"earshot" poems
I was relaxed, and deep in thought
The type of talk that silence brought
When just in earshot it rocked,
tick tock
tick tock
"Must be a clock"
I told myself and resumed my thought
Though as the seconds passed I could not,
Despite the will with which I fought
Do to its incessant knock
Tick tock
Tick tock
I searched for the clock
Unable to find the train I sought
I grew more and more distraught
With each and every tick and tock
That find the clock, I could not
As the silence grew more fraught
With the knock,
Tick Tock
Tick Tock
I knew the pain of Lancelot
On and on it ticked and tocked
I cursed at the unseen dreadnought
It no longer merely mocked
But each and every tick and tock
Became an unseen onslaught
TICK TOCK
TICK TOCK
T'was 11 o'clock,
When my heart felt the gunshot
Though the shots I could not block
And on and on the bullets poured
Further into the fray I bored
Each foot a cinderblock
Weighed by war
I slowly walked
Tick Tock
Tick Tock
How I'd make it answer for
Alas
With little blood left to speak for Desperately I implored
"Restrain your hands that caused such gore;
We need not fight evermore!"
But when I heard the ceaseless knock
Tick tock
Tick tock
I new my words had been ignored
And slowly collapsed to the floor
****** and bludgeoned when I hit bed rock, I had still found no clock
But tick and tock it had forgot
The church bell rang t'was 12 o'clock,
Though mortal wounds the seconds wrought
I no longer was distraught
And as I lay in the hemlock
It occurred in my last thoughts
I would miss the beating knock
tick..., tock...
tick..., tock...
Mar 28, 2016
Mar 28, 2016 at 9:04 PM UTC
Time passes by like a whistle in the wind. Ignored and only observed within the thickness of one's skin. The once gnawing temptation in Lula's eyes were now exchanged in kaput like a dead black swan in the lake.
It grew on her and she can only justify it by moving her legs back in forth and forward with her ballet shoes; she can only obtain her physical through the applause of everyone around her. Yet, there were trickles of blood forming inside her internal wound — as the piano strikes another note in A minor, she can only whisk in pain and undone drafts in her head. "Tis will be over", she raises her head upon the crowds heaping in excitement, she turned around and flew her wings upright and the heads of the audience once more clapped in vain and delirium nonsensical pleasure.
As Chopin's symphony were almost in the last note, she stood straight and made her way to the middle. There, she locked eyes with her forbidden lover and a small smile throughout. The intensity of another Vivaldi's winter classic can be grasp once more and another set up of white swans gathered together — formed a circle and she went in the middle. Her eyes turned black and her wings bleed another tint of jet black and crimson. The crowds awed in reverence and she soared above them. A starlet in the headless crowds and dreary sweet rustle of voices gave her another bliss.
And while she was served aloft, there were another macabre symphony that plays through the soft rough piano; it was a solemn prayer and they were the kind souls going up to the heavens.
"Go on, Salem. Play the winter magic," Salem could only look at his muse and he strike another note, passing notes two steps from their 'haven'.
Lula slowly ripped her wings for the last time and smiled to all the headless men. Her satin dress reveals her plumpy chest and an hourglass body. Lula is a goddess black swan. Men could only forward their eyes and threw her pennies once more and she could only move in her balletic conventional pose. For the last time, she flew with her black tinted wings and they were all beheaded.
The white swans began to sing in a solemn outcry until it became too remorseful. The white swans turned their heads down when they met Lula's dead eyes. Her laugh echoing the whole stadium with its own persona and it is like crawling down into waltz where it reaches their earshot. They can only sing in albeit and expensive heads started to explode.
"Two steps from hell," she sings.
May 30, 2021
May 30, 2021 at 7:11 AM UTC
Ouch! says the saint as he
Divests himself of the love
Of created objects.
Love! says the hippie
Chickadee dee dee dee!
But when he is bare,
And shivering there
What then? says the hen.
How now? my brown cow.
What is this?
Says the instructress.
A cool snowlocked
Wisdom
Out of earshot
Scream and kiss
Calm? Dead?
A better compost
Than most?
3.5k
all of
America’s
gubmint hatin
yahoos, pining
to get their
country back,
should grab
yer rifles, stock
up on ammo
and giddy up
down to Texas
to join the
secessionists
headin out
of the Union
Rick Perry
promises to
keep his promise
to close all the
gubmint departments
he can't remember
the names of
Ron Paul will
finally be liberated
from the tyranny
of his federal
paycheck and
can return to
his district to
practice medicine
unencumbered
by the acceptance
of medicare
payments
Ted Cruz will
move to coronate
his Cuban born
daddy as Viceroy
for life of the
western hemispheres
newest banana
republic
the last act of
of the Compartment
of Education will be
to turn every
public school
into a Holy Ghostin
Jehovah meetin
house
Judicial magistrates
will criminalize
poor people
or just make
them slaves
and all prisons
will be turned
into profit driven
plantations,
overseen by
the local
Sheriffs who
will be paid
time and a
half and 15%
of all profits
unfortunately
the Cowboy’s
will lose it’s
moniker as
America’s Team
if rattlesnake
booted
Jerry Jones
can’t make a
deal to turn
his stadium
into a sovereign
independent
territory as a
protectorate
of the USA
To assure
national purity
Texans will
build a Jericho
style wall to
define the boundaries
of their heavenly
kingdom and outlaw
all trumpet playing
within earshot
of their perturbed
borders
The Eyes of
Texas as the
state anthem
will need to
be reworded
The final stanza
will be changed
to "Until Gabriel
blows his nose"
keepin the ungodly
out and the chosen
people safely
insulated within
the shining
Lone Star State
will rise again
as a solitary
confederacy
of dunces
Music Selection:
The Eyes of Texas
Oakland
11/18/13
jbm
Nov 18, 2013
Nov 18, 2013 at 12:25 AM UTC
i.
O'
Timely
Apricity;
ii.
Mayest thou
Warm, and blanketeth
Me; as a neonate, as
Thou shalt gorgonize
Me, from within the space,
Ourn embracing is a cataract,
Of heavied chime-together laced.
iii.
Thine speak is comely, Concord
To mine earshot; the copse is
Surrounding, none manor
Needed, just the coney's,
With the delightful tree's,
veneering ourn cot.
iv.
Exhaling all ourn woes
And sorrow's, as if none
Tommorrow; None haste,
And none distaste, house-
Leeks groweth whilst the
Flaxen colored roses follow.
v.
O' oriental Apricity
I'm cold mine lass,
I'm freezing fast;
This winter day
Hath chilled mine
Soul, I needeth thine
Fire-place, to heateth these bones.
Though far-flung, away on stretched water's.
I'm awaiting for thee, mine queen, O' Apricity,
I'm awaiting O' queen, mine swart of the sea, thou holdeth the lock, tis I hath the key, here thou goeth amour', open it up, flyeth on through-setteth me free.
©Brandon Nagley
©Earl Jane Nagley dedicated ( Filipino rose)
©Lonesome poet's poetry
Jan 14, 2016
Jan 14, 2016 at 5:02 PM UTC
Claustrophilia.
Sun and vista, shade and microcosm.
Raised as a pup on a field in view of the silty wilderness
between towers of eerie still-life
took the dream of being pulled there from some child civilization,
just out of earshot, for granted.
On the breach, still making out the patterns of nature in human skin.
May 3, 2014
May 3, 2014 at 4:09 AM UTC
what i said:
"you sound rough this morning."
what i meant:
"your voice is lavender and honey and tea time and supernovas colliding with gentle breezes and if i could wake up to it, just once, cocooned in a tangle of your arms and couch cushions and that blanket you keep in the back of your car, i swear by the stars in my eyes no one on this godforsaken planet would be out of earshot of my singing
i hope that tonight when i dream of you--it is no longer a matter of uncertainty, but anticipation--you speak like you've just overslept your alarm and frantically motored yourself to where i am, like is the case today.
i wish you had chosen me but if i could only listen to you speak to me, about anything--rivers or math homework or football or belonging or music or even your girlfriend--i promise i would listen with the beating urgency of a swimmer in a frozen stream, i would savor each word from your lips, like they were the spring and i was the underground daisy waiting for your kiss.
and in precisely three days i will have an essay to compose about a beautiful topic that would consume me thoroughly were it not for the memory of your groggy morning voice, so full of raspy complacency i can't breathe but instead of fulfilling my obligations i will be hashing out halfway comprehensible poetry about you and crying about how i cannot recreate the sound of your voice with any combination of hollowly clicking keys.
you are so beautiful that i could spend the remainder of my life with a five-subject notebook, scrawling 'your eyes. your smile. your hands. your voice' over and over endlessly and die feeling as though i had lived a thousand years of quiet adventure.
you are so much and too much for me and i have no idea why you see as much in me as you do but i will not question it, for fear that if i were to come too close to you, to run my fingers along the marvel of your face you would shrivel and unfurl into nonexistence, like the leaf in the fire."
and also:
"why can't your voice always sound like this?"
and finally:
******* you're attractive"
Dec 28, 2012
Dec 28, 2012 at 12:24 AM UTC
a person barely within earshot
may absorb the cheerful ring in my voice.
they see me in glimmering gold
embellished with refracting glass -
always with crinkles adorning my eyes.
someone else may be right across the table
and see small smoke tendrils escaping my ears.
laughter follows the smoke, and it fades away.
they see dull gold topped with smashed glass.
the crinkles sometimes disappear,
only to return a few seconds later.
A few can see my heart whenever they like.
they hear unsteady tremors between words.
they see billowing smoke
emanating from my ears and mouth.
they know the wrapping is gold foil
with smashed hourglasses piercing my skin.
the crinkles appear whenever they want.
nevertheless, they see me rise, even as I ache.
I, the permanent resident of this body,
shed the itchy foil whenever I can.
my cells are clouded by smoke,
and the hourglass fractals
swirl into a tornado behind my sternum.
the crinkles have been starched.
But, I remember I am walking on diamonds,
and I slowly sculpt my armor.
I exhale, and the smoke clears, bit by bit.
I reach behind my sternum,
grabbing the fractals to line my armor.
I splash water onto my face,
and the corners of my eyes crinkle again.
Apr 10, 2022
Apr 10, 2022 at 11:40 PM UTC
A Bountiful Sky for Foolish Old Men
early up, haunted-stoked~woked by a multilingual sky,
an impish childish creation of an immature god,
inconsistently incapable, of making up his moody mind,
whiny then smiley, cloudless besotted, morphed
into crystalline blue of a well behaved in Sunday best,
warming the souls of the begotten and the misbegotten,
the hardened and the poetic souls, tho he laughs at
himself, for he too is both, curmudgeon and a mr. softee,
whiny child in rapid aging body, wearing of discovery
of new places for to ache, pains that don’t fit med scales
of 1~10, unless it is the Richter Earthquake formulation.
despite all, his eyeballs seethe, immaculate degeneration still
allows the seeing of broad brush paint strokes of the team of
angelic artistes that do the detailing of the palette above,
how!
they, love their big bold brushes that sky swipe atmospheric
residue into 31 Baskin Robbins flavors, with swirls of caramel
chocolate butterscotch that make the man’s complaints whisked
into who-cares-a-damn anyway ice creamery reverie and all
that other stuff disbarred from the aborning morning clarity of
“good morning ole man, where’s my coffee” diurnal tuning that
the women hums, reminding those in the earshot crowd of one,
that s’mores and chores, tasks and at lasts, dogs need walking, gardens watering, cushions plumping, evening dishes moving from dishwasher onto wallpaper-covered shelves, geese-away-chasing, and loving poetry
by a poetoftheway scribbling…
8:01 AM Frieday, Jun 30
Jun 30, 2023
Jun 30, 2023 at 8:32 AM UTC
Lately, all the darlings have started tasting the same and all the books keep preaching about the catharsis of going forward and I'll not be condemned to be Lot's wife's' tragedy but ******* this is growing up and everything is shrinking like the bible my mother threw in the washing machine by accident. All the wild has gone to my fingertips and there is no longer an energy to board trains to god-knows where because I know better now.
I don't longer miss you and I call my father daily now and I have a fond appreciation for dead things. Sometimes I think of all the times I prayed and all the times I sinned with you in mind and I know this is the guilt of poets. We are the victim and the instigator, we play our cards right and you resent us for it. And I write to you because it's easy to say things to people you hate. Like kissing someone and not tasting their blood but someone else's and enjoying it. Revenge in, not one, but all the ways you know how.
I often dance naked to Claire de Lune, do you know why? There's an elegance to being primordial and vulnerable. There's grace in things we find obscene. I cannot dance, mind you but I dance thinking you're watching. Much like shaking the hand of a married man and lingering with his wife within earshot, there's a thrill knowing you'll be caught.
Thus, I write my inhibitions and fears in poetry hoping you'll someday read them with absolute stoicism. I dare you to show a little emotion. I dare you.
Jul 23, 2015
Jul 23, 2015 at 5:54 AM UTC
For warm summer days
Spent in the company of friends
In earshot of ocean waves
With sandy feet and ice cream cones
For all the pretty girls
In smooth black dresses
With luscious lips and curvy hips
Walking in red stilettos or clean Nikes
For countless sleepless nights
Glow-in-the-dark paint fights
Movies till dawn
Plenty of sneaking around
For the memories we make
For the laughter we share
For the love we have (and lose)
For the God we know
Apr 29, 2013
Apr 29, 2013 at 10:33 AM UTC
You will know the house,
Caught up in a spell of tales played out for a century or more
Within earshot of whispering catacombs
*** mortuis in lingua mortua’
You can’t miss it –
Architecturally complex, ornate with ormolu,
Elevated, enigmatic, a work of art.
You’ll be enchanted
But take heed, its façade will beguile you.
There is no sweetness of honeysuckle,
No singing of ascending larks to embolden the heart.
The plot is strewn with hen-bane, stinging nettles, snakeroot.
Generations tell of a skinny hag feeding on innocence,
A path scattered with ashes of children
Whisked away with a broom of silver.
Don’t dare to stray beyond its palisade of porous bones.
Don’t bide your time admiring its guilded thistle.
Appreciate if you will, this well-crafted masterpiece from several angles,
then make a hasty escape to Viktor’s Great Gate at the end of the walk.
copyright © Caroline Grace 2011
Jul 16, 2011
Jul 16, 2011 at 8:56 AM UTC
It was January of 1994
when he told me, "Son, true love,
well, it's hard to come around."
Or maybe he said, "come by."
I can't remember exactly.
Memory is foggy, age, you know.
I never thought I'd ever say that.
I've had a pet since I was born.
Not the same one, they always end
up dying. I haven't gone a year
without one close by me.
Before bed, I pucker my lips
and pretend to kiss twice
behind both ears while whispering
to them, "Goodnight." Then,
I lightly scratch their sanctum,
be it cage or kennel, so they know
I am no ghost; I am truly there.
Dog, cat, rat, it doesn't matter really;
they all just blankly stare back
and continue with their nightly business.
"If you love something, it can
never leave. Only hate can
drive others away, and that,
that's called, 'self-hate.'"
Then he laughed,
he laughed out with stretched
cheeks and gold-capped teeth
and that "eyeglasses-off" look
as if the world was deaf,
blind, and dumb. His
white collar crisp, stiff
with starch. That morning was ours.
Within earshot, the cat was mewing,
awaiting our kitchen entry where,
in the white-walled corner, sat his bowl,
staring at the ceiling, brown, dry, stale.
That morning always comes back to me
like a child returning from school.
Homework on the table and a snack
to eat just before rushing out to
meet up with the neighborhood kids for
a game of football down the road.
They've surely had talks like ours, Dad.
They've rubbed noses and brushed
pink cheeks of late lovers, flashed back
to mother and wrestling with brother.
Those important conversations
that only return with age,
we all remember them.
Feb 8, 2013
Feb 8, 2013 at 9:23 PM UTC
I can feel it coming on once again
The little tickle inside of me
The child that needs to come out and play
The devilish grin permeating my face.
Once it begins
It seems to never end
The expression of my silly side
My quirky side unleashed.
My giggles are colorful marbles
Falling down an echoing staircase
Earshot spectators get quite a show
Pulled into the vortex of my laughter.
I know it must end
The nonstop hysteria
The cleansing of my body and mind
The cure for what ails me.
There is no anguish
As the laughter cascades from within my being
The pit of my stomach
The confines of my throat.
It feels like therapy
Letting it all out,
I feel the rush of life in my veins
As I laugh away all the soot in my soul.
Copyright 2015 Stacey Handler
Mar 17, 2018
Mar 17, 2018 at 11:58 PM UTC
To the kid in the hallway telling his friend
"Maybe you need a **** whistle."
And to her response, a sarcastic
"Matt, **** jokes aren't funny."
You're **** right they aren't
Tell me, how is anyone forcing themself onto another person funny?
How are the I don't want tos when her "no" couldn't scream loud enough funny?
How are the ****** thighs and bruised hips funny?
How is the waking up in the middle of the night
How are the flashbacks and her wailing funny?
How is the seven year-old who had so much anxiety she'd tear her hair out
Or a sixteen year-old who kept eyeliner and a kitchen knife side by side in her purse funny?
It's about as funny as a slaughterhouse full of pigs taunting the other pigs
And telling them their approaching doomsday is amusing.
I dug my key into the palm of my hand like a knife when I heard this jeer
Clenching and unclenching a fist
Because I knew if I did not
That hand would go right through your faces.
You do not know the impact of your words
You see, for a survivor
Jokes about ****** assault are triggers.
They bring back every memory
Which becomes a stinging tear behind an eyeball
Fighting not to emerge from its home.
When I say something
Classically I am being "too sensitive"
Just as I was "too sensitive"
When he told me to get on top of him
And I said no
So much courage mustered up in a little body
I could have moved mountains that day
I could have been my own goddess
At seven years old
But he did not care
He was bigger than me
And he imposed that will onto my body
Reducing my childlike frame to the size of a fly
Being swatted by the paw of a lion.
I will not be silent
So when you tell a **** joke and I am in earshot
Do not expect me to laugh
Because there is nothing funny about a slaughterhouse.
Nov 21, 2014
Nov 21, 2014 at 10:29 AM UTC
she smiles for me
she was born beautiful
with golden hair and green irises
but when did she get so pretty?
a pleasant upside down triangle smile
a collaboration of lips, teeth, cheeks and eyes
shining in affection for me
for happy childhood memories
singing Disney songs
painting unicorns and waterfalls
stringing beaded bracelets
and learning how to draw good
because she "keeps on trying"
at times she was the devil's child
incorrigible
other times she was the sweetest
little chatterbox
at the corner drugstore
I couldn't get her to stop talking
"Why are we following that man?"
she said within his earshot
"Because he knows the way out", I replied
at four years old
she could beat me at video games
truly a kid from outer space
now a young woman
at life's threshold
with doubts and questions
and confidence
and more strength than she knows she has
working and going to school
I have no fears for her future
I know she'll keep on trying
till she gets what she wants
that was my advice
spoken so many years ago
to my little niece
my Godchild
Dani
Sep 21, 2011
Sep 21, 2011 at 12:52 AM UTC
**Yesterday murmured within the earshot of today:
The past has posted an encrypted message
on your wall, decipher it, take a careful turn,
the road is slippery, life is short.**
Jun 4, 2013
Jun 4, 2013 at 1:07 AM UTC
i speak in whispers of
New American Tragedy:
id seeking ego, beyond
means and dreams.
A spirit as big as the
Western plains, as lofty
as distant clouds gathering,
as crushed as the valleys
and fjords carved by
glaciers ancient and cruel.
Samhain is passed, now in
November we must look
to the solstice, for there
is seemingly little to
praise. Entropy approaches,
brushing our hair
with tender fingers,
piano
gently exhaling nothings
in earshot,
piano
dolce, dolce
unghia sul ponticello
easing its canines into jugulars,
per amore
per amor nostro
ci ama treppo per essere solo
laughing.
Nov 1, 2013
Nov 1, 2013 at 2:24 PM UTC
There will be no better days
there were no bad days
there were just so many days
one after another and another and another
and there will be unendingly more
because this is never done…
…each day is a quantum string of moments
shimmering with meter, rhythm and rhyme
if you listen
moments make days of music...
…but not loud
more like angels whispering to each other
just out of earshot
there it is
behind the other sounds
traffic of door and automobile
the hiss that kills the middle ear
that makes hummingbirds hide…
…so just listen;
be present
and the leaves will shiver in delight
as the hawk cries
and cat stiffens
and you finish your latte
and the barrista smiles at you
and you…
…remember childhood’s pets
rain rivers on windowpanes
through which you sat and watched
cinemas of sunsets
with those sweet, few others
who understood this
with you…
Mar 11, 2012
Mar 11, 2012 at 11:14 AM UTC
Realisations of common knowledge lurk around us like shadows in the darkness.
Don’t close your eyes. Don’t turn around. Don’t turn a corner too quickly. It’s just the wind. It’s not the same car. It’s too big of a city to find you.
Dear authorities, what are you doing to help?
People from generations before mine have raised their children to be hateful. They have taught them that if they don’t feel like respecting people, they shouldn’t and won’t. I’m sure you’ve guessed this next one, but they’ve let their children get away with a smack here and a smack there to those who don’t obey their every demand – and even to those who do. But I am not the only one. I am not the only unlucky punching bag to experience the hatred of someone much older, more mature, wiser and certainly, not just a kid. Is that it? Is that why you let him go? I was four when it started and fifteen when it ended. To you, that’s a child. Children don’t know much, do they.
Dear authorities, that’s where you’re wrong.
I was four when it started and if you think it stopped at fifteen when my abuser walked out, think again. It never fully stops, not yet. I am nearly twenty years old and I still flinch if someone holds out their hand for a handshake or raises their voice just a notch because they’re a little out of earshot and I needed them to repeat.
Dear authorities, I can’t live because you won’t let me.
Oh, you like Budwiser? Corner Gas, the T.V. show? Do I smell steak? Potatoes baked on the BBQ? You need a plumber? Handyman? Oh look, you’re wearing red. Do you think I appreciate being reminded by the stupidest things, that my abuser is out there? Why is that? Could it possibly be because nobody has bothered giving the man any possible discipline?
Dear authorities, I’m tired of being told, “it’ll be okay, it’s not that bad.”
People after people have continuously told me to go talk to someone. I’ve seen multiple counsellors, doctors, talked to teachers, specialists, friends and family. But what are you doing to help? I moved away from my mother and siblings, in fear. Fear, because every time we moved anywhere the lawyer told us we had to give our address to the abuser. We could not deny him access to us, we could not cut off communication with him. I had to leave, as an attempt to protect myself and hide in a big city with lots of people and hopefully I could blend in.
Dear authorities, you have failed me.
Stop telling me things will be okay, when he is out there and things only seem to matter when a death occurs.
Dear authorities,
Dear authorities…
Dear me, you’re not dead so authorities don’t care.
Apr 3, 2017
Apr 3, 2017 at 4:00 PM UTC
She winked in her cute little bandana,
was standing strategically by the keg,
dressed non-discreetly in
a very **** skimpy-bikini.
The curls that wrapped
around her drop-dead beautiful face
accentuated her high striking cheekbones.
Her lips moved in slow motion,
the tip every now and then
licking the edges of her pretty mouth.
We made small talk about
the weather and current songs.
She kept telling me how handsome I was,
her striking-eyes seemed believable,
but I remained guarded,
I had heard those lines before.
The stars began to emerge as the sun sunk
lower and she wondered if I wanted to walk
with her, down to the edge of the ocean.
The beer had me feeling more relaxed
and I took her up on her offer.
Down we walked, slowly to the water's edge,
she taking my hand,
telling me how strong my grip was.
It seemed like we walked forever,
but before too long, we were out of earshot of the band, the party was just a blip on the horizon.
We looked to face one another,
it felt surreal, she made me feel stellar,
like we were having fun.
The moment was ripe, I dipped her hair away
from her full lips, placing mine on top of hers,
our tongues met, my heart melted.
There was a stirring below, a hardness
found by her searching hands.
As if on cue, she descended,
unzipped my jeans rather quickly,
took me fully into her mouth.
She seemed expert, it was glorious,
my eyes rolled back in my head,
I squirted into her closed mouth,
wrapped around her prize.
She stood up, kissed me on my quivering lips,
told me I was exquisite,
the best she ever had,
& I believed her.
We walked back slowly,
my arm around her slender shoulder,
talked about the future.
When we arrived back at the bonfire,
things had heated up, the music was cranked,
people were dancing like they had drank too much.
She told she wanted to freshen up, asked me if I wanted a beer, I answered her affirmatively and
off she went, back into the raucous crowd,
in the direction of the keg.
She never came back, I never saw her again,
I never even got her name or number.
I felt used, a bit heartbroken.
I think she just wanted to **** me,
then let me go free for personal reasons.
It seemed rather one-sided,
I was hoping we confide in each other.
Strange how that happens both ways sometimes.
Dec 23, 2013
Dec 23, 2013 at 6:09 AM UTC
I am all too familiar an acquaintance with the shower floor
What once was my youthful escape from
The tumultuous beasts lying just outside the
Shower curtain
My favorite hiding place in a den of demons
Who were supposed to keep me safe
Have become a cutthroat reminder of
The soul reaching pain I’ve experienced
Underneath the endless stream of
steaming waterfall
Where my piercing screams of agony rang out
Once it sunk in that even the most convincing ruse of love could drown me
And leave me washed ashore with nothing but anguish choking my lungs
Where I had to watch helplessly as my contained ocean dotted with silky bubbles
Was overtaken by a tidal wave of crimson
That washed away a pure melody of laughter
That I never had the privilege to make
to my earshot
A pint size smile that never crossed my gaze
A love I will always carry but
could never give
What was once my sanctuary is now haunted with ghosts of grief
My once sweet escape is now what I’ll forever wish to flee.
Nov 28, 2023
Nov 28, 2023 at 11:46 PM UTC
"I wish I was happier," she
confessed, to me, in-between
puffs and awkward silent
pauses.
"I'm not disappointed," was
all I could say, forcing
back down my throat, the "me too."
We stood there, in quiet,
surrounded by loudness. The other
few, ate, and drinking inside.
Goes back in, she kisses him.
What does he know?
Answer?
More than he's liable to make known.
I can't look at her. If I do,
I'm caught-in-love, and
stuck on the possibilities.
If my eyes can avoid you, my
dreams can stay fantasy,
not just unfulfilled.
She's tired of hearing she's perfect.
She'd rather be told the truth.
but no one that loves her lets honesty in earshot.
And I'm sick of love, lying, and
truth-telling, too.
I wish you were happier.
I wish the path of least resistance laid itself out,
before you.
I wish you'd hold my hand while we walk it, together.
I wish I could make happy,
like some folks brew beer.
I'd pour you a growler,
(On the house, of course)
and laugh at everyone else, while you drink it.
This poem is the list of
things I never thought could
make a difference.
This poem is the litany of reasons why
I think I deserve one
last chance.
This poem is the one I'd
read to you every night, if
it would change your
mind.
It wouldn't. It won't.
This poem bites, the last dying
hope of a beached shark, spying
the wave that could save it.
This poem is the black pods
we once foolishly believed were
shark eggs.
This poem knows I hate the beach,
and brought me along,
anyway.
I started this poem months ago.
It'll never really be finished.
Sep 12, 2017
Sep 12, 2017 at 12:08 PM UTC
Throw the window open
To bring cool air to a room
Which gathered heat
With all the thoughts
Bouncing off the closed walls.
Night. The sky, a bruised purple,
The clouds faint, infra-red.
The trees are cut-out silhouettes
Placed in the foreground of endlessness.
1.a.m. The night is still.
There is the hum of a plane in the distance,
Last train now long past earshot.
Thin blue curtains play at the breeze,
Tickle my shoulder
As I kneel at the ashtray,
The windowsill altar.
Ornaments reveal themselves
In the black gardens below.
The gnome with the broken tambourine
That kicks up in the current,
The wind chime on the Apple Tree;
The bell on the house cat’s neck.
Staring into space all night
But with this view
I do not have to strain my eyes.
Do not linger on the details
That are lost in the shadow.
Always made time for the moon.
The quiet one at parties,
Only came alive at night,
In the company of those who drink wine,
Swallow pills in the morning
To see the day through.
Room scarred with scorch marks,
Stains from drunken falls.
All those endless nights,
Dead bedsheets,
Waiting for the chemicals
To push my head underwater,
To find sleep.
Windowsill vigils,
Awake with the moon.
Kept myself alive
For these pockets of time
Where I do not need to talk.
Where I do not need to move.
May 14, 2016
May 14, 2016 at 8:36 PM UTC