the candles
Wavery and frail in a breeze from the Rhine.
Her fingers, bones shining through the skin,
Felt out the hooks and clasps of the silk
And the dress opened like a nutshell,
Fell from the turned graininess of the belly.
A chain for the neck rustled without epoch,
In pits where the arms of various creeds
Mingle with bird cries and the red hair of caesars.


Perhaps this is only my own love speaking
Beyond the seventh river. Grit of subjectivity,
Obsession, bar the way to it.
Until a window shutter, dogs in the cold garden,
The whistle of a train, an owl in the firs
Are spared the distortions of memory.
And the grass says: how it was I don’t know.


Splash of a ****** in the American night.
The memory grows larger than my life.
A tin plate, dropped on the irregular red bricks
Of a floor, rattles tinnily forever.
Belinda of the big foot, Julia, Thaïs,
The tufts of their *** shadowed by ribbon.


Peace to the princesses under the tamarisks.
Desert winds beat against their painted eyelids.
Before the body was wrapped in bandelettes,
Before wheat fell asleep in the tomb,
Before stone fell silent, and there was only pity.


Yesterday a snake crossed the road at dusk.
Crushed by a tire, it writhed on the asphalt.
We are both the snake and the wheel.
There are two dimensions. Here is the unattainable
Truth of being, here, at the edge of lasting
and not lasting. Where the parallel lines intersect,
Time lifted above time by time.


Before the butterfly and its color, he, numb,
Formless, feels his fear, he, unattainable.
For what is a butterfly without Julia and Thaïs?
And what is Julia without a butterfly’s down
In her eyes, her hair, the smooth grain of her belly?
The kingdom, you say. We do not belong to it,
And still, in the same instant, we belong.
For how long will a nonsensical Poland
Where poets write of their emotions as if
They had a contract of limited liability
Suffice? I want not poetry, but a new diction,
Because only it might allow us to express
A new tenderness and save us from a law
That is not our law, from necessity
Which is not ours, even if we take its name.


From broken armor, from eyes stricken
By the command of time and taken back
Into the jurisdiction of mold and fermentation,
We draw our hope. Yes, to gather in an image
The furriness of the ******, the smell of rushes,
And the wrinkles of a hand holding a pitcher
From which wine trickles. Why cry out
That a sense of history destroys our substance
If it, precisely, is offered to our powers,
A muse of our gray-haired father, Herodotus,
As our arm and our instrument, though
It is not easy to use it, to strengthen it
So that, like a plumb with a pure gold center,
It will serve again to rescue human beings.


With such reflections I pushed a rowboat,
In the middle of the continent, through tangled stalks,
In my mind an image of the waves of two oceans
And the slow rocking of a guard-ship’s lantern.
Aware that at this moment I—and not only I—
Keep, as in a seed, the unnamed future.
And then a rhythmic appeal composed itself,
Alien to the moth with its whirring of silk:


O City, O Society, O Capital,
We have seen your steaming entrails.
You will no longer be what you have been.
Your songs no longer gratify our hearts.


Steel, cement, lime, law, ordinance,
We have worshipped you too long,
You were for us a goal and a defense,
Ours was your glory and your shame.


And where was the covenant broken?
Was it in the fires of war, the incandescent sky?
Or at twilight, as the towers fly past, when one looked
From the train across a desert of tracks

To a window out past the maneuvering locomotives
Where a girl examines her narrow, moody face
In a mirror and ties a ribbon to her hair
Pierced by the sparks of curling papers?


Those walls of yours are shadows of walls,
And your light disappeared forever.
Not the world's monument anymore, an oeuvre of your own
Stands beneath the sun in an altered space.


From stucco and mirrors, glass and paintings,
Tearing aside curtains of silver and cotton,
Comes man, naked and mortal,
Ready for truth, for speech, for wings.


Lament, Republic! Fall to your knees!
The loudspeaker’s spell is discontinued.
Listen! You can hear the clocks ticking.
Your death approaches by his hand.


An oar over my shoulder, I walked from the woods.
A porcupine scolded from the fork of a tree,
A horned owl, not changed by the century,
Not changed by place or time, looked down.
Bubo maximus, from the work of Linnaeus.


America for me has the pelt of a raccoon,
Its eyes are a raccoon’s black binoculars.
A chipmunk flickers in a litter of dry bark
Where ivy and vines tangle in the red soil
At the roots of an arcade of tulip trees.
America’s wings are the color of a cardinal,
Its beak is half-open and a mockingbird trills
From a leafy bush in the sweat-bath of the air.
Its line is the wavy body of a water moccasin
Crossing a river with a grass-like motion,
A rattlesnake, a rubble of dots and speckles,
Coiling under the bloom of a yucca plant.


America is for me the illustrated version
Of childhood tales about the heart of tanglewood,
Told in the evening to the spinning wheel’s hum.
And a violin, shivvying up a square dance,
Plays the fiddles of Lithuania or Flanders.
My dancing partner’s name is Birute Swenson.
She married a Swede, but was born in Kaunas.
Then from the night window a moth flies in
As big as the joined palms of the hands,
With a hue like the transparency of emeralds.


Why not establish a home in the neon heat
Of Nature? Is it not enough, the labor of autumn,
Of winter and spring and withering summer?
You will hear not one word spoken of the court
of Sigismund Augustus on the banks of the Delaware River.
The Dismissal of the Greek Envoys is not needed.
Herodotus will repose on his shelf, uncut.
And the rose only, a ****** symbol,
Symbol of love and superterrestrial beauty,
Will open a chasm deeper than your knowledge.
About it we find a song in a dream:


Inside the rose
Are houses of gold,
black isobars, streams of cold.
Dawn touches her finger to the edge of the Alps
And evening streams down to the bays of the sea.


If anyone dies inside the rose,
They carry him down the purple-red road
In a procession of clocks all wrapped in folds.
They light up the petals of grottoes with torches.
They bury him there where color begins,
At the source of the sighing,
Inside the rose.


Let names of months mean only what they mean.
Let the Aurora’s cannons be heard in none
Of them, or the tread of young rebels marching.
We might, at best, keep some kind of souvenir,
Preserved like a fan in a garret. Why not
Sit down at a rough country table and compose
An ode in the old manner, as in the old times
Chasing a beetle with the nib of our pen?
Working on a large sheep prperty once
On days not much doing way out dig cactus
One day doing just this I caught a flash
Owner on his old horse up a hill for practice

Watching me the old coot he was that day
To see if I on my own  was doing my work
The sun sent me a flash from his binoculars
The old guy was an untrusting kind of ****

Just below me a soil erosion twent feet deep
That ran for about a real good mile away
I rode down and right up it for a mile
And right up behind him fifty tards I say

******* my horse sat under a big old tree
Rolled myself a smoke and watched him
Looking all over away down there was he
Chances finding me down there were slim

He was getting so frustrated binoculars too
Where the hell did that bloke go he said
Looking all about for me that day was he
I just smiled rolled another smoke instead

Him standing in his old half worn saddle
Where the hell did that bloke I ask go
I'll be having a real good talk to him later
Can't trust anyone I said nows a good ya know

http://i197.photobucket.com/albums/aa290/tracymay27/CowboyCampFire.jpg

terrence michael sutton
copyright 2018
I am convinced
that I'm a tourist on this planet,
in this body.

Things like knowing where my legs are,
or existing in the company of a spider,
shouldn't be such causes for
bewilderment and hysteria,
but they are.

And this is besides my awkwardness
with other human beings.
I attribute this to their being tourists too.
Why else would they take lots of pictures
and leave garbage everywhere?

It's like our bus broke down,
and we're surviving in ramshackle forts,
looking out with binoculars
and waving flags made of Hawaiian shirts.

It must be appalling,
and not a little shocking,
to the natives.
Quiet and peaceful, the plants and animals
watch us from a distance,
at once unnerved and giggling
just a little bit,
as they watch us stumble about
and run shrieking from the spiders.
Josh Koepp Nov 2014
Surely,
There must be inumerous inadvertant staring contests happening
When haplessly gazing across the edge of the world
When, too tired to remember that the ocean has many shores,
One looks out seeking lighthouses
Made of curls braided into the backs of their head
As to not run aground,
Drown;
In the bottled reminders we endlessly toss at our own backs;
Why did you think the water gleams, undulates and winks
With so much meaning?
Lake Michigan sand rests within my bones;
it slows the timing of my heart
and scratches the vowels
budding on my wet tongue.

I imagine waiting for you
on a bench of ghosts
with coffee and binoculars,
observing the rush of continuous
flutter as seagulls settle
and then unsettle, as indecisive
as the mottled lake.

The afternoon light is brisk,
pulls my breath like a buoy chain--
     my heart sounds like it's underwater,
     its beats drive the tide
     that draws you, like an undertow, to me.
Tuesday Pixie Oct 2011
I stare through the binoculars that border my world,
my life,
my mind.
The steel rims,
walls which encase me,
limiting my sight,
my thoughts,
my knowledge.
I yearn to reach out,
to push them away,
but without them I fear I will no longer be able to see.
I feel blind already,
stumbling through my darkened doorway
to the conclusions my narrow mind rests upon.
Stumbling to the same perch,
although the route has changed,
although the facts are different.
The same limited view.
I wonder; when will I see other dazzling landscapes?
And, if I do, will I be brave enough to relinquish the safety of my curtailed vision
for the bigger picture,
a bright overview,
instead of my fuzzy focussed spot of knowledge.
Oh, binoculars, your safety is hindering.
Brian Carson Oct 2013
I've been waiting all week for a package to come, sitting at my window nothing short of stalking the delivery guy who works my neighborhood. I lie back on my couch and stare at the ceiling until I drift off. I wake to the sound of the door bell and there, in all it's glory, was the package. I open the box and pull out my very own, shiny, new grappling hook and launch pistol. I ran upstairs for my binoculars and an umbrella then dashed through my front door.

I made it downtown just before sunset, arriving at one of the tallest buildings in the city located across the street from a building of equal size, they're perfect. I headed to the top floor and snuck around until I found the roof access. Walking out, I take in the sights, watching the wave of sudden flickers from people turning on the lights and the darkness from people leaving for the night. I went over to the edge and launched the hook to the other building. Using the binoculars I locate you down on the street, then I begin walking across the rope with my umbrella trying to line us up.

I look down at you, admiring the amount of beauty you always radiate. I want to jump on you but I realize that if I do, you would die as well, I'm too dedicated to the preservation of all things that are beautiful to stop your journey. I continue on to the other building.

I climb down off of the ledge, feeling defeated when I seen a police officer staring right at me. I slowly walked towards the exit door, he repeatedly told me to stop while he unfastened the ******* his gun holster. He cut me off then grabbed my right shoulder and left arm, I kneed him and grabbed his gun, immediately shooting him in the head, it looked exactly like a spilled pan of cherry cobbler. At this point, the people on the streets were looking up.

I went to the edge and used the handcuffs like a necklace to attach me to the rope, I rolled myself over the ledge, the slack in the rope allowed me to slide down to the middle. The sky created a perfect backdrop behind me as the sun sat on the horizon throwing it's golden glow towards the stars, and at the very last second before my neck snapped I remembered, I won't even know that you know me.
Terry Collett Nov 2013
Lizbeth cycled in from the town
and set her bike
against a fence
and asked your mother

where you were
out somewhere
your mother told her
bird watching

or digging up old bones
in the woods
oh ok
Lizbeth said

and walked back out
on the dusty road
and walked down
the small lane

by the cottages
birds calling
mostly rooks
high up

in the trees
or the flutter of wings
as birds flew
from hedgerows

at her approach
she trod carefully
between the cow pats
on the lane down

her black Wellingtons
touching the hem
of her black skirt
the green top

short sleeved
showing
her thin arms
a steam ran slowly

on her right
over pebbles
and stones
and weeds

and then she saw you
by a tree
looking up
through binoculars

unaware
of her approach
didn't know
you bird watched

she said
breaking
into your world
of birds and nature

with her words
you gazed at her
her red hair
drawn tightly

into a ponytail
at the back
of her head
her freckled skin

the greeny eyes
not much else
to do
you said

us London boys
have a lot to learn
in this
off the beaten track

of a place
she nodded
and stared
her eyes focusing in

at the bird book
in your hand
and binoculars
around your neck

what's London like?
she asked
like Dante's Inferno
you replied

whose?
she said
who the heck is he
when he's at home?

you walked towards her
tucking the bird book
in the back pocket
of your jeans

Italian poet
you said
wrote the Divine Comedy
you added

she raised her eyebrows
and gave you
that I'm none the wiser stare
thought I'd come

and see you
out of school
she said
remembered

your address
nice of you to come
you said
unsure why she'd come

to this neck
of nowhere land
I saw your mother
Lizbeth said

she told me
you'd be bird watching
or digging up bones
in the woods

she had that
I'm getting bored look
the way she stood
don't get the chance

to talk with you
at school
what with
the separate playgrounds

and nosey kids in class
thinking there's
a big romance
if you talk

to a member
of the opposite ***
she looked older
than her 13 years

much older than you
being the same age
and the boys
are pretty much

dumb arses in class
except for you
she added
looking at you

with her green eyes
want to see
my collection
of bird eggs

and old bones?
you said
where are they?
she asked

in my bedroom
you replied
oh
she said

odd place
to keep old bones
nowhere else
to keep them

you said
ok
she said
and walked with you

up the country lane
and in the gate
and along the path
to the cottage door

will your mother mind?
she asked
why should she?
you asked

no reason
just that my mother
would give you
the third degree

under a bright light
she said
you took her
in the back door

taking off
the muddy boots
and so did she
standing there

in her white socks
just taking Lizbeth
to see the old bones
and bird eggs

you told your mother
ok
she said giving Lizbeth
a quick glance

don't let him bore you
to death
your mother added
with a smile

Lizbeth smiled too
and followed you up
the narrow stairs
to your small bedroom

she looked around
the room
at the wooden
chest of drawers

and double bed
who sleeps
in the bed with you?
she asked

my younger brother
you said
oh
she said

staring
at the small window
that gave view
of the garden below

and the fields beyond
you showed her
the bird eggs
you'd collected

and the old bones
from the woods
kept in a glass tank
you handed her

a blackbird egg
it lay in the palm
of her hand
it looked good

and blended well
with her soft skin
and lifeline
and headlines

across the hand
fragile isn't it?
she said
bit like my heart

she added softly
she handed back the egg
and wiped her hand
on her skirt

removing invisible
or imaginary dirt
what do you do
when not watching birds

or digging for bones?
she asked
get the cows in
from the fields

or help weigh
the milk
or help my father
in the garden

or go for walks
on the Downs
you said
you certainly know

how to live
on the wild side
she said
oh not always

you said
sometimes
it can get
quite boring

and I have to read books
or watch TV
she smiled
do you think

about girls?
she asked
not much
you said

why's that?
she asked
what's to think about?
you said

seldom see them
out here in the wilds
and at school
there's little time

or opportunity
or too many
complications
or too many

ears and noses
and eyes
what about now?
here now?

she said
gazing at you
and the double bed
what about now

and here?
you asked
putting away the egg
in the tank

and closing
the lid
to keep out air
or dust

she frowned
and sighed
as if a moment
had burned out

or an old world
had died.
Steven Y Burris Oct 2012
Her feet were balloons and her toes were the ties,
And her shoes were a way of life—
Boots to splash in puddles and heels to catch an eye.
Her legs were the ocean and her arms were the moonlit sky
And her hands were binoculars and her palms were maps,
And her fingers showed him the way.
Her nails were chameleons that changed when they liked
And her skin was tan in the fall and pale in the spring,
But her cheeks were always rose
And her shoulders were turtles, lifting the world,
And her neck was only a scarf
And her stomach was empty but her chest was full
And her hips spoke for themselves
And her golden hair coiled like silk snakes before the killing strike.
Her ears were the willows on the edge of the lake,
And she could hear but never liked to listen,
And when she did, you knew,
And her questions were stupid and her answers were not
And her thoughts were clouds in the morning
And her voice was the wind
And he was lucky.

Her eyes were blue and hung like Neptune in the dark,
And her gaze could cool the sun,
And she was beautiful.
Part One

Ethel, you wouldn’t believe it,

I don’t even need your binoculars to see
The buffalo’s horns,
And the bear’s teeth.

But your binoculars can’t see
Through mountains
And concrete dams
To our Saturday morning visits
With hissing cats and white washed walls

And your eyes can’t see
Through hanging laundry
And power lines
To my morning visits with
Trumpeting elk and white water rafts

When I come home and tell you,
I won’t be whole anymore

Part Two

I went home

Not to our house
To our home

But it was gone
Nobody noticed

Playgrounds turned patios
Beaches turned deserts

But they were gone
And nobody noticed

Girl turned woman
Boy turned sailor

And Alex, nobody noticed
That we were gone
DivineDao May 2016
You were the first poet, who had managed to alter the most famous mysterious smile and transformed it into the language of carefully depicted symbols and blushing words.
Reading the formidable plots of the wandering bullets in your cosmic time lapse thrilling poems makes me swoon every time I focus on the inside story,  like a desperate detective subdued to the retrograde reconstructions, sniffing out the unbelivable alibi for ali-baba, the modern space cadet, who leads me to the secret passages - to long lost treasures.

We were build internally as the same nation brigadeers sharing the alpine tea essence as a pejorative for ~Primavera showing off her newest gossamer in different locations at different nano moments.
               The post stamp you had glued to a white envelope of packed dreams come true, has the curved edges-->untill today and I am sure your saliva was the closest proof of your body next to mine, next to your poetic words. So dear to me!!!
             
 We are old fashioned poets, the virtual paper ******, slightly anxious anarchistic dreamers allured by the crevices of any black hole willing to  slurp and **** in the majority of our most beloved, yet unborn poems. All the 'Torn to pieces' poetic words are long gone, fluxed out through the glittery and deviousely hypnotic tunnels of time and space speed transmisson teleportations.

To our world the rumour has arrived that in the closest sibling~mirrored galaxy lives a lonely guy who looks up at the night skies and searches for the truth. He has black green eyes, green hair and loves Gandalf the grey-grin. He uses binoculars only because his lovely spouse adores to gently take them off ... then reads him a poem or two about the beauty of elves ... those kings and queens living eternally in vigorously vivid and unutterly ineffable woods. Elves are being smart enough to never give an advice to any stranger who has yet to find his integrity and purpose in life.    

Life seems to be a delicous set of intrigues,  paradoxical extremeties, harmonious ideals and wicked irony lessons upon our free will. The man's name was William. He loved her profoundly, without reservations, as a summer's day's Ode.
LOVE YOU
Terry Collett Feb 2017
It was warm and the sun was over them the sky a bright blue the grass beneath them was dry and green turning yellow Yehudit lay beside Benny looking up at the sky at birds flying over what will you do when you leave school? she asked I want to be a motor mechanic he said but whether I get to do it I don't know silence came for a few minutes how about you? he said don't know she said get a bus into town get a job in a store I guess he looked at her sideways on took in her brown hair and her eyes looking up at the sky then what? he said don't know get married I guess have kids she replied who will you marry? he said she turned and looked at him depends on how things go she said he looked into her blue eyes with his hazel eyes does your mum know you're up here with me? he said I said we were going to watch the trains and see nature Yehudit said did she believe you? he said I guess she did but she stared at me as if her eyes could determine whether I was telling her the truth or not Yehudit said Benny watched her lips move the tongue there warm and wet and that time by the pond in the bushes her tongue and his had touched and invaded each other's mouths we can watch the trains go by when it's time he said she put a hand on his cheek smoothed his skin touched his lips with her fingers he put a hand on her thigh moved his hand up and down moved her skirt up a little she moved her other hand and held his hand not here she said softly in case she can see us from the bedroom window the cottage is too far away for her to see what we're doing he said maybe she has binoculars Yehudit said peering down at us now he looked back at the cottage where Yehudit lived with her mother and family would she? of course she would Yehudit said they looked away from the cottage and lay still for a few moments wonder what she thinks we are doing lying here? Benny said Yehudit looked at him she is probably wondering why we are lying here and has the binoculars up close on us Yehudit said shall we wave at the cottage? he said best not she said a magpie flew past them overhead an aeroplane flew in the sky going off away from them do you dream about me? she said looking into his hazel eyes often he replied and what do we do? she said I dreamed we moved into your mother's room while she was out and made love in her bed he said liar she said laughing he smiled well it was your bed actually he said hope you didn't wake my sister in the dream she said no she was in the bed with us Benny said Yehudit laughed and tapped his hand on her thigh no really she said dreams are odd things he said nothing is logical things happen which are so unreal they are unreal she said do you dream of me? he said most nights she confessed and in the dreams we make love in your bed he smiled and where is my brother all this time as I share a bed with him at home? I don't know where he is just us she said you have only seen my bedroom and bed once he said was it like that? it was but the bed seemed softer she said two rooks flew past overhead noisily do you remember our first time? she said moving closer to him her breath on him smelling of peppermint he nodded moved his hand onto her bottom and let it lay there yes it was so unexpected he said he pictured the school gym one lunch break they had gone in there for a moment of peace and to kiss the gym was empty no one about they had moved behind a curtain where there were jumping frames and mats and had lay there kissing and one thing had led to another and it happened just them there and their ears cocked for sounds and such but then it was done and they lay there hot and exhausted and had just adjusted their clothing when a prefect had come in and said what you two doing in here? nature study Yehudit had said the prefect told them to get out and followed them up the corridor and out into the grounds Yehudit moved his hand off of her bottom just in case she's watching Yehudit said that was a hot day in the gym and in afternoon maths lesson I was sticky and damp and I kept looking across the classroom at you to see if you were looking at me but you weren't you were talking to that Rowland boy you didn't tell him did you? of course not Benny said I have told no one I couldn't focus on Maths Yehudit said felt hot and yucky did you tell anyone? he asked no of course I didn't anyway who'd believe me she said she looked at him in silence he looked at her lips and her nose is the train  going to come soon? she said he looked at his wrist watch a few minutes time he said best go over and watch it then in case she's watching us so they got up from the grass and walked over the field to the embankment and waited can she see us from here? he said yes she can can probably see what size shirt you're wearing with her binoculars Yehudit said smiling he smiled too they could hear the steam train in the distance and see puffs of white and grey smoke rise in the sky and they watched as the train steamed past them below and they waved at the carriages but no one waved back that they saw then it was gone leaving drifting smoke which hung in the air and they stood there with a vacant stare.
A BOY AND GIRL ONE SUMMERS DAY IN 1962
Watched old and lonely walking this road
Naming the nameless ones from a chair
On three legs splinted up with bricks
I chipped the mortar out holding out
For footsteps in the dirt like the heel
Toe once heard, enduring over bounds
And now beating in the depths right
Next to death. Whispers softly at
Distance maybe only echoes from
The wind.

I hold out.
Fight fury in the doubt.
I hold out.
Binoculars looking.

Nursed and fed empty chests and stomachs
No less to give from my own abyss
Could crawl over nail bleeding for
The kin the world lost when it ended
Just to do my only due to give
Back what I know to show the wandering
You might survive in lack.
Oh I lack.

I hold out.
I hold out.
Binoculars up
Who could say where the wind went before we knew where it stopped?
Last night Gary Facebooked me:
11:03 PM
"Can I ask you to be crazy with me?"
Gary said he had been flirting with this girl, May
for six months.
She wanted to see him in person tonight,
And he needed a ride.
Gary and I met 11 days ago.
Strangers brought together in the streets of Freeport by pokemon GO.
he spotted me holding my phone out from a mile away.
"Team Instinct?
TEAM INSTINCT!"
Lightning cracked above us
as we cryed in harmony:
"THERE IS NO SHELTER FROM THE STORM!"

My knowledge of him consists of three things.

1. He works as a security guard
Is first responder for medical emergency
Tackles felons and escorts people with restraining orders.
plays it up like he's a security guard for something mysterious
He is a security guard for Wal-mart.

2. Gary buys peoples affection.
Throws his money aimlessly
Pointing at his trophies
Prooving he too is expensive

3. To Gary,
there is nothing better to do
from 12 - 5am
Than wander Looking for pikachu.
With me.
besides visiting this May.

"A taxi would be $80
but I'd rather pay that to you, Bro."

On the drive there,
He is Squeeing, Singing,
Flipping out.
"I've got knots in my stomach Bro."

Upon arrival,
He readily jumps from my car
"Go catch 'em Brock" I say.

When I get back to Freeport
he sends me a messege.
1:04 AM
"Dude.
I think she fell asleep waiting
I'm not inside yet."

I park my car in Freeport,
Finish catching a Weedle.
"I'm on my way, stay safe."

"Man I'm so down."
"She's not coming to the door Nick."
"I'm just gonna curl up on the ground and cry."
"I've called her 24 times"

He heavily thumps his backpack into my backseat
Slumps down into my car.

"There is"
"no shelter"
"From"
"the storm"
"In my heart."

We stare out the window.
At the two homeless men
With no teeth
That he didn't beat.
He's holding night vision binoculars
And a clean Knife.
"I'm sorry I got you involved, Nick
I asked you to be crazy with me."
"There is"
"No shelter"
"From"
"The storm"
"In my heart"
Telescope
looks through the
distance
alights
on hope,
focuses.

Eyeglass,

I pass through the scope and
***** for the video switch
there's a hitch.
this is no prerecording
so I look back on in
to
the telescope
all hope gone,
dismal back on.

Binoculars are better
an 'i' is just
one letter.

— The End —