"darkroom" poems
The world's gone mad but my mind is made up.
Time to let ya'll into the darkroom of my mind,
A place where I'm the referee of a poetic world cup.
This is where I am creative even though I'm blind
Don't get me wrong I am not leaving from town.
No more radio or TV saturated with all the sad news,
I have got enough breaking news of my very own...
Breaking to me each and every moment as it brews.
Come and meet the hard drive of my creative doom,
That contains my beautiful and liberated mind.
Welcome to my one bright side I call my darkroom,
It's a place that's so special, I reckon it's one of a kind.
You have to know that I always act blind but I see.
In my mind, I can walk stack naked and levitate.
My mind is where I remain totally black and free.
Come join me set my poetic dial and help me activate,
The code that will outshine any power on this earth.
My mind is where I live and where nobody has access,
Here I can run a poetic marathon without taking a breath,
Call it my playground and intellectual fortress.
My mind is deep, a place of absolute calm and refuge,
Somewhere I will always see as the final frontier.
It is dangerous and toxic like a nuclear centrifuge.
In there, I am all alert and vigilant like a soldier.
My mind is a darkroom where I give birth to new ideas.
It is a vessel and place in which I do magic with letters.
It is my holy land of thoughts, my own creative Judea,
Where each idea is sacred and light as bird feathers.
Welcome to the epicenter of my creative mind.
This is where I turn letters into spoken words
A front line of creativity where no one leaves behind.
Come and see where all words become useful swords.
My mind produces powerful words like some light beams...
Courageous and powerful words for extra motivation.
Spoken Words that will light up people's faded dreams.
Now you know that up in my mind are no limitation,
There exists an enormous capacity of time and space.
Welcome one, welcome all to the darkroom of my mind
Take a seat and be calm, be quiet this is my place
For this here is my personal creative post of command.
www.poemhunter.com/IvanBrookssr
#Vanguard-poetry23
#IvanBrookspoetry
twitter @ivanclappers
@Bassapoet
Jan 7, 2018
Jan 7, 2018 at 10:52 PM UTC
Before you get lost in the unfinished maps of her veins
the ones like yours, but not stitched up too many times to count on the ticks of a clock,
make sure that she trusts you enough to tell the truth.
Make sure that she loves you enough to know how you lie.
Remember that every single time you open your mouth, she's wishing
you're saying I love you.
Remember that on Fridays she doesn't want to cook.
And she sure doesn't want you to cook anything that was slaughtered.
Remember that she prefers cheap whiskey over champagne.
And when you're opening your ribcage to show her how fast your heart beats
when she grabs your wrists, make sure the butterflies are set free.
Make sure they find the window.
Make sure they find a home.
Remember that every living creature is just that, living.
Remember that they have a heartbeat.
And when you stop breathing when you see her with her hair down,
when you're thinking about starting a religion about girls with flowers for eyes,
tell her she's beautiful.
Tell her she's so full of the future.
Get her a telescope so you can show her the moon when it's bigger than both your thumbs.
Take her skiing while it's Summer in Australia even though you curse the snow as if it
were born out of wedlock.
Let her know she's not the first but she's definitely the only, and you're so scared of dying.
You never know what you have until it's locked firmly in your grasp as if to not let it run away.
You might lose a lot of blood but you'll never lose your way home.
I don't want to hear the dial tone.
I want to hear your voice, I want to hear you scream. Tell me to leave.
Tell me that I am the only road that leads you to a purpose.
That in a world of blindness I am so technicolour.
Even though I can't promise you that, I can give you my words, thrusted from my lungs
like wildfire.
Searching for the way out.
Talk to me about religion, please please convince me that there is something out there other than
rotting in the ground for all of eternity.
Bible scripture doesn't whisper of your lips like my pillows do.
I never really thought about pillow talk until they started speaking me to sleep.
I find myself found by the curvature of your spine, of the shadows that take up residence on your shoulders like they have lived there all along.
I want to kiss away every bit of pain that has ever stopped you from smiling at strangers
and let you know that I'm coming home and I will always find your hands.
Let your ribs shake when your heart has had enough.
Let them shake.
Let the rain come through your window while you're sitting there in your makeshift darkroom.
You are the only thing I know about consistency.
And before I get lost in the unfinished maps of your veins,
I will be making sure they lead to me.
Oct 30, 2013
Oct 30, 2013 at 6:42 PM UTC
The scarf that you took off with a graceful flourish,
From your warm throat, and covered my head
On one beautiful, wintry afternoon long ago;
That memory intensifies and weighs me down,
Like photographs that develop in the darkroom
But are never shown the broad daylight.
My head now stays uncovered with snow;
I wear your scarf on my shoulders.
Betokening my will to carry
The burden of the emptiness,
You left behind with your departure.
May 6, 2016
May 6, 2016 at 2:10 PM UTC
I can dance,
I can act,
I can sing,
I am a clown.
Watch me dance and fall down,
Laugh at me,
Laugh with me,
I don't care for I am a clown.
Want to hear a joke?
Knock, knock and what do you get...?
An open door, a busy tent,
The ringmaster cracks his whip and on I run with the animals,
In time to the beat I tap my feet,
I am a clown.
I can cry,
I can feel,
I can laugh,
I am a clown.
Watch me sweep the spotlight,
Applaud when I'm done,
Applaud but not in awe,
I am a clown.
Am I the only person who doesn't get the gag?
Am I the only puppet person?
Pull my strings and I'll do what you want me to,
I am a clown,
But I don't feel the laughter that you do,
It's hard to laugh - so on with the make-up - a front.
Oh, to climb the ladder and do the trapeze,
Or walk the high wire,
But no! I am a clown,
Respect?
"Sorry you're a clown."
I gave up,
I gave in,
Gave my all,
But I am a clown.
Don't bother to watch the tears,
Disregard the sad clown,
Disregard the talent of farce,
"You're a clown, you don't feel."
The darkroom is where I belong,
On a photo to bring joy, to make people laugh,
I make you laugh - I can command you,
But I know that when you go home,
Your lips won't mention me except to condescend,
It's an art! I trained at RADA you know.
So home I go,
Alone,
To a place where I can cry,
Into the arms of my wife,
See my children run to me,
The ones who know me,
That's what it's all been for,
Now I truly am a smiling clown,
It's not so bad as a clown at home.
Aug 27, 2012
Aug 27, 2012 at 2:49 PM UTC
*A long long time ago
Before digital took over the planet.
My grandfather was an airman in WW2.
He never dropped a single bomb
or even fired a weapon in that war..
He was a bit of a pacifist
live and let live was his way.
Instead he aimed camera lenses
at the Germans snapping their country
on his belly lay on the planes belly.
At the airbase in the UK he printed his photographs.
enough to cover an airfield.
He met an English lady in the darkroom.
They printed their photographs together
mixing fixer and developer.
She got used to his crooked smile and big hands
He got used to her being there.
When the war ended he returned to the states
and opened a camera and photography shop.
He built a darkroom by hand
when it was finished he went back to England
on a cargo ship
and found the lady from in the darkroom.
he asked her to marry him
and she accepted.
when they returned to New York
he showed her the darkroom he built for them.
On the door was a note
held by a thumbtack
It said I fell in love with you
in the dark
but I want you to follow the light
with me for the rest of our lives.
A year later my dad was born
with a crooked smile and big hands
and also his love of photography.
He had the eye for
color and shadow and light.
After I was born I did not follow the
love of photography.
But would get into trouble at school
for writing poems in the margins
of my work books.
I found grandmas note that was
pinned on the darkroom door
she passed a way a few weeks ago.
And I was moved to tell this story.
Follow the light Grandma love.
look for a big man with a crooked smile
and big hands hes waiting for you.*
Nov 19, 2015
Nov 19, 2015 at 5:17 PM UTC
*The man with a crooked smile and big hands
A long long time ago
Before digital took over the planet.
My grandfather was an airman in WW2.
He never dropped a single bomb
or even fired a weapon in that war..
He was a bit of a pacifist
live and let live was his way.
Instead he aimed camera lenses
at the Germans snapping their country
on his belly lay on the planes belly.
At the airbase in the UK he printed his photographs.
enough to cover an airfield.
He met an English lady in the darkroom.
They printed their photographs together
mixing fixer and developer.
She got used to his crooked smile and big hands
He got used to her being there.
When the war ended he returned to the states
and opened a camera and photography shop.
He built a darkroom by hand
when it was finished he went back to England
on a cargo ship
and found the lady from in the darkroom.
he asked her to marry him
and she accepted.
when they returned to New York
he showed her the darkroom he built for them.
On the door was a note
held by a thumbtack
It said I fell in love with you
in the dark
but I want you to follow the light
with me for the rest of our lives.
A year later my dad was born
with a crooked smile and big hands
and also his love of photography.
He had the eye for
color and shadow and light.
After I was born I did not follow the
love of photography.
But would get into trouble at school
for writing poems in the margins
of my work books.
I found grandmas note that was
pinned on the darkroom door.
She had it in the things
I had clear from her room.
she passed a way a few weeks ago.
And I was moved to tell this story.
Follow the light Grandma love.
look for a big man with crooked smile
and big hands hes waiting for you.*
Aug 31, 2015
Aug 31, 2015 at 4:20 PM UTC
fragments of life
scattered on the photoshop floor
discarded moments
deleted before fully developed
urgency depicted as living for today
overexposing the instantaneous
cropping a disjointed existence
from the bitmap of impatience
why the aversion to time's darkroom
where future's blur slowly comes into focus
giving clarity to the contiguous
splicing realization from potential
cut to ending...
a panoramic view of destiny's horizon
where paths converge but never vanish
Dec 6, 2013
Dec 6, 2013 at 9:07 PM UTC
~
*if you're feeling sinister tonight, come inside the darkroom. picture yourself pouring over mental images of a demure young botanist, loitering around the trapdoor of nostalgia, kissing someone new for the first time.
now imagine she is conscious and clustered in titillating blur, her smile beachy and airborne, with only the slightest suggestion that something troublesome is lurking underneath.
can you see her double exposure? totally tranquil, she poses with an arsenal of poisonous plants, as if she’s already slipped their venom into your tea.*
~
Apr 5, 2023
Apr 5, 2023 at 12:17 PM UTC
I know this landscape is nonexistent
The wind flows out of the sky
Making pitter-patter of rain
In the drumming woods
My kid plays a violin
Snow melts on the distant hill
The rose weeps on the arid land
In the darkroom, the stars faded,
Wars on the screen never cease
My kid plays a violin
Brakes the silvery string
Look！blood has oozed from the wall.
Jul 15, 2013
Jul 15, 2013 at 8:32 PM UTC
My memory is just a darkroom, where every picture ever taken by eye sight:
Waits.
Develops.
They accumulate in Black and white,
Positive and negative.
My mind the developer, my thoughts the water, removing the excess silver halide.
What remains is a picture, a memory taken from this very life
They hang from thin lines fastened by close pins so delicate and so fine
To dry,
To develop
And remain to live in the safelight within my mind.
But you see that light has left,
Now every picture is
Too over exposed,
Too vague
And too undefined.
I’ve had too much drink, so much smoke.
A stop bath of the wrong kind.
Too much green and blue light.
You see, my darkroom is too bright
Now the pictures that hung from the close pin lines of life
dilute,
shrivel
And fade.
Now,
What remains is a picture-less memory, and no clear recollection or reflection.
No darkroom for every photograph ever taken by eyesight,
No pictures of black and white.
There is just one final question…
Who am I?
Jun 10, 2014
Jun 10, 2014 at 3:12 PM UTC
*England 1942
The war was endless she thought it would be over in six weeks when it was declared.
now three years later she found herself in this airfield crowded with young fighter pilots flying Spitfires and the bomber crews flying the stalwart Lancaster bombers.
She was twenty eight now getting to that age of being called a spinster of the parish. The young airmen were interested in her but really only for one thing.
She worked in the photography department of the RAF and developed pictures taken by the recon airmen of France and Germany and Holland .
Recently an American had joined her in the darkroom.
He was a big man and had a crooked smile and big hands he lay on the belly of the bomber plane taking pictures he laughed and said he never fired a gun in his life.
And that he had no beef with Germans he just fired his camera at them.
He liked to develop his own pictures and they worked alongside each other in the darkroom all though the war.
She got used to his crooked smile and big hands. He got used to her being there.
The war finally ended and he went back to the States. Where he opened a small photography store and built a darkroom with his own hands.
When it was finished he returned to England on a ***** steamer to save money. He knocked on the ladies door that had worked with him in the darkroom.
She answered and he asked her for her hand in marraige.
She accepted his proposal and they sailed back to new York.
When she explored the photography shop she found the darkroom.
On it was pinned a note in his nice neat handwriting.
It said I fell in love with you in the dark my love.
But I want you spend the rest of of your life following the light with me.
She was to be my grandma and he was my grandfather.
My father was born a year later
he had a crooked smile and big hands with a love of photography.
His specaility light and shadow.
I was born much later and did not share the family love of photography and was let off by God with only a crooked smile no big hands.
Instead I used to get into trouble at school for writing poems in the margins of my exercise books.
Grandma passed away a little while ago
i was given the task of clearing her personal items from the house.
In her memory box I found the note
in Grandfathers hand that he pinned on the door
of his darkroom so long ago.
It moved me to write this story.
So Go follow the light Grandma
Look for a big man
with a crooked smile and big hands
Hes waiting for you.*
Jul 2, 2016
Jul 2, 2016 at 4:51 PM UTC
Absentminded speech.
You had taken the scissors from the basket
in the darkroom, they were just
still in your hands, the ones
not covered in rust.
It was absentminded, that part
is important. Just absentminded,
like the way you'd play
with her hair or pretend not
to care,
like the way you'd talk with
your hands even when the
darkness spoke louder. The way
you'd nudge me, a "don't move"
elbow, to let me know you'd
dropped your film and I shouldn't
step for fear of stepping on it
like the shadows did.
I absentmindedly twirled a pen,
and you absentmindedly looked
down again and again,
scissors open, scissors closed,
running your fingers over
the little ***** between the blades
as I ran my fingers
over a little ink drawing I'd made.
You absentmindedly followed
my eyes with your own, and then
threw absentminded to the smoke,
up and out the window and gone,
and the smooth blade up and down
your arm.
It wasn't sharp. It couldn't even
cut the film. That's how you'd
dropped it in the first place.
Still watching my eyes, my dawning worry.
Oh, you. Ignorance reduced me
to child and pity before your
knowing eyes, but what do.
You know me, I know you.
A deliberate story now (absentminded
can't be filtered out of the smoke anymore),
of a girl you used to know.
Something to do with little screws
in every pocket of every
long-sleeved shirt she owned.
They had to be from something cheaper,
you mused. Mindedly.
Scissors don't come in bulk.
Little screws. Not razors, not knives.
Little screws.
You thought out loud, but it wasn't
thought. It was speech. It was
words you already knew.
Where'd they all come from?
You asked questions to give me
the answers.
I reached out for those ****
bright green plastic scissors
that wouldn't cut a piece
of film in a darkroom, because
fear gives light great powers.
You smiled at the anxiety in my
eyes. You chose then to stumble
upon the answer. (It wasn't scissors.)
To relieve me, you meant.You
meant to share without telling,
to lighten my head and dissipate
the ignorance like your
absentminded smoke.
You knew a girl...
But when you put knowledge
in this mind it gets picked up
and circled around and around,
centripetal acceleration, exponentially
flying, so fast, so high, what do I
do with it there. I build it up.
It tears me down.
I scanned your wrists for months.
I watched you pull your wallet out
of your pocket, checking the floor for
little screws.
You knew, ****** You knew
your wrists would stay smooth
as a scissor blade, smooth as
darkness. You gave me the story
deliberately, but you gave me the
answer absentmindedly.
You didn't mean to.
You gave me the worry,
you gave me the thought.
You didn't tell me where to find
a ******* screwdriver.
Dec 25, 2013
Dec 25, 2013 at 11:22 PM UTC
While passing quiet morning moments,
A breakfast feels abandoned on the bed,
And bright window light illuminates drafts,
Like dreams strewn 'cross a darkroom, and shadows
Of negatives, overexposed in cold tones,
Fluttering like flashes of thought in my head.
I sit hardly trapped as much as captivated
By a life lead in dread of realizing potential
Like a great actor afflicted by stage fright,
If the proud eagle were afraid to take flight,
And though power comes with such telling insight,
I sit hardly trapped as much as captivated,
Sighing in surrender, paralyzed by my Light.
Aug 6, 2010
Aug 6, 2010 at 9:18 AM UTC
Nostalgic hypochondriac,
psychopathic goddess--we pray to your weekends.
Sunday night industries hold lunch breaks,
starting with a red bear,
a crude blue-eyed, red bear
by the hands of a child.
Soft steps. Physical form.
Its eyes suddenly gleam
as it moves,
red colors run
forming waving arms that swim into river canals.
Dripping rain forming acid that eats away at the sides of the darkroom. Winding staircase
trees rooted and spiraled like broken porcupine barbs existing off the wall. Each leaf made
of copper, tips of yellow
floating just as drops from the beginning,
expanding to the form
of hot air balloons.
Some of them supernova'd
--momentarily spreading themselves thin
--layers of butter coating this world.
each puddle of lard echoes with the voice
and memory of silver-eyed Alice
and her children.
Irises of cut granite,
wine-stained pupils,
she breaths like Jesus on the cross
--inhales of his bear pelt.
Mar 5, 2013
Mar 5, 2013 at 2:38 PM UTC
Aubrey took in the dame
in the red dress, her hams
moving under the tight cloth,
her ringed fingers showing
as she moved her hands, the
pointed dugs like small noses
pressed against the redness.
He took in her hair, noticed
the colour, the waves, the
highlights. He sipped coffee.
Cappuccino, white froth on
his upper lip, wiped off with
the back of his hand. She
stood window shopping;
stood moving her legs, her
hams in **** motion still.
He leaned back. He eased
against the chair. She had
stooped forward. Her eyes
price gauging, hands behind
her back, holding a hand
bag, rings showing. He
settled on her neckline.
A necklace, silver, a cross
without a Christ. She turned
and gazed up the shopping
mall. She sighed. He watched.
Sipped coffee. The waitress
who brought it walked with
a wiggle. Tiny backside, tight,
she thin as if some Modigliani
dame. She walked by holding
an empty tray. Wiggled, head
level. The dame in the red dress
turned and faced him. Their
eyes met; green on brown;
hers on his. She looked away
taking nothing of him. He
drank in her eyes and mouth;
lingered in his darkroom mind.
He sipped again. She folded
her arms, handbag hanging,
eyeing her small gold watch.
Aubrey took in her legs,
the hairlessness, the silk
smooth suntanned legs.
Younger he may have
drooled; now he just
gazed and gazed. She
looked up the long mall.
He sat up and downed
his coffee. Her Romeo,
if such, arrived. They
embraced; he swung
her around. Excitement,
bright eyes, smiles.
They walked off. Aubrey
watched her go, not
unhappy or ill, he'd had
his sight and had his fill.
Aug 8, 2013
Aug 8, 2013 at 10:10 AM UTC
as the gray scale pictures appeared
i saw you bring yourself near
and the blackness so well hid your face
even with the red lights filling the space
you were in the back corner i was across the way
making masterpieces after every mundane day
with my hair in a braid clipped up on my head
and your hands in your pockets when you scared me to death
all those photos of yours, like the trigger of a gun
i held my arms wide and smiled with the sun
now you wont even hold my blank canvas eyes
and yours smile to me on the stairs every time
but you wont say a word nor make a sound
you won't even blink while my soul hits the ground
i guess all the chemicals made me insane
and my dream didn't help, you pressed to my face
in a blue plaid shirt, i see you across the room
i guess i was the only one to feel the fumes
but somehow i know that's not true
there were the days of just you and i
and the world around us-where are the lights?
i remember awaiting my pride to take form
and trying too hard and feeling so torn
and holding so tightly to the print you made
for no real reason besides the look you gave
showing off to you for no purpose at all
i know it meant nothing, just a cushioned fall
now you wont even hold my blank canvas eyes
you know yours strung me in a web of lies
you walk away when my skeleton comes around
do you see this smile? it's sinking to the ground
i guess all the negatives inverted my view
and this nightmare rewired the image of you
in a blue plaid shirt, you wore it yesterday
i guess i was the only one to see it that way
but somehow i wanted it to fade
how could you look in my eyes
and know about the scars i despise
how could you see into my heart
when i never saw you coming from the start
how could you sever that broken touch
without even asking me what i want
but today you looked into these blank canvas eyes
and yours, hidden by glass, were the first to shine
and you quoted a movie and laughed with me
and pulled me towards you, my smile you didn't see
i guess your arms are strong as the walls
the hidden room that was home to it all
in a blue plaid shirt, i see you across the room
but i still won't admit that i felt those fumes
even though you know the sad truth
Dec 19, 2012
Dec 19, 2012 at 8:30 PM UTC
I made myself a darkroom
and hid myself in it
Working with the chemicals
that harmed me
developing what I pictured
as beauty
coming out of of my darkroom
holding the image with my excited hands
set it down
then
I waited
and waited
till someone would pass by
see what I saw as beautiful
then
only to hear
"what the hell is that?'
Jun 21, 2012
Jun 21, 2012 at 12:26 AM UTC
you are [in total]
six syllables.
in order:
long ā
short ă
long ē
short ĭ
short ē
short ă
of course that is not all
you are.
you are
rainy runner
darkroom pining from schooldays bygone.
paint-splattered psych major.
without disdain of stiff gin & tonics.
not one to shy away
from my david byrne dancing.
sexy/sleek/sweaty saunamate.
someone to:
call me sweetie like a
grandmother would.
drink a beer in bed with--
glad as the darkness pushes us warmly together.
Jun 23, 2011
Jun 23, 2011 at 8:22 PM UTC
I found myself in the hollow
Painting pictures of you
With no color and all the memory
A film with audio cut
Silently grab my hands
Trusting knives for fingertips
Show me how how to feel again
Painting this backdrop
Of the darkroom we hide in
Dec 9, 2014
Dec 9, 2014 at 7:26 PM UTC
*A long long time ago
Before digital took over the planet.
My grandfather was an airman in WW2.
He never dropped a single bomb
or even fired a weapon in that war..
He was a bit of a pacifist
live and let live was his way.
Instead he aimed camera lenses
at the Germans snapping their country
on his belly lay on the planes belly.
At the airbase in the UK he printed his photographs.
enough to cover an airfield.
He met an English lady in the darkroom.
They printed their photographs together
mixing fixer and developer.
She got used to his crooked smile and big hands
He got used to her being there.
When the war ended he returned to the states
and opened a camera and photography shop.
He built a darkroom by hand
when it was finished he went back to England
on a cargo ship
and found the lady from in the darkroom.
he asked her to marry him
and she accepted.
when they returned to New York
he showed her the darkroom he built for them.
On the door was a note
held by a thumbtack
It said I fell in love with you
in the dark
but I want you to follow the light
with me for the rest of our lives.
A year later my dad was born
with a crooked smile and big hands
and also his love of photography.
He had the eye for
color and shadow and light.
After I was born I did not follow the
love of photography.
But would get into trouble at school
for writing poems in the margins
of my work books.
I found grandmas note that was
pinned on the darkroom door
she passed a way a few weeks ago.
And I was moved to tell this story.
Follow the light Grandma love.
look for a big man with a crooked smile
and big hands hes waiting for you.*
Oct 23, 2015
Oct 23, 2015 at 10:39 PM UTC
What is love? Is it a catchy song or an
Overused word or maybe just a dream deferred,
A withered word,
A lonely blackbird just pecking at the eyes of the undeserving.
Love’s hatred of me is unnerving.
I suppose self esteem wasn’t my strongest suit,
A beer gut in college, acne to boot,
And with this realization, heartbreak followed sooth,
And my self-image came out all blurry.
Someone left the darkroom in a hurry.
Compliments don’t make sense,
And that’s just my two cents,
But who really wants to hear that?
I’m filled with useless information because my
Only best friend was a screen.
The internet is hot on the scene.
Tumblr kids felt my pain,
But it wasn’t the same.
If cats weren’t so funny, I’d be dead.
Is it really true? I don’t want to admit it.
The truth sets you free, but I don’t think it did it.
The truth that I face kept me down in this place,
Down into a room full of cider.
Desperation climbs higher and higher.
You’re a butterfly, and I’m a spider.
Say you love me?
Nobody likes liars.
I suppose I’m just sore ‘cause I got lucky for a week
And then, like always, my body was swept
Under the rug.
I take life as it comes,
I roll with the punches,
But the punches are getting to be too strong to bear
And I’m sick of depression’s tight grip on my hair.
You don't get to choose if you get hurt in this world,
But you do have some say in who hurts you.
Apr 24, 2015
Apr 24, 2015 at 6:00 PM UTC
collected
by absence
his body
a truant hobby
pursued
by career
my father
built himself
a darkroom
where he’d often
retire
to adjust
the variances
of a single
delay
to pace
as perfectly
as the many
visitors
he was wont
to follow
with a great
and private
affection
Aug 21, 2012
Aug 21, 2012 at 1:14 AM UTC
guiding
blank page muses
and muses riding ********
horses with iron honey legs
they combust in liquid
and finger themselves
in darkroom thighs
fluorescent ***
in the eaves of heaven
i wanna drip off your fingers
and
onto your belly
and
rollerskate into
your ****
and
tattoo your
lips shut
with sewn butterflies to the skyfields
the
skygrass
and
skykisses
and
name myself after your
blank spaces
and the forest fire days
of august new years
no one talks about you anymore
but i still
wonder the
way the salt
wonders about the tears
and the dark about
the midnight
if that really was
you
a valley out of the winding
sheets
and into the golden haired
hands of a long ago love
well practiced with incision
Nov 17, 2013
Nov 17, 2013 at 12:58 AM UTC
Somewhere within the silence of sound...
Somewhere within the distance of eternity...
Somewhere beyond the borders of the next universe...
lies a darksome note.
A darksome note laced with supernatural black ice.
A note hidden in a darkroom.
A sacred cryptex gaurded by ancient entities...
the same ancient entities that witnessed the inception of illumination.
We are all doomed.
Gene
Jun 5, 2013
Jun 5, 2013 at 7:37 PM UTC
*A long long time ago way
before digital took over the planet.
My grandfather was an airman in WW2.
He never dropped a single bomb
or even fired a weapon in that war..
He was a bit of a pacifist
live and let live was his way.
Instead he aimed camera lenses
at the Germans snapping their country
on his belly lay on the planes belly.
At the american airbase
in the UK he printed his photographs.
enough to cover an airfield.
He met an English lady in the darkroom.
They printed their photographs together
mixing fixer and developer.
working alongside each other
in the dark.
She got used to his crooked smile and big hands
He got used to her being there.
When the war ended he returned to the states
and opened a camera and photography shop.
He built a darkroom by hand
when it was finished he went back to England
on a cargo ship.
And found the lady from in the darkroom.
he asked her to marry him
and she accepted.
when they returned to New York
he showed her the darkroom he built for them.
On the door was a note in his handwriting
held by a thumbtack
It said I fell in love with you
in the dark.
But I want you to follow the light
with me for the rest of our lives.
A year later my dad was born
with a crooked smile and big hands.
And also his love of photography.
He had the eye for
color and shadow and light.
After I was born I did not follow the
love of photography.
But would get into trouble at school
for writing poems in the margins
of my work books.
I cleared out grandmas house the other day.
I found grandmas note that was
pinned on the darkroom door
she kept it in her souvenir box..
she had passed a way a few weeks ago.
And I was moved to tell this story.
So follow the light Grandma love.
look for a big man with a crooked smile
and big hands hes waiting for you.*
Jan 15, 2016
Jan 15, 2016 at 3:57 PM UTC