"cin" poems
It was a hot summer night
Nearly ninety, I'd say
When out back of Giovannis
The Bluesman sat down to play
He pulled up his crate
Took a sip from his flask
"This here's my med-cin"
"In case someone happens to ask"
He started a story
That we'd never heard
We're the folks of the street
And we followed each word
It's a tale of James Withers
A man in need of a hand
But to us on the street
He was the Sand Castle Man
The bluesman strummed gently
He didn't want the words to be lost
For this was a story
That had a hell of a cost
You see, James the sand man
Lost a life to the sea
His grandson, young James
Drowned when he was just three
Each day James went down
With his grandson in tow
They'd make castles together
Some fast and some slow
One day the pair
Were at the end of the pier
When a rogue wave hit hard
And took what James held most dear
His grandson...swept out
Lost at sea, never found
They searched for three weeks
But the poor boy was drowned
James kept a vigil
Every day on the beach
He'd look out on the water
His heart out of reach
He kept making sand castles
As he did with young James
With shells and old driftwood
And he gave them all names
He'd have non-existent armies
Fight non existent wars
In his hard packed sand castles
He carved windows and doors
There was make believe dragons
In pools by the sea
Guarding make believe princesses
Who no one could see
There were turrets and moats
And each day he'd build one
To be lost to the tide
As the days work was done
Each day a new castle
Each day a new war
But, nobody knew
What he was building them for
The tide would come in
And would sweep it away
All that hard work
Gone at the end of the day
But, each morning he'd come
Build one more for the tide
With invisible armies
To flow away for a ride
People would watch him
Make the castles of sand
With imaginary soldiers
In imaginary lands
The bluesman sang soft
Took a sip once again
From the flask on his hip
It's just medi-cin
The crowd didn't stir
We were like moths to the flame
As we heard the bluesman
finish his tale about James
I asked him one morning
If he ever would end
Building castles of sand
He said, Bluesman, my friend
I know that each castle
Will be washed out to see
And I hope that my grandson
Gets a message from me
I make each sand castle
Like we both used to do
I come back every day
And start another anew
It helps with the closure
I send my soul to the sea
And I hope that my grandson
Knows they're for him made by me
He finished and thanked us
And we went on our way
All of us changed some
From what the bluesman did play
Next time I'm out wandering
And see the castles of sand
I'll know what he's building
Now...that I understand
Feb 26, 2014
Feb 26, 2014 at 11:55 PM UTC
sweat dripping from my thighs
grey tank glued on me
i still got you on my mind
the world ending right before my eyes
murders crying wolf
my generation getting gassed and kidnapped
in the streets of LA, MIA, NYC, BA, CIN
drowning my days with tyler, the creator
humming to me
hoping to feel something
the way you used to make me feel
when we parted ways until our next life time
politicians hungry to violate civil rights
black, brown, trans
manifesting it in their dreams
they have it written in human blood
without a mask on to shield them
from the disease that is their greed
my perception jaded
my thoughts paralyzed
my body aching
might hit that pen
can’t even pick up a pen
having more time than my 20 years of existence
Jun 13, 2020
Jun 13, 2020 at 4:05 AM UTC
candy is sweet, most of it anyway.
some salted like cara
mel,
some spicy like
cin
na
mon,
my favorite is bit
ter
chocolate.
what does that say about me?
Oct 1, 2020
Oct 1, 2020 at 8:44 AM UTC
The word was out around the street
Tonight, behind Giannis bar
There would be really something special
From the bluesman and his guitar
For locals not for punters
Just for those upon the street
You'd better bring a lawn chair
If you wanted a good seat
The word spread fast and no one
Would miss this once they heard
New works from the bluesman
You had to take in every word
The bluesman was a legend
In this flawed, dark part of town
He only played back in the alley
That was where his show went down
At precisely eleven seventeen
The bluesman took his place
Upon his beat up orange crate
In his same familiar space
It was just like a cathedral
Underneath the golden moon
Quiet and forboding
As he started his first tune
The alley was the bluesmans church
As he sang to the street people
But this church had no walls or pews
No bells, it had no steeple
The bluesman sang of love and loss
Of dragons, ships and gin
He sang of Shubert, Bach and Liszt
He sang of constant sin
He looked but he saw no one
He was zoning, all alone
He sang songs of faith and hunger
Time to give the dog a bone
He played and drank his med-cin
For sometimes he got dry
The bluesman had the crowd entrapped
Beneath the shining moonlit sky
He talked of how his smoking
Through the years gave him his sound
It only took me fifty years
I'm surprised I'm still around
He sang of love and window panes
Of jealousy and trust
Of walruses and potholes
Of people turned to dust
As people sat in wonder
Of this prophet in disguise
You could see a certain twinkle
Deep in the bluesmans eyes
Gianni, stood off to the side
Timekeeper of the show
He signalled to the bluesman
One more and we must go
He had to close the restaurant
Turn the lights off in the back
So the bluesman took another sip
And grabbed a song from his minds pack
He finished up with something
Singing songs for all who came
He made them feel it was their heartsong
Although he never said a name
He sang of waitresses and barkeeps
Pawn brokers and of guests
of family and train tracks
of watchers and of quests
He finished up and packed away
His crate and his guitar
And he collected appreciation
In a two quart mason jar
The crowd left thirty dollars
almost ninety cents a seat
A fortune to the bluesman
And the folks here on the street
Apr 1, 2014
Apr 1, 2014 at 11:49 PM UTC
Rumours were flying all around
Someone was moving in
They question at the table was
Just how long has it truly been?
Windows boarded, papered over
Not a good sign most times
But, there in the shop window
Coming soon "Broken Spines"
The street folks all were questioned
By other street folks who
knew nothing of the tenant
On the whole, nobody knew
The Bluesman worked the alleys
finding out just what he could
But, in the end, he came up empty
And here, empty was not good
The building had been vacant now
For at least ten years plus four
It was at least the old millenium
Since someone used that door
The building was a shoe store
Selling discount boots and shoes
A new tenant or an owner
Gave the street some cherished news
The bartender told the others
She tried to see in on her way
But, the window was well covered
That was all she had to say
No one knew the agent who
Brokered the deal at all
They were surprised someone was coming
Most new stores went to the mall
Cy, the Pawnbroker ventured
It must be a medics shop
No one understood the name
And the questions wouldn't stop
A young woman in the corner
ordered her breakfast and sat back
she listened closely to the council
and followed them on their mind track
She had coffee from Gianni
He served it up himself
Joe had cooked her breakfast
"Two eggs, bacon, and a shelf"
The Bluesman coughed and ventured
We'll know all we need to know in time
I'm off to have some med-cin
and rest my weary spine
The others laughed at his words
Saw him off and watched him go
He went back out to his alley
Away from where the wind did blow
The Captain followed closely
He was heading to the bar
The others closed the meeting
before he ever got too far
The woman in the corner
Paid her bill, and left a tip
She left ten dollars on the table
With a yellow paper slip
She also left beside it
A small card of olive green
She was gone and on her way
Before the little card was seen
Gianni, read it , looked around
There was now nobody there
So he read it to himself and smiled
No use, just reading to the air
It said "Catherine A. "
Seller of used books
Owner of Broken Spines
Books in need of second looks
Gianni didn't know the name
But the store just fit the street
Everyone here was damaged, flawed
Second hand....to be discreet
There has to be a story
To go with our young Catherine A
I guess we'll find out more
On the street....another day
Mar 20, 2015
Mar 20, 2015 at 12:06 AM UTC
they say
relapse
is a part
of
recovery
but
is it really?
what if
its your body
saying
you
can't
do it.
you
can
do
nothing
but
sit
and watch
as you
hal
lu
cin
ate
places
that seem
so
de
so
late.
when really
you are
clearly
there are
people around
you
but all think
what you need
is a good
shrink.
they say
relapse
is just a part
of
recovery.
or maybe
its really
a reminder
that says
you're
a
nobody.
this
reality
gives
me
insanity.
this
society
gives
me
anxiety.
Aug 25, 2013
Aug 25, 2013 at 4:47 PM UTC
I once was a doll, one who was broken
Assigned to scare those who waltzed into my home
I wasn't alone, but my partner has never spoken
Her figure cold, porcelain and never roamed
I was unlike other dolls, able to move, able to speak
And at times, I only wished to gain a friend who was alive
But humans as I have learned are rude and quite unique
But none wished to remain with me, I wonder why?
At one time I was as sweet as Candy
Until I let out my Cin
Started off playing games, those which I considered handy
Until they never stopped them from leaving, then I could feel my other side kicking in
She was mean, heartless should I say
And she was not one to accept people, she made them go away
Now I sit alongside my frozen friend
Waiting until I too, meet my frozen end
Feb 7, 2017
Feb 7, 2017 at 3:11 PM UTC
There are seven you know.
Seven hues,
Bright with meaning.
Grey and red,
Colors of grief,
Mourning and remembrance both.
A cry and an exaltation.
Black and gold,
Colors of truth.
A blade in hand,
Seeking justice and vengeance.
Green and blue,
Colors of ethic,
Steadfast in one’s work
Mind on responsibility and consistency.
And then there is orange,
Shereshoy, you call it
You Mando’ad
Reveling in life on death’s edge.
There are seven you know
Yet none fit
And so you pick your own
A hue for you and you alone.
You pick white.
Stark, harsh white
Clear, visible, no means to hide
Nor intent.
White of ivory,
Of the gleam of Mando iron,
The white of bones,
Old, picked clean
Reminder of life
White so bright, brilliant
Burning eyes of the dying
Leading them back home
Back to the Manda
Skills in hand.
You pick white.
White for death,
Of death.
You are white.
White for death,
Of death.
Ja’haili, ner Buir.
Ja’haili ner oya’kare.
Kar’tayli ni ijaati gar bajur.
Nov 16, 2017
Nov 16, 2017 at 1:35 PM UTC
Today is the day
All over again
A day we remember
When my best friend
Told the world that truth
A new couple was formed
Cin and Nev were joined arm in arm
This day is more than our anniversary
It's another joyous day of her and me
Like so many others sure to occur
As we stand by each other
Steadfast and strong
We are so happy
That says it all
Me and the Baby Doll
We both stand tall
Jul 8, 2017
Jul 8, 2017 at 3:27 PM UTC
so,...your: BusinesS CarD
rests. in. my. car.
i | stared | at it, today,...
eyes tr _ a _ cin _g
the l e t t e r s
ofyourname.
the weight
(of it in my hand).
so >much >heavier>
,... now.
° ° ° time lost
in-these-moments;
€yes full of tears.
& with a heavy sigh,...
[i gently tucK it]
back /in /its / _ place.
Feb 19, 2018
Feb 19, 2018 at 6:08 PM UTC