"bloomington" poems
Dry brown cattails fall over one another in autumn
each year crossing on the forest floor,
waiting for spring rain.
Trees line the neighborhood street but true beauty
lives in the swamp down below.
We ran through branches, slicker boots in the mud
crunching through the tall grass and fallen leaves
exploring where the deer sleep. Graceful bucks
peruse the land. I try to catch a glimpse at dusk
when the silent fog begins to rise.
Forgotten streams dart through the reeds where
shallow water is perfect for spawning Northern.
Fallen tree trunks, ominous giants are the
only way to cross the creek
with dangerous swirling currents my daddy
always warned me about.
Poplar bridge is covered with graffiti and scars
the place I got my first french kiss
while the sun sank down into the swamp’s horizon
and the sky filled with precious stars.
The childhood place you yearn for
after the years go by
When every dark thought drives the car down the road,
ending up on that bridge just to watch the creek flow.
Stillness in the middle of a city
isolated from the corruption outside
Nov 15, 2013
Nov 15, 2013 at 3:35 PM UTC
i'm tracing pentagrams with chalk on to my floor
i'm lighting candles cookin' curses casting spells to bring a storm
that will cloud up over Phoenix, and make black
the southwest sky i'm pushing pins into the map to mark the points for lightning strikes
may the ashes of the university make their way out to the sea
and may the bones of the invaders mix with the bricks of burned buildings
we will make them in to mortar and we will build this town again
i'm calling on dark forces to take me back to phoenix
we'll dig some holes and plant some seeds and grow trees
back in the park so the bums will have some shade to drink and a place to sleep when it gets dark
nick will get his job back when we re-open the Vonlee
we'll watch movies and eat popcorn but this time we won't have to sneak
we'll make music in our basements we'll play 4-square in the streets
we'll carve hexes in our our highways to ward off the wicked beasts
and this time we'll keep our city safe we'll keep our city sweet
we'll keep our city free one by one and block by block we watched it slip away
the towers of our enemies grew taller everyday until at last i cast away
and tried to find some better place but it's wings are wide and cast it's shadow down on everything
so i'm praying to the lord and every other god i know to give me a flaming sword
and some extra lightning bolts and the power to destroy the ones who took our town away
and the strength we need to build it back into something great
and this time we'll keep our city safe... and sam will come back from california
and she will know just what we need to do and all the cool kids that i've met
in all the places that i've went will hear the booming of the battle
and come too and we'll make this place into the greatest place there's ever been
all we want is a place to live the kind of lives to want to live
so i'm rubbing every lantern that i find and i'm chasing every rainbow that i see
i'm searching the clovers trying to find one with four leaves
anything that could grantone wish tome and portland will not save you
and olympia will fall too and gainesville will surrender someday
and i know phoenix will never be the same
bloomington will never be the same
Jan 6, 2012
Jan 6, 2012 at 4:02 PM UTC
As an IU Bloomington student,
I frequently made the drive back to
the fraying rusty fringe of Chicagoland,
the land of greasy-dappled gyro joints,
of Italian Beef, and Italian Sausage,
and Italian Beef and Sausage.
Some described it as one of the most boring drives
in America, lamenting the flatness and unvarying
scenery, but I always drove it under the shroud of darkness.
Nine Inch Nails, My Life With the Thrill **** Kult, and
the Revolting ***** spilled through the stereo.
Al Jourgensen growled his strange Rod Stewart cover,
his ode to crack-cocaine, and his heavy industrial soundtrack
that makes you feel tense, like a prime time victim show.
As the aggressive beats and resonant past washed over me,
I realized my cozy hometown offered comfort
but could sustain no credible
fantasies of the future.
Nov 24, 2018
Nov 24, 2018 at 4:27 AM UTC
PATSY’S POEM.
(Composed while in Bloomington jail)
While sitting in this silent chamber,
And nothing else to do,
I thought I would compose a song
And write it, friends, for you.
I am not much of a poet,
Though I’ll do the best I can
To try to keep my courage up
And bear it like a man.
I was born in Cincinnati
And in Ohio State—
Little did I think, my friends
I would ever meet such a fate.
I was brought up by honest parents,
Who thought the world of me.
And this is the first time I’ve been
Deprived of liberty.
It was on the fourth of August, in 1879,
From house to house the news was spread
That Aaron Goodfellow had been shot,
And soon he would be dead.
Suspicion pointed toward me;
They rushed upon their prey,
And I was forced to prison
To await my trial day.
They took me to the station-house;
From there to the county jail,
Where iron bars surrounded me,
There my troubles to bewail.
I never did the cruel deed—
God knows I’m not to blame,
Although I have been convicted
And must suffer all the shame.
A word to my old mother,
And my sisters kind and true:
Remember I’m innocent
Though I must part from you.
Any you my kind relations,
I know you wish me well;
But my feelings at this moment
No human tongue can tell.
Before I close this rhyme
I’ll not forget to mention
My good jailer,
Mr. Franks.
And now, my kind friends,
‘Tis all that I can do
In sending this, my song,
To bid you all adieu.
Patsy Devine, in a Bloomington, Illinois jail, sometime between 1880 1882
Apr 9, 2015
Apr 9, 2015 at 12:45 PM UTC
My car rumbled
Outside your house
Last night
Searching for
The bedroom light
Through your curtain
Knowing your car
Was cold behind
The garage door
Unsure of why
I decided
To drop by
Perhaps I believed
You would feel me
Looking in
Maybe I thought
You were merely a dream
Nonexistent
Wondering if we
Really continued
To live separate lives
I was back
In Bloomington
Last night
Loudly playing
Your favorite
Rock rhyme
Swore I could smell
Your e-cig
From the driver's side
Maybe I stopped by
Bloomington
To beckon you
Thinking I was
A siren
Able to lure you
Perhaps I accomplished
Whatever I
Set out to
Sang my
Sweet song
Led you to doom
But I don't think my call
Seeped through
Your bedroom walls
Either I
Was too quiet
Or you were
Preoccupied
Feb 12, 2016
Feb 12, 2016 at 10:54 PM UTC
Lying in bed
with an abyss in my head
Abyss in my hand
being abyss
Bad faith with options
I can do so much, but here I am toiling without valor
I’m not oppressed enough to count
Almost guaranteed free meals for life
Respect for parents keeps me on the line
I’ll stay near it to get us a notch up
in Americay’s championship belt
But, even Ma knows the façade is tearing away
Wishing we could be the fortunate Chinese kids
We used to send our food to them, when
we couldn’t eat our vegetables. It’s unfair
I hit the books instead of wandering India
or Bloomington, Indiana
The unexciting part of an epic
starring myself and a one handed handful of friends
Dec 14, 2013
Dec 14, 2013 at 11:13 PM UTC
good morning
toothpaste mouth water
slug juice armed wrestler
though the thought about water
was a yellow snapper
a formula for not being
in the same room with different people
slug on the keyboard
making trails and
i saw you in bloomington
that's where it was
and holy ****
how did that happen
?
you usued to be a drunk
talking about
how **** was going to hell over there
and now you're a
guy about the age of my uncle
smoking j's out of the ventilation fan
talking about how ***** giong to hell "over there"
and i'm saying yea...it sure is man it sure is
and you're thinking about how
how i talked to you and left you
because that's the way it happens in the movies
and you gave me a free bike tire
and i thought you were quite fun
for someone who
was a drunk and a pharmacist at the same time
but that never worked out because
you lost it all to alcohol you said
and that's some scary **** how
close my city is to that city
Jun 14, 2014
Jun 14, 2014 at 4:01 AM UTC
Like lightning striking
tenses my chest
with regret
at night
Every time I hear John Mayer,
I think of how I pirated
Battle Studies
in an attempt
to get down your pants
And as I drove down
to your school in Bloomington
it was the soundtrack
when I was inside of you
for those couple minutes
Giving whiskey-dick
disappointment
a name
Like Heartbreak Warfare
Feb 15, 2017
Feb 15, 2017 at 1:39 PM UTC
Remembering the days of old, when father raked the leaves of
Golden, yellow, brown and orange
Jumping into the huge crisp pile, I tossed them all about
As my father raked them on top of me
I would creep out from under the pile laughing.
With leaves hanging on my hair and clothing
What a wonderful season. What a wonderful reason
Just to play in the leaves.
Copyright 2013
All Rights Reserved
published in the Crawfordsville, Indiana newspaper
and book three of the IVY TECH Bloomington, Indiana literary magazine
Nov 20, 2013
Nov 20, 2013 at 3:30 PM UTC
I bet your hardwood floor
Still supports that shirt.
Your maroon one I wore
After losing my skirt.
Now, your roommate is telling you
To help clean up your place.
Blaring "R.I.P. 2 My Youth".
Searching for what's been misplaced.
The dusty floorboards creak
Under the weight of it all.
It's only been one week
Since intimate nightfall.
You're wearing ***** clothes;
And you can't bear to do laundry.
Because once you start a load,
You'll have to accept the palm trees.
The desert that awaits you,
And the life you're leaving behind.
Telling me that, *if we bump into
Each other, we won't be ill-timed.*
I bet that maroon shirt is precisely
Where I left it.
Before you decisively
Determined we were unfit.
Dec 12, 2015
Dec 12, 2015 at 10:23 PM UTC
His love confuses me,
it came on fast
and hit me hard
so that I'm left spinning.
He took me in his arms
and practiced Russian
by whispering sweet nothings
until all hours of the morning,
until his lips could do nothing
but kiss mine.
He took me dancing,
and tangoed with me
until dusk,
until his hips could do nothing
but dig into mine.
He loved me over time,
in ebbs and flows
like the sea loves the sand,
until he couldn't help
but fall into my tide.
And now he's away,
he'll always be "away",
today Bloomington,
tomorrow Berlin.
And now I'm aching,
I'll always be aching,
today for Indiana,
tomorrow for Germany.
Jun 7, 2016
Jun 7, 2016 at 5:55 PM UTC
winters in indianapolis with you
the places and the strange feelings they give off,
the music plays in the streets as the snow falls.
the mattress is on the floor,
it’s cold.
you take up most of the blanket.
skipping class to sleep in your bed,
warm showers
skin soft and fleshy
ignited
a text read at 2:30 a.m.
i miss getting ****** on the regular.
now all i have is pbr and silence at parties
autumns in Bloomington without you.
hugging the blanket after you leave.
it’s a hazy Sunday morning
looking at an empty seat across from me on the bus
how dark your eyes are in the moonlight
a void expanding
it felt like we were on the edge of a nuclear war
as the smoke from outside the brick house covered your face.
i don’t know how to tell you.
as if it really means much.
you always have to leave in the morning
no matter how much we both want you to stay.
but there’s an urgency,
the world might end for us tomorrow
and you won’t know.
the next week i am laying on decker’s cold apartment floor,
missing winters in Indianapolis with you.
forgetting how all of our favorite coffee shops closed down,
and the icy streets that never seemed to melt.
the sun will rise tomorrow and it will sit in the back of my head.
dark eyes long hair and the box of hamms you lugged up to nick’s apartment.
the old couch you slept on.
our drunken laughs.
how I wouldn’t tell you
because I wanted to do it sober.
the way you say goodbye in the morning.
you might be it.
you might be.
Oct 5, 2018
Oct 5, 2018 at 10:39 AM UTC
Falling more and more
Into the depths
Of my inner-world
Where depression reigns,
Where there is no relief,
Where the darkness
Is all consuming,
Where my heart turns to stone,
Where it aches and bleeds,
Where l am a prisoner,
Where I am nothing.
Any substance, only faked
Intuituve intelligence
Ha! Whoever heard of such a thing?
I must have made that up
To cover for my glaring inadequacies.
I fooled them though...
Even had a Geophysics professor
Indiana University, Bloomington, Indiana
Talking to me.
He thought I was refreshing.
Wow, what a treat.
Wow, me refreshing?
What a joke.
I am anything but resfreshing...
I am a joke...
May 1, 2025
May 1, 2025 at 2:10 PM UTC