"docent" poems
I'm going to tell you a story,
About a girl,
Who wanted nothing but fame and glory.
She dreamt of days without a worry.
A world when people have no need to be sorry.
She sits back and enjoys the moment,
With music in her ears as her docent.
Tunes from varying artist,
From tove lo, to G eazy, to the weeknd.
Creating moods that she never knew exist.
Everything was just pefect.
It began to rain,
She turns down the volume.
She cries quietly,
Listening to the stories drops create in her brain.
She tries not to remember the pain,
But the memories continued to swirl and destroy her,
Like a bunch of internal hurricanes.
Then, she remembers the relief of cutring open her veins.
She clenches her fists,
She tries to resit.
The voices begin to scream,
Stripping away her self esteem.
She covers her ears,
She continues to Cry!
"No more fears no more fears!"
She pops some pills trying to get high.
But she took too much,
And she dies.
This is just a story,
Of a girl who was used for fame and glory.
Jun 10, 2015
Jun 10, 2015 at 6:29 PM UTC
I am happy most when alone,
Don't get me wrong I like having company,
I have two best friends.
But, I am happiest alone.
It's just my nature.
Don't think anyone will change that so easily.
I am happiest alone.
My heart docent hurt in the presence of others,
Nor dose it ache in their absence.
I like silence,
For me there is none awkward.
I am happiest alone because that makes me feel free.
Dec 5, 2015
Dec 5, 2015 at 12:03 PM UTC
In her dreams, the docent
maneuvers schoolchildren
down museum corridors,
shepherding their bodies
into evacuated galleries
where nothing changes
except the patterns
of nails hammered
into plaster walls.
She speaks pedantic
falsehoods until one
by one the children
disengage and find
themselves a constellation
of nails upon which to hang.
A renaissance takes time, but
not as much as you might think.
Come midnight,
the museum is full
of masterpieces.
And though the works
of art make her weep,
the docent is inspired
to study each small frame
for a brushstroke
that might signify
the break of dawn.
Mar 15, 2017
Mar 15, 2017 at 9:44 AM UTC
I wore a gold Star.
I bear a tattoo.
When Six Million died
I was one of the few,
Through the mercy of God
or the missed chance of Fate,
I escaped from the boxcar
into winter’s dim light.
My parents and sister,
Long are dust on the wind.
Their faith and their race
were their only known sins
Now, though stooped and arthritic,
I still testify
To the bitter cup tasted
when the Six Million died.
(An elderly docent at the Shoah Center recalls his brush with death at the hands of the Gestapo)
Dec 14, 2013
Dec 14, 2013 at 11:33 AM UTC
in the words of Pat Benitar , love is a battle field.
fought over and over again
tho we get broken and torn ,
we pull ourselves back together and stitch that heart back on our sleeve
but why?
why fight for something that 30% of the world docent believe in?
is it because we are so desperate for companionship
that we will believe in some crazy myth, that promises us true love ?
what if i told you i have seen it?
what if i told you its there , and waiting for you
i'm not going to promise that you'll find it
or that your journey to it will be easy
but it's true
love is out there
so all those who are in love
come together
lets fight for what we believe in
change the world
we all know it needs it...
Jan 30, 2011
Jan 30, 2011 at 6:47 PM UTC
A mist, but not of memories or ghosts,
And not a silent mist - a noisy one
Drifts darkly over this altar to the past
The docent pauses for each motor home
Gear-growling up the unexpected slope
Along the road from that point to this one
Well-paved and posted: fifteen miles per hour
For cell-‘phone shots where each historic death
Is marked with stones among the sunlit grass
The docent speaks of her peoples: Cheyenne,
Arapaho, Sioux, and soldier boys blue
With frequent and reflective pauses as
A Winnebago circles Last Stand Hill
Apr 13, 2019
Apr 13, 2019 at 4:06 PM UTC
If the dead teach the living then why must I live?
Jun 20, 2014
Jun 20, 2014 at 1:51 PM UTC
Where is that daunting monster
Boogie man in life’s shadow
Master mentor and concierge
Whose touch I’ve come to know
To you I’ll waste no breath
Beauty is not long and septic
My daunting docent of death
Midwife to misery, work quick
What small dignities remain
Strung of vomiting seconds
Cultures a pearl of great pain
To ferry a man of no direction
Sep 9, 2020
Sep 9, 2020 at 9:42 AM UTC
Familiar enough, they live in the same flat
Sleeping on the other side of paper walls
Phone calls muffled. Or clear as day
When nighttime drama has been peaked
Passing when scurrying
Off to work, out for a walk
Gone to the beach for a breather.
They politely nod with pleasantries and smiles
The flat is surrounded
By invisible but ever-present
Life forms
Who arrived recently
The three sages, the visitor, the novice
In the novitiate all strangers
We try hard. To be civil, kind, pleasant
We would do well to have a warm relationship
Sitting at breakfast on Tuesday morning
Master encounters the viejo leaving
“oh, hi”
Frequently those would be
The only two syllables to pass
Each of their lips
“We are here to guide, protect and educate”.
The disembodied women and children
Steeped in ages of tradition
Have found their way here. Or were they summoned?
Rising slowly the Master stops the flow
And cuts into recognized routine
“I have something for you,
I made it last night.”
That evening, Tuesday, another chance encounter
The docent, el viejo and the Master
Chat comfortably, alone, without the others
A quiet and peaceful cabal
The building was a shop
Or perhaps, a parts supply warehouse Which
Upon installation of sacred statues
Became a sanctuary. With a loft
Do you practice in a particular way?
Are you comfortable in the expectations
When your inevitable death arrives
Are your wills stout and resolute?
You have heard of Kabbalah, of course
The concepts strange to me
Numerology
I’ll stick to what I know, goodnight.
Let them go to slumberland
Attend the special space
Where they can see
A Pure Land
May 19, 2019
May 19, 2019 at 9:13 PM UTC