"clift" poems
As a young man,
I was always obsessed
By melancholy.
I saw deep sadness,
The quality
That so tormented my heroes,
Such as Arthur Rimbaud,
And Montgomery Clift,
As glamorous and romantic,
But it’s not…
It’s not remotely romantic,
When you yourself are adrift,
And weighed down,
By a multitude of woes.
Jun 29, 2015
Jun 29, 2015 at 3:59 AM UTC
The best thing about
Haiku is that if you run
Out of room you can…
Polar bears rarely
According to my knowledge
Play Marco Polo.
Sing with your eyes closed
And your audience can be
A thousand panthers.
The television
In the front room bites me when
I pet it too hard.
Is it still a haiku if all seventeen syllables are in one
No one can deny
My right to dream. Ah, someday
An all-moose hockey league.
Too late at night, I
Wonder if Shakespeare wrote D’s
The way I write mine.
I rearrange my
Furniture to make room for
More hopeful years.
James Dean. Rock Hudson.
Montgomery Clift. Cary Grant.
I’d hit it, girlfriend.
A girl of the streets
Offers him the right price for
One more game of checkers.
My bed does not face
The window. When it rains,
I always sleep through it.
I have not seen a
Sunrise in years; I don’t
Use public bathrooms.
…always continue
In another. [Something neat
About a panda.]
Apr 26, 2010
Apr 26, 2010 at 1:13 PM UTC
Once a year
my sister visits the grave
of Montgomery Clift
She travels one hundred miles
to kneel in a Brooklyn cemetery
and weep before his
modest headstone
I marvel at her romanticism
aimed at this mangled wreck
of an actor
this helpless mess of a man
pumped up with drugs
and rough ***
a haunted matinee idol
cavorting on the cusp
of madness
On her way home
she stares out
a bus window
She remembers his tremulous voice
and brooding eyes
his sullen features
overwhelming the giant screen
Soon she will fall asleep
dreaming of him holding her
in his anxious fragile arms
while the gray streets of Brooklyn
rush by
Jun 27, 2015
Jun 27, 2015 at 2:55 PM UTC
She stood on the high clift, staring out over the ocean. The sun had begun to set, lighting the sky deep shades of oranges and pinks, like wildflowers in May. The birds were heading to their nest for the night, and soon the night critters will be out and about. But for now, she just smiled at the scenery before her.
Her uniform was neat and as dark blue as the sky toward midnight. Her dark, strawberry blond hair pulled up in a tight bun; that was shining in the setting sun. She was heroic and brave in her uniform, and without it she felt vulnerable to the world. Her dark, brown eyes where sparkling as she thought of what tomorrow would bring to her.
Tomorrow is going to be the first day in over three years she will get to see her family. She was exited, but nervous, for she was actually afraid. It has been the hardest, and the most challenging three years of her whole life. That crazy, ****** little-teenage-high school-girl was now a woman of her country; proud, formal, and hard working woman that has been trained to expect anything the world brings her, except this.
She will walk off the plane with a high, military step with metals clashing against each other. Her father will be proud, wanting stories, and exchanging stories himself of when he served. Step mother will want to fatten her up with pies, turkey, and green beans; Aunt will make special brownies. Her little sister comes home from school to find her in the living room with uniform on. Both girls will hug and cry and cry into each others shoulders. Everything will be perfect: food, laughs, hugs, and pigs-skin. All making memories.
But then she will have to leave. They drop her off at the airport, in uniform, and hugs, tears, and solutes will be passed around. These are the memories that will keep her going. Going until next time.
In ten years.
Mar 30, 2014
Mar 30, 2014 at 10:14 AM UTC
Spacing out between the clift
with nothing else to compare
not even the shadow
not even the light
the darkness mold itself
into the brightest light
creating the way
creating the flesh
because the light will run out
the flame will perish
and the moon will scatter
but the darkness is patient
it never runs out
it never perish
it never crumble
it just wait till the end
impossible to fight darkness
the best way is to embrace it
no point to hid the shadow
the best way is to accept it
the darkness molding the abyss
and the abyss create delusions
when the delusions rise
the darkness bright
no point on litting the candle
when the fuel is the fear of darkness
no point on cursing the abyss
there's no such thing as the darkness itself
Jun 20, 2015
Jun 20, 2015 at 7:49 PM UTC
She jumped through the window
He jumped in front of the train
They left the world together
With a flame quite the same.
She hung herself with the noose
He shot himself with the gun
They left the world together
In a blaze quite filled with shun.
She stabbed her heart with the knife
He overdosed his veins with the drug
They left the world together
In a heat unfilled with love.
She slit her own wrist
He pushed his own body over the clift
They left the world together
In the darkness of the night.
She drowned herself in the ocean
He threw himself into the heat
They left the world together
With the coldness of defeat.
She ran in front of the car
He leaped off the plane
They left the world together
With emotions quite the same.
Mar 14, 2014
Mar 14, 2014 at 8:52 PM UTC
Can be amazing
Then drive you crazy
It can be the rope that snapped
That once held you to the Clift
Love can be the one blocking the blows
But the one throwing the fist
It's the life guard that saves you
After it tried to drown you
When you were lost
It was the one searching for you
And it found you
Forever your in its grip
When it's not around
You'll do anything to feel it again
A cure after its poisoned you
This thing call love
Is the bandage after it hurt you
Nov 6, 2015
Nov 6, 2015 at 1:48 PM UTC
nostalgia has become my best friend
the smallest things will make me relive this memory that i never really had. like when i hear the vibrations of no one ever loved, i have this aching in my bones and my heart feels like spears are flying in at every direction and i cry out for someone i never really lost or the way pictures of places make me yearn to go back to countries i've never seen. i've been homesick for the place we never had and longed for someone i could never have. home the scent that lingers to the bedroom i can smell the batter of the aunt jamima. syrup is expanding on the kids plates, sticking like the glue they will soon discover their first day of preschool. and as i stand here in front of you now i can't fathom if this is another one of my vivid dreams. i've been in a mental daze for years now my mind is scattered like a meadow of sunflowers who can't seem to shine through my orbit nerves. the painting of the paris that dangles like saucepans behind my bed is yet another country i've tried to crawl into, but it's painful my knees are developing carpet burn and my elbows are full of red mountain ridges. and i can't seem to reach the summit of this mountain. honey do you remember the glue sticks we have hidden until the kids first day of school? give the glue to them. let them learn how to unscrew the cap, pop it off like the corks of the first champaign bottle they will open on december 31st. give them ropes that will leave a ribbon of red on their palms by the time they reach the clift that their mother dangles from. tell the kids to use their little muscles they've been strengthening with their daily glass of milk, to push mommy to the top and glue my feet there and make me promise i will never jump. home the first place the kids got to use glue, the new place where whey will build a foundation of trust with their father on a mountain where glue wasn't enough to hold their mother down. mom. yes sorry, i was just washing the dishes, go color a picture for your father. soap drips from my prunny palms leaving ***** dish water memories. when i see the steel sink, i hear the garbage disposal weathering the rocks down of a mountain i've been struggling climb. breaking down every memory i've ever had. slicing them like apples except there's no juice. but there is aunt jamima batter, enough batter to linger scents to my room every morning. enough syrup to stick to the cheap paper plates, from the corner store. corners i will turn until i reach the summit of this mountain.
Aug 8, 2017
Aug 8, 2017 at 2:29 PM UTC