"eared" poems
Based on a painting, "Nuclear Puppies", by Julie Nagel, 2001
You’re a mutant, you know—
got funny dog babies sprouting
out of your head like they were
ears. Those copies of your face
look up at a sky of ashy gray,
perked and tense. Are you listening
to yourself? What choir
of dog-eared deformities
sings to you? Maybe they should have
howled louder before we dropped The Bomb.
Maybe the yellow caterwaul of their
melting butter bodies would have stayed our hand.
I doubt it though.
This is what we do. We burn things.
We tinker, adding and subtracting until
what’s left is blasphemy—until what’s left is
you. A yellow almost-dog, a sagging
body with melted flesh where there should
be fur. Sad monster; beg your alms
from the atomic Frankensteins who made you.
Your skyward eyes are bright, still happy
anywhere but here. But your abominable
body lies here staring into gray space with
Alpo still sticky on your nose, wet, brown snow.
May 8, 2014
May 8, 2014 at 12:11 AM UTC
I used to flip through my pages
Scanning
There were some interesting points
Some high, some low, some kind of just sitting in-between after the good and the bad cancelled each other out, but mostly I
Skimmed by,
Until I met you,
You can't be summed up, there's too much to you, you're too rich, too deep
Too interesting to be confined to a few measly paragraphs and sped-read through
You deserve attention, you deserve time,
And the more I've gotten to know you, the more I realize you're the entire book, the entire story in beautiful, vivid detail.
I'm going to take my time getting to the end of you, and I dog-eared the page where you entered my heart, so that if I ever forget how it feels to fall for you, I can go back to the start
Feb 5, 2016
Feb 5, 2016 at 3:14 AM UTC
you're not your hair:
you can cut it dye it curl it straighten it shave it bend it twist it;
you're not your face:
you can hide it under layers of make-up you can put on lenses you can change your face in a matter of minutes;
you're not your skin:
you can cut it draw on it bite it tear it;
you're not your body:
you can lose weight gain weight;
you're not your clothes:
strip them off;
never reduce
yourself
to
a colour
a number
an adjective
a noun
never reduce
yourself
to a simple
word
you are
the thoughts you have at 3 a.m.
the lame jokes you tell your friends
the art you create
the books you read
the pages you have dog-eared
the quotes you have highlighted
the coffee you never finished drinking
the movie you watch after midnight, wrapped in a blanket
the chocolate cake you ate that night with that girl
the slice of pizza you could've eaten but you gave to your best friend
the kiss that still burns on your lips
the cigarettes that sting in your lungs long after you smoked them
the dreams you dream
the worlds you build in your mind
the song that's stuck in your head
the moments you're in the shower
the iloveyous
the ikindaguessilikeyous
the icareforyous
the seeyoulaters
the words you say
the smiles you smile
the laughs you laugh
the loves you love
the hates you hate
you are
an entire universe:
you're stars
and planets
and galaxies
and asteroids
and comets
you are a cosmos
trapped in
a shell.
you are
a gazillion worlds
locked in
a human cage.
never think
of yourself
as of
anything
less.
Mar 31, 2014
Mar 31, 2014 at 7:49 PM UTC
Trash can, wastebasket;
the place we throw it all away.
Used tissues--soggy mascara, dried *****
or the babies that would never be,
and the heaps of food waste, human waste.
Wasted human.
Why do we take ourselves and the people we used to love,
toss people and our person deep within a hole of shame,
darkness, misery, guilt, worry, frustration, fear?
If someone only said to you, or to me, when we dig deep
into the ground and find the place no one will find us
or them, the people we are burying--
if they only said,
"You are not trash."
Our emotions refuse to become refuse, the remains of
being unwanted, as we perceive ourselves to be.
But we is just me, and even though I can't hear the voice
I long to hear above my own, the sounds reverberate in my chest,
next to my heart, where I heard them last.
The last time we spoke your fingers did not reach for mine.
Your jeans did not rip in the same one spot.
The dog that I picked that you picked after you went back,
his tail wagging all the way on the ride back to his new home,
did not kiss my face and my eyes and ears like he loves to do.
Even though you didn't still love me, you did before,
now thrown hastily, yet decidedly in the trash can outside your door.
I dropped off the last remnant of your physical being,
an old rabbit-eared antennae.
I didn't, couldn't look in your trash can,
or stand in the driveway longer than was needed to drop and run
the hell away from crumbling gravel, a window newly aluminum foiled, and the motorcycle kept under surveillance at all times.
I hope he looked on his camera screen and saw walking,
talking, feeling, breathing human trash gliding
down the sidewalk, feet pattering into a jog.
The grass licked my feet and tangled in my toes on the way
to the one place my sighs could sink lower than my feet,
deep into the warm upholstery of my car seat, the grandma car,
the dented, imperfect, but mostly reliable car
away, far away, to a place where someone would look curiously,
pick up the trash, my trash, me, and say,
"It's beautiful."
Jul 4, 2016
Jul 4, 2016 at 12:04 AM UTC
On the south side of kelso if it's there that ya choose to go
Well if its there ya go then ya just gotta know bout a man named tweaker joe
Now tweaker, he's a scrapper and if ya go down on his door
Don't you worry about wakin him up. He aint slept since 74
Well he's weird, weird tweaker joe
The weirdest tweaker in South Kelso
Weirder than a three toed frog
Stranger than a five eared dog
Now tweaker hes a scrapper and he likes his shiny things
And he likes to see what fun he has by the chaos that he brings
He got a custom BMX bike with a flashlight on the grill. He got 32 lb of brass in his pack, he got a dope bag in his shoe.
Well he's weird, weird tweaker joe
The weirdest tweaker in South Kelso
Weirder than a three toed frog
Stranger than s five eared dog
NOW Friday bout a week ago Tweaker scrappin cars. But at the end of the alley sat a cop named Thurman and ooh dat cop looked ******
Well he cast his light upon joe cuz Thurman had a plan
Tweaker joe learned a lesson bout messin with a future Sherriff man
Well he's weird, weird tweaker joe
The weirdest tweaker in South Kelso
Weirder than a three toed frog
Stranger than s five eared dog
Well the 2 men took to runnin and hes dragged down to the jail
Joey looked like a wrung out tweaker with a couple of teeth left
Well he's weird, weird tweaker joe
The weirdest tweaker in South Kelso
Weirder than a three toed frog
Stranger than s five eared dog
Well he's weird, weird tweaker joe
The weirdest tweaker in South Kelso
Weirder than a three toed frog
Stranger than s five eared dog
May 27, 2019
May 27, 2019 at 9:04 AM UTC
Hip hop. Equals art stop. That crude **** stopped musical fusion
Right in its tracks.
When it first landed, it was still music with a lotta spittle flying.
Not naming names. I listened to a lot of it.
Then Gangsta rap hit. Oh ****
Cant accuse me of blind judgment, I still check it out from time to time
How do you say.Get diverse mud flappers. Know the history.
learn to play an instrument and read it so you can write it. Then come back an see me.
Who am I?.
John Q public.
Pavlov's dog.
Tin Pan Ali.
Long Tall sally.
Sachmo. Scratch less.
Yard-bird.
Donald Bird.
Stubborn ****
Stuff out there is weak as thrice used tea bags. And cost more to get unless you got
a peg leg and a parrot ******** on yer shoulder.
Lyrically, man my six year old says more about less with **** left over. What?
Flame out digitized No talent constructs that make me wanna hurl, url give a dog a bone.
Tin eared, tone def hoochies and synthetic cool cats. Not to mention the rough neks.
Looking like they pooped their pants six times and forgot how to belt up.
There are some real deal talents out there but it is like pickin peanuts out ****
After disco died. Yes I said disco. It has been a circle **** in the cemetery after dark. Naw mean.
But I digress.
.
Sep 24, 2012
Sep 24, 2012 at 4:42 AM UTC
Day of mist: day of tarnish
with hands
unserviceable, I wait
for the milk van
the one-eared cat
laps its gray paw
and the coal fire burns
outside, the little hedge leaves are
become quite yellow
a milk-film blurs
the empty bottles on the windowsill
no glory descends
two water drops poise
on the arched green
stem of my neighbor's rose bush
o bent bow of thorns
the cat unsheathes its claws
the world turns
today
today I will not
disenchant my twelve black-gowned examiners
or bunch my fist
in the wind's sneer.
5.4k
The seasons circled back again
To touch from start to end
I feel the summer creeping forth;
Its voice is in the wind.
The warmth is like a long lost book
I open once again
To stroke aside each dog-eared page
To see where this began:
Two years ago, two summers past
On morning such as this
The sun was climbing up the sky,
The grass was touched with mist.
I chased the dawn down past the lake
That imitated glass
The early-morning gentle air
Breathed wind, so soft and chaste.
We moved then like the moon and sun,
One far and one behind.
I followed shrinking shadows while
You basked in morning's shine.
A wistful turn would break that spell,
Your warmth was hard to miss
There in the daybreak's balmy air
So fresh, so new, so crisp.
And you- the sun- you rose and came
Like light across the ground
My breathless lips would part in awe,
Yet utter not a sound.
Sweet Sunshine thieved my breath away
And filled my marveling eyes
The once eternal nightingale
Had turned her back on night.
That was the long-lost summer when
All things were then in bloom
The beginning of the ending when
The Sun fell for the Moon.
May 13, 2015
May 13, 2015 at 11:12 AM UTC
It was hard to miss Jerry
in the corner
holding court
over the bran muffin.
Flurries of judgement and wisdom
flying across coffee dappled pages
as he sentenced a large cup of
Paruvian Dark Roast
to be ******
7 am Dan never flinched
steeling his tenured chair at
a spot one section of stir sticks away
calculably just out of reach
of the regularly scheduled tantrum.
An auburn-haired newbie
fanes camoflage
peeking over two pages of Obituaries
she never intended to read.
Her raised and nearly detached eyebrows
hover above the dateline like a magic trick.
And on every table fall
scattered leaves
of press print trees
unsorted and littered with intent
by careless absorbers of trivia.
Disconnected
ear-budded
footnotes of humanity
see nothing
hear nothing
using the disarrayed World News as
enormous coasters
unmoved by hyper-ventilating compulsives
pushing panic buttons through
desperate quests to uncover
one alphabetically organized set
of local news.
Of the papers not strewn
the remnant holds anxious
on a distant wall
a throng of flopping
rabbit-eared
step children
dangling precariously
from unaccomodating magazine racks
like smoky orphans from
windows in a fiery building.
Disordered.
Disrespected.
Discarded...words are
Jews in the holocaust.
Death of a voice.
We are irreverent in our silence
diminishing genius through apathy
put off by the imposition to be challenged
choosing disposable principles
above responsible knowledge.
Everything is disposable - cameras, cars,
relationships, loyalty, babies...and wisdom -
crumpling Pulitzer prize authors
and discarding WW2 veterans
just to get to the cartoons.
Apr 30, 2014
Apr 30, 2014 at 11:15 PM UTC
"I knew this girl once,
she had long hair, so long it whispered tiny kisses along her hips and waist
she had the oddest bluest eyes i'd ever seen, the color of the sky right before it gets completely dark
her thick, long eyelashes framed those eyes, and freckles formed constellations across her cheeks
i could almost draw the big dipper and Orion's belt on her milky white face.
She didn't know i existed but i admired her from afar. I could tell she was educated- She always had some form of poetry in her hand. But of all the things i could have noticed about her i noticed her bookmarks. She would lose them all the time, i would see her chasing after the scraps of paper as they flew through the wind down the street. She'd stick anything in between those pages, wrappers of all sorts, leaves, pennies, shoelaces, once i even saw a page ripped from a different book. It became my favorite game to guess what the next bookmark would be. After awhile she stopped chasing the various bookmarks across the city and she cut all that long hair off, then awhile after that she started using unoriginal, uninspired plain old bookmarks.Then even awhile that she stopped bringing books altogether, until one day she didn't show up. Nobody knew that beautiful, mysterious, bookmark making girl was locked up inside her own mind. Nobody knew she hated her long hair and her freckles and even those baby blues. Nobody knew that she couldn't stand to live in her skin anymore so much that she swallowed a couple pills one night to ease away the pain. Even worse was she didn't know i watched her for so long and thought she was the most interesting human being i'd ever encountered. That girl committed suicide because she hated herself learn from her mistake, my mistake, everyone who ever noticed her bookmarks mistake, and don't do this, don't off yourself with a .45 before you've even had a chance to live" he's desperate now
"please please you don't have to do this" he sputters
I answer simply " I never was much of a bookmark girl, i always dog-eared my pages"
bang
Nov 6, 2013
Nov 6, 2013 at 6:35 PM UTC
for AR and Maria, oh heck,
for The Crew
**A dog ear is a phrase that refers to the folded down corner of a book page, a dog ear can serve as a bookmark.
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dog_ears**
~~~~~~
we fold a page corner down,
here we pause in this poetry book,
for now, a marker of incompletion,
or not
a passage, a phrase,
whole stands on its own,
but today crew,
slated for an exit,
a return-to-someday,
but aside, aside, discarded till...
*all on that day
run to the mountain,
the mountain wont hide you
run to the sea,
the sea will not have you
and run to your grave,
your grave will not hold you
all on that day*
so I, sinnerman,
injured my book,
I hurt that page
disgraced, act of disgraceful,
but
I am injured
and don't have no cares
but come the day of
return
the day I hope to must to believe in,
twice as much,
all on that day,
when the sea,
the mountains,
and the risen dead,
have me back,
to my proper place
even though
will be dog tired,
to that dog-eared page,
in that worn old notebook
return,
pick up
my sticks,
my pens,
that have no erasers,
start again
just where I know,
just when I don't,
but this why I know,
but to that dog-eared return,
the page where
I died,
I shall return,
all on that day
~~~~~~~~~~
Oh, sinner man, where you're gonna run to all on that day?
Oh, sinner man, where you're gonna run to?
Oh, sinner man, where you're gonna run to?
Oh, sinner man, where you're gonna run to all on that day?
Run to the moon, "Moon, won't you hide me?"
Run to the sea, "Sea, won't you hide me?"
Run to the sun, "Sun, won't you hide me all on that day?"
Lord said, "Sinner man, moon'll be a bleeding"
Lord said, "Sinner man, sea'll be a sinking"
Lord said, "Sinner man, sun'll be a freezing all on that day"
Oh, sinner man, where you're gonna run to?
Oh, sinner man, where you're gonna run to?
Oh, sinner man, where you're gonna run to all on that day?
Run to the Lord, "Lord, won't You hide me?"
Run to the Lord, "Lord, won't You hide me?"
Run, run, "Lord, won't You hide me all on that day?"
Lord said, "Sinner man, you should've been a praying"
Lord said, "Sinner man, should've been a praying"
Lord said, "Sinner man, should've been a praying all on that day"
Oh, sinner man, where you're gonna run to?
Oh, sinner man, where you're gonna run to?
Oh, sinner man, where you're gonna run to all on that day?
Oh, sinner man, where you're gonna run to?
Oh, sinner man, where you're gonna run to?
Oh, sinner man, where you're gonna run to all on that day?
www.youtube.com/watch?v=H4h55nVbt4c
May 18, 2014
May 18, 2014 at 11:41 AM UTC
Dog eared pages
betray my thoughts
or rather the lack there of
I think
then blink
But i'm thinking faster
or is it blinking?
It doesn't matter
Nothing is working
Inspiration dances
Romances
entrances
like a cornish pixie
teases
My muse has gone
his return I await
with bated breath
I wait like fate
Nov 24, 2011
Nov 24, 2011 at 11:01 PM UTC
I love the warm smell more than baked bread.
I love the old stories flooding back through my head.
I love the middle-age chatter, with child like mutters,
finding old favorites in old familiar covers.
I love the personalised fountain-penned message,
carefully scribed and meticulously dated.
I don't care about the number of dog eared pages,
or the tell-tale signs of well worn aging.
Tea stains and small tears - they don't bother me,
each tell a new tale beyond what I can see.
I love the weight of the years sitting in my hand,
I love the tether to past lives multi-second-hand.
With memories of libraries with warm worn carpets,
wall to wall adventures and sun faded artists,
battered yellow seats, shooshed conversations,
quietly spoken protests at the books being rationed.
I stayed past closing, riding trains of free thought
with Tin Tin, Asterix and old Mrs Pepperpot.
I'm still drawn to the pages and the feeling inside
second-hand stories where memories reside.
Nov 28, 2018
Nov 28, 2018 at 5:03 PM UTC
I am tangled in your breath
exhaling the need
to hide in the corners of your touch
enslaved in lashes moistened in tears
tracing the compass of my face,
I swallow this saline-tainted want of us
upon my thirsty tongue
Enya-laced candlelight
soothing my soul,
the flavour of your gaze
seeping into the hunger of my veins....
You are a predestined addiction,
my inevitable attraction
I worship you in moonlight
in redemption beyond the fragments
of stained glass translations
a blindfolded religion
bound in all the words
we've tasted behind
the veil of unspoken confessions,
now dangling from the tip of your tongue;
You adorn me in a blushed haze,
a heaven unleashed in the colours
of your touch;
There is sanctuary in the curve
of this beautiful weakness,
I awaken on the edge
of wishes falling from your smile,
holding on to words that are
now and always
ours, alone....
The map into this omen awaits
scribed upon dog-eared pages
of this prophecy of life;
Love is a verse faded
beneath the trace of fingertips
longing to unwrap the secrets of infinity
hiding between desolate leather binders
forgotten in the shadows
tossed beneath an altar of unanswered prayers
bleeding before the sacrifice,
an intimate revelation
smeared upon a ruby-stained dagger
extracted from the heart of a dying dream
a pardoned demise delivered
in the verdict
of this reign of reality...
all I ever needed,
all I ever needed
was you...
I navigate through the cirrus of your sighs
in delicate echoes
fragments of your breath
wrap around me like the sun
invading the impending storm
in the last minutes of calm
seducing the sapphire-kissed stillness
in an azure rage
a liquid euphoria
racing through my body,
piercing into this drought of me;
thunder invades the tranquil horizons
of my inhibitions
exposed and lost,
so lost
in the rush
of your fragile rain...
Sep 11, 2012
Sep 11, 2012 at 3:44 PM UTC
My Lucifer, unwitting Muse, dog-eared Vonnegut,
afrobeatnik third eye, howls escaping
from your headphones, wailing about secrets, about infidelity,
about analyzing life until there ain’t nothin’
left. Then you shuffle by in your black and white Adidas,
hair in twists, wearing the striped sweater
of nihilistic intent, quoting the rants of Holden Caulfield
in your blog like you never didn’t know him.
I never asked to know you, to want who I can’t have
when I can’t even love myself. And every fiber
Of my being yearns for reciprocation. What is there
to return? What is there to feel, you meditate on truth,
fallen angel in the parlor of rebellion, blasphemous goodbye,
bright and morning star simpering like crickets in the palms
of daybreak. Your musicality radiates from subway chatter
and overheard profanity down El Camino Real.
I take in your ballad at my post office mailbox,
in the abandoned echoes of daydream monologues.
You’re a philosopher, exploring theory of mind, a cartographer,
mapping the labyrinth of your deepest desires.
Tell me again about desires, demonstrations of divine sadism. Tell me
about human empathy, the animated faces of wordless expression,
the metaphysics of free will, my beginning and my end,
alpha and omega, my fortress in the land of chic.
Blasphemous hustler, let your idealism simmer, your wit, your mojo,
I come to you an amateur, a neophyte, a lowly scab
in the strike against ignorance. Give me my melody, my song,
my one-hit-wonder of all that is cliché and unknown.
But I can’t be the other woman, your girlfriend, your aspiring
Playboy bunny only 10-bucks-a-throw. Your highness-who-yells-
his-ideas-into-the-ears-of-echoes, your every quirk spellbinds me.
Each day I wake to your entourage vibrato.
I am held captive by your brooding stare, empress of liberal
doves. You visit in my dreams when the sky is a force of darkness
viewing light through peepholes, your flaws an aphrodisiac, a love drug,
a fast hit in the basement from the ecstasy of words.
Aug 1, 2012
Aug 1, 2012 at 5:37 AM UTC
Sitting in this dusty old attic
listening to the shingles flapping in the wind
I flip through a dog-eared book from my childhood.
As I skip through the pages,
I look up and notice the fine inlaid
carpentry work of an old chest.
Going over, leaving prints on the dusty floor,
I lift the lid. With reptilian slowness
a lazy fat spider edges away.
Inside this trove of ancient treasure,
magnificent finds of days gone by.
Mementos of a honeymoon, a parachute jump.
Gramma's best biscuit recipe. A photo of
Sam the hound with spittle running down his jowls.
A picture of a babe at his mother's ******
A permutation of these tucked away articles
give meaning to a life well and truly lived.
Closing the pages of these treasures I
wander away to watch my grandchildren
make memories of their own.
Sep 20, 2011
Sep 20, 2011 at 8:49 PM UTC
For Robert Lowell
This is the time of year
when almost every night
the frail, illegal fire balloons appear.
Climbing the mountain height,
rising toward a saint
still honored in these parts,
the paper chambers flush and fill with light
that comes and goes, like hearts.
Once up against the sky it's hard
to tell them from the stars--
planets, that is--the tinted ones:
Venus going down, or Mars,
or the pale green one. With a wind,
they flare and falter, wobble and toss;
but if it's still they steer between
the kite sticks of the Southern Cross,
receding, dwindling, solemnly
and steadily forsaking us,
or, in the downdraft from a peak,
suddenly turning dangerous.
Last night another big one fell.
It splattered like an egg of fire
against the cliff behind the house.
The flame ran down. We saw the pair
of owls who nest there flying up
and up, their whirling black-and-white
stained bright pink underneath, until
they shrieked up out of sight.
The ancient owls' nest must have burned.
Hastily, all alone,
a glistening armadillo left the scene,
rose-flecked, head down, tail down,
and then a baby rabbit jumped out,
short-eared, to our surprise.
So soft!--a handful of intangible ash
with fixed, ignited eyes.
Too pretty, dreamlike mimicry!
O falling fire and piercing cry
and panic, and a weak mailed fist
clenched ignorant against the sky!
2.9k
dragon’s flames
rubber bands and blank paper sheets
a pair of ***** red sneakers
black and white keys
thick, old books
crumpled paper
a box of paints
pencil shavings
shades of gray
stacks of cds
dog-eared magazines
ancient stuffed toys
newspapers from two months ago
ninja gear and beyblades
a box of keychains
picture-plastered walls
last week’s jeans
yesterday’s jacket
ballpens with no ink
worn out satin slippers
an overused waveboard
loose change and
illustration boards
all found in
my room
Oct 9, 2011
Oct 9, 2011 at 3:56 AM UTC
by this man-made lake
a steady drizzle hums,
the sun, yesterday’s news
as nature’s palette turns green and gray.
staring into the gun metal sky
she nuzzles her hennaed hair
into his gandhian lap,
mesmerized by the pitter patter
she dubs, as tears from heaven.
a bow-shaped stone bridge on the near horizon,
red-eared sliders floating on the water,
the pencil thin architectural skyline,
even the floating melancholy mute swan
beckons monet to rise like the phoenix
and have a second go at whimsical life
but not me,
with a cornucopia of life-scars to show,
and a ticking clock that’s monotonously relentless,
this trip to the crease better be
the last time at bat
© 2022
Jul 2, 2022
Jul 2, 2022 at 12:49 PM UTC
A book,
just pages
on leaves, whitened-
river washed,
dried then wettened again;
tears of words
torn from a heart-
his then mine, and mine again.
A book
of poems, written verse,
la poema-
the saddest lines of all,
but not all, no,
not all; not always.
Pages of Odes;
oh, the odes
to fruit,
to wine
and song
of the sea and mermaids;
the pages sing his songs.
A book
of heights
and stone,
he took us there-
a shovel in the sand;
of monuments
and ships
of drunken men and love
once loved,
and loved again.
Words
on silken thighs,
*******
and a red dress-
on a dark night
the stars and moon did shine.
A garden-
he planted a *****
into our hearts;
his dog,
it died
simply
loved too much-
Ai.
A book,
just a book
of pages,
of poems
by my bed-
dog-eared,
much read and loved;
his words ending
the saddest lines of all.
r ~ 8/15/14
Aug 15, 2014
Aug 15, 2014 at 10:34 PM UTC
Yes, Atthis, you may be sure
Even in Sardis
Anactoria will think often of us
of the life we shared here, when you seemed
the Goddess incarnate
to her and your singing pleased her best
Now among Lydian women she in her
turn stands first as the red-
fingered moon rising at sunset takes
precedence over stars around her;
her light spreads equally
on the salt sea and fields thick with bloom
Delicious dew pours down to freshen
roses, delicate thyme
and blossoming sweet clover; she wanders
aimlessly, thinking of gentle
Atthis, her heart hanging
heavy with longing in her little breast
She shouts aloud, Come! we know it;
thousand-eared night repeats that cry
across the sea shining between us
2.6k
1.
Before I knew he had.
His flight trailed off into a Utah
Sunrise. He left behind a little strand
Of thought, and, in a cramped, amber room that saw
Long talks of topics that soon thinned grey,
A set of dog-eared books has been put down.
Books that brought nearer to my thought his own,
While Interstate-5 grated the ground.
2.
He must have, as the plane touched the runway,
Felt the dawn’s shudder fracture his young bones,
His thoughts turning to those dog-eared days;
The seemingly endless months full of groans,
As they should have been, being spent alone;
And that set of books, at least it would seem,
Ignited the wick on which our passions gleam.
3.
These six years past since they took him away
Held minutes like a needle in plied dust.
There’s something in the spring that brings decay:
The outward beauty of the world just
Clouds the mind’s loss within the spinning gust
That all the blooming flowers usher in.
Then the rain comes...
4.
As the 5’s scratch cracks up the drying earth,
I recall Nietzsche, Guevara, Burgess:
Men who’d not anticipated births
Inside my brother and I like cypress
Trees, evergreen and coniferous, we
Drop seeds year-round. The setting Utah sun,
Barely audible, gasps in the copse.
He’s with me now. What’s done is done.
Aug 20, 2014
Aug 20, 2014 at 3:37 PM UTC
*"No one's gonna take my soul away
I'm living like Jim Morrison...
In the land of Gods and Monsters
I was an angel"*
Lana Del Rey
Innocence lost, made her crazy
her smile forced, living twisted lies
bitter sweet memories, captured
in death defying detail
waken by the same song bird
who only blessed hope in the
darkness of a new dawn,
singing from the soul,
with filtering movements across
a chipped wood window ledge
enough to keep this young girls
heart in place, making her sad
even cry, with solitude, mixed
with an urgent sense of joy
a window ledge looking out
to grand oak trees, squirrels
playful in flight,
shaken autumnal leaves drop
whispering stories
to the blue **** chaffinch, swallows
a lowly stray cat jumps
chases leaves that swirl
mini tornados, whistling winds
chasing his tail
a thief of his prey he captures
a baby bird of first flight
racing off into bushes
hiding his feed for the day
A cacophony of deafening
sounds forces their noise
up the narrow stairwell
pounding feet; her father
he frightens the song bird
away, and a silence forms
In her nightdress
Emily grabs the soft torn eared
teddy, lays flat to the dusty
wooden floor and hides
under the four poster bed
silent as a ghost
she is filled with the same
fear, she faces each
and every
day.
© Sia Jane
Jan 13, 2014
Jan 13, 2014 at 12:30 PM UTC
Pens get lost like frost in Boston, if buildings collapsed
I'd rebuild the past to trillions of ticks of the clock ago
before this part of the world became recognized and known,
before any stitched on the American flag were sewn
When the soilage looked like foliage until days passed by and by again
Through April showers which brought May flowers birthing the earth with succulent screenplays of baby's breath, crocuses- a pollen infused haze
turns rays of sunshine up in farenheight
I learned to pull tight on two bunny eared shoelaces and saw faces and faces and went places and places watching the trees beg their mother to leave traces, some green- no orange!- no red,- please!
But you're beautiful my darling, crooned mother
you're not like any other, you're original. A vision-
an extension of me, and you will die
you will die
and when you die as you are now your limbs
will forever be used as adjectives for poetry, stories, emotions
you will die and your spirit will rev up it's engine for another lifetime of a ride
Do not dwell upon regrets you wish to sell or branches and leaves that have long ago fell, or things in this life that did not go so well- like wanting a mac but owning a dell
or dreams moaning groans from the gates of hell
waiting for you to turn off the lights
It fights you doesn't it?
Every something and every nothing
it fights your lungs, begging, tossing
A squirming urge, this need, an insatiable hunt, a crave you can't feed
Leads your fingers to the notebook
filled with castles, legalized marijuana, maybe pirates with hooks- Anything in those pages
I want those pages
I need those pages
I have to fill those pages with this mess of a dress
I hastily waste my precious time with everyday
so I can cover up the dog puke stained
Ludacris way
I feel all the time
Gotta find a pen
Dec 16, 2013
Dec 16, 2013 at 1:06 PM UTC