"evans" poems
Photography,
Photo journalistic,
Everyday, realistic.
Commercial, architecture, landscape, artistic,
Industrial, fashion, ethnographic, pornographic.
Big Brother, fallace, stealer of souls, vouyer.
News seller, instant gratifier, man pleaser, woman abuser.
Barthes, Sontag, Cindy Sherman,
Virginia Woolf, Warhol. Weegie, Francesca Woodman,
Leibovitz, Adams, Arbus, Tina Modotti,
Nan, Evans, Hoffer and even the Paparazzi.
Cheap ***** digital manipulator, image poser,
Center fold, coupons, Jackie O and Marilyn Monroe.
Where did they go:
Lifeless paper product, painter's picture mess,
C-type, digital archival,
Sepia, black and white, hard drive retrival.
Image addict,
Image taker,
Image maker,
image seller,
image buyer.
Newspaper, magazine, graphics and ads,
TV, dreams, even the trash.
Billboards, subways, phones and buses:
Utopia:
Surreal, crop, stretched and air brushes.
Modern ideal.
Surface manipulator.
Brain conditioner.
Consent manufacturer.
Oh Photography,
I got you in my eye.
A few thousand dollars,
A BFA, A critical scholar.
Or maybe a nerd,
Just boys with toys.
Telephoto genitals, with motor drive action.
Studio lights, umbrella traction.
Oh Photography,
You proprietor of obscene.
Detailed, de-sensitized.
Court ordered, jury analyzed.
Click, image, copy, edit, paste, print or post.
Myfacespace, twitter, flicker,
An internet media overdose.
Pry, spy, your friend's friend's acquaintances.
Parties, picnics, reunions and shows.
Visits, vacation, style, shoes and clothes.
Pics, photos, images, jpegs and giffs.
Snap shot, portrait, panoramic, Kodak kiss.
Exacerbate:
Divorce, break-ups, jealousy, envy, love and fears.
Devour and captivate society for years.
Slaves to Western and Capitalist desires,
Destruction of Earth with psychological, monetary empires.
Jan 11, 2010
Jan 11, 2010 at 7:05 AM UTC
I sat all morning in the college sick bay
Counting bells knelling classes to a close.
At two o'clock our neighbors drove me home.
In the porch I met my father crying--
He had always taken funerals in his stride--
And Big Jim Evans saying it was a hard blow.
The baby cooed and laughed and rocked the pram
When I came in, and I was embarrassed
By old men standing up to shake my hand
And tell me they were "sorry for my trouble,"
Whispers informed strangers I was the eldest,
Away at school, as my mother held my hand
In hers and coughed out angry tearless sighs.
At ten o'clock the ambulance arrived
With the corpse, stanched and bandaged by the nurses.
Next morning I went up into the room. Snowdrops
And candles soothed the bedside; I saw him
For the first time in six weeks. Paler now,
Wearing a poppy bruise on his left temple,
He lay in the four foot box as in his cot.
No gaudy scars, the bumper knocked him clear.
A four foot box, a foot for every year.
12k
Neon Stella Artois lights and sly hellos
It commenced as we were flew spinning
Ticket stubs and ink -stains
Oh, as our love flirted we both were seeking
Brooklyn Subway stops and ***** clothes
We perched by the equator but only when beginning
Backwards flasks and *******
Then winter solstice was challenged by spring’s springing
Strands of soft pearls and wishing wells
We shivered the anxious touch of a faux July summer’s evening
Empty bar stools and firelight
It was still bitterly February but with the mockery of songbirds floating
Two Thirty Seven A.M. and sea shells
How can the world deceive us in this fashion: fools, we accept ever-knowing
Buttered bread and hindsight
Dawn will crash with frostbite and these daisies will pay the price of their beauty’s sinning
Wine before noon and payphone bills
Wind will eviscerate this moment for once you have touched the sun the ice is more than suffocating
Dry heaving and ribbons
We were only waiting then at the heart of a train station for the stretches of shadows to lengthen
First drags of cigarettes and blue diet pills
The glitter within the dew drops stolen from our tired eyes when our first summer was stolen
Cheap motels and kitchens
We could barely exchange syllables, our melodies quarreling, our blood had thinned
Calendar pages and black lace *******
The euthanasia of the spring would have hung us too if we had breathed it in
The Last calls and lollipops
One can repose more gently in the absence of color than in the theft of sin
Bitten manicured hands and autumn leaves
We used to sleep in a room with wonders, windows, and blankets within
Midnight whispers and rooftops
It was the only place that could soften the swords in all this ruin
****** wrappers and painting supplies
Today is cruel, it cannot be summer if the world doesn’t spin
Happy hour cocktails and goodbyes
Jan 26, 2013
Jan 26, 2013 at 2:16 PM UTC
The old man told his story, lost within his troubled youth
His words quite labored, heavy... his raspy voice by now uncouth
At times mixing the conversation with gin and ice, and sweet vermouth
His eyes were clear however, and I saw therein...
a quiet truth
He talked of her at length, his thoughts concise,
composed... serene
At times he’d pause, efface another silent tear he’d wished unseen
His dreams would countermand the years... love and youth,
would reconvene
She’s waiting there for him you see… The girl with eyes,
of Paris green
Some had said her ways unsound, disposition... introject
He said she knew the rumors, and she thought them all quite innocent
He told of how she’d laughed at them… of narrow minds,
and intellect
He found in her the love he’d sought, although his hope remained suspect
He looked into her eyes, and saw the faintest touch of sorrow there
Shining through the gentle mist, and the eglantine within her hair
He felt somehow her pain, although she’d kept it obscure...
nom de guerre
And so his own mistakes were viewed, in Paris green...
and sad despair
Their time together thus unfurled within this anguished declamation
Of years now spent in solitude, with lost and lonesome lamentation
For one whose essence still bestows upon his dreams, in meditation
Aspirations there arise, to leave his heart in desperation
His thoughts remained unchanged, unbroken...
memories demure
He stood to mix another drink, then paused...perhaps his mind unsure
Gathering his memories, so past and present touch... concur
And then continued once again, his sad and doleful dream of her
I listened there, throughout the night... I lie in sedentary pose
Then as I fall asleep I see the here and now,
and then... transpose
I see myself in dreams with her, but why? my heart has not disclosed
I'm lost within some late, late hour envisage... or so I suppose
I then awake alone, to find my thoughts of her and then, no clearer
The snow outside my window cannot bring her memory nearer
Though I can dream of Paris green, and all those places, so familiar
Tonight I'll listen once again, and tell my story..
to the mirror
Dean Evans
1-06-15
Jan 6, 2015
Jan 6, 2015 at 2:50 PM UTC
Is humanism Utopian?
You really have to think about it.
Or is it rather more dystopian?
No, then I think you’d never doubt it.
It seems that disbelief is best.
Humanism owes a debt
to thinkers of the Enlightenment,
although I haven’t paid it yet,
I think of it as my entitlement
to settle it at some behest.
I very early cleared my mind of Kant,
experiencing a vast relief,
approaching his chef d’oeuvres extant;
removing knowledge to allow belief;
the opposite of what he had expressed.
It occurred to me I ought to dig up
(or should I say instead ex-hume?)
what constitutes at least an egg-cup-
full of wisdom that I might consume
with non-platonic zest.
But wondering how on earth to do so
and thinking he might hold the key,
I fixed my sights on Jean Jacques Rousseau
and set sail for my destiny,
while trying not to feel depressed.
Voltaire’s voices loudly rang in deaf ears
as did the Persian Letters of Montesquieu
and failed to still my latent fears.
And thus I felt no need to rescue
Adam Smith (morality-obsessed).
To put Descartes before the Horse-
men of the Apocalypse
War, famine, pestilence and worse.
Who could guess it would eclipse
my thought, wherefore I was oppressed.
Or take the case of Denis Diderot
a friend of Hume and others seedier.
and one you might consider so
rash as to produce an encyclopedia
to get his knowledge off his chest.
That precious quality of truth
was Mary Ann’s# description of it.
It would not take a Sherlock sleuth
to simply thus produce a conviction of it:
an elementary request.
I cut my questing teeth on Russell.
His secular logic had a profound effect
and seemed to stir each red corpuscle
inhabiting this fervid non-sect-
arian but doubting breast.
I later turned my eye on Dawkins,
and his concern with my divine delusion.
A sceptic whose inspiring squawkings
validate my disillusion
and emphasise an ill-starred quest.
And so I felt the pointlessness of it.
Progress is the best end for a man to see
And belief simply produced less profit
for reality’s dispelling of my fantasy.
So, in the end, I acquiesced.
#Mary Ann Evans, aka George Eliot, in Adam Bede
Nov 16, 2014
Nov 16, 2014 at 10:21 AM UTC
Evans? Yes, many a time
I came down his bare flight
Of stairs into the gaunt kitchen
With its wood fire, where crickets sang
Accompaniment to the black kettle"s
Whine, and so into the cold
Dark to smother in the thick tide
Of night that drifted about the walls
Of his stark farm on the hill ridge.
It was not the dark filling my eyes
And mouth appalled me; not even the drip
Of rain like blood from the one tree
Weather-tortured. It was the dark
Silting the veins of that sick man
I left stranded upon the vast
And lonely shore of his bleak bed.
2.1k
Aaron Evans - Magic
I love you, I really do
Alex Forte - ****
**** you
Alex S - *****
I hate what you made me become
Andrew T -Beer
Do good in Rehab, dear
Austin Kearns - Lake Water
really?
Garrett A - Pretzels
Burn in Hell
Garrett F - Soy Sauce
I'm so sorry
Hunter G - Cigarettes
You still turn me on
Jason H - Bubblegum
I kissed you out of pity
Jeff C - Water
I'd still Hate **** you
JJ S - Ciroc
What a regret
John Bradshaw - Football
How is Pennsylvania?
Johnny Bozeman II - Marlboro Reds
I just really ******* miss you
John Butler - Coffee
Don't ever touch me again
John G - Sugar
I'm sorry I ruined it
Julian R - Cherry Popsicles
Thank you for freeing me
Justin B - Cheap Wine
*******
Justin Haupt - Mint
I really enjoyed all the free *******
Katie Moorman - Red Lipstick
IloveyouImissyouI'msorry
Kyrstin Bruce - Grey Goose
I don't like kissing you
Mario Luppachino - Pool Water
I would've ****** you in my car that night
Michael H - Hash Brownies
Stay Away
Ryan T - Want
Kissing you made me *** in a school hallway
Rusty H - Need
I still wonder what became of you
Sam R - Mistakes
Heard you're a father now, congrats
Sean Ellis - Berry Hookah
sigh
Steven Spence - Gasoline
I'm a **** person and so are you
Taylor Vaughn - Sunset
Go back to your baby mama
Tim Hoback - Hangover at 7 am
You made me breakfast and gave me your pants
Trevor W - Candy
Time is a funny thing, huh?
Tyler Farris - Missed Connections
If I was a little prettier could I have been your baby?
Mar 10, 2014
Mar 10, 2014 at 3:51 PM UTC
There are some, that can see the fine lines between reality and fantasy.
There are others, that do not.
I see it...the fragile space between each depth and line.
I see you.
The creases of smile lines..the crows feet..where sun beat upon your handsome gentle smile in the daylight of a golf game...your hands scrambling to grip the "stick" just right..your head turn toward me..for the look of approval...glancing at me, amidst pines and weeping willows.
Sun down..as it cast shadows upon our silhouettes.
My heart beating..begging to meet the constant drum of yours.
You.
I failed this Love.
But I never failed to see you.
Beyond the chaos.
You are Love.
Pure and seeking for the heart of acceptance.
I've loved you then.. and I always will.
You gave me a piece of you.
I will carry it..all of my days.
Natasha Evans
Oct 22, 2015
Oct 22, 2015 at 1:19 AM UTC
*Your words can't hurt me anymore.
Nothing you ever say or do will hurt me.*
**I've become a stronger women,
now it's time for you to become a man.**
*You can't bring me down.
You keep talking to me like i'm dumb
You treat me like a five-year old.
But if you think thats how you should talk to me or anyone then, you're the dumb.*
**You can't bring me down
because I'm going to keep my head up high,
you don't have the right to talk to me like that
if you talk to me that way
you must the dumb one in town.**
Dec 21, 2015
Dec 21, 2015 at 1:15 AM UTC
Dedicated to Mike Evans & Wendell Griffin…for their great approach to the King of sports, Golf.
Loosen up, feeling good,
Back swing nice and smooth
Power stroke an easy glide
A solid thwack to move
That golf ball into orbit,
Disappearing into air,
Diminishing like angel dust
On a trajectory so fair.
Looking good, nice and straight
In parabolic curve
At apex point it hesitates,
No breezes cause a swerve
Plummeting to emerald grass
The ball bounces on the green
To travel in a perfect arc,
The best I’ve ever seen,
It teeters at the cup lip
To roll around the rim
And by the grace of God,
That golf ball vanishes within!
The day at once looks perfect
The morning light pristine,
The singing birds in trees
Throw brilliant shadows to the green.
I peer into the cup
To see my sweetest dimpled ball,
That darling Dunlop eight
Henceforth shall grace my trophy wall.
My name will feature on the cup
Atop the clubhouse shelf
And the bar room shout for all the boys
Should put a large dent in my wealth.
But the wonder, the wonder,
The spangled wonder of it all
Will have me grinning foolishly
Whenever I recall,
That magnificent stroke
Towards that iridescent green
When I scored a hole in one
And drank a toast to Golf and Queen.
Marshalg
@ the Bach
Mangere Bridge
12th January 2009
Jan 7, 2010
Jan 7, 2010 at 10:31 PM UTC
(Me) pop-pop since the day we first met you always informed me everything would be ok. From your distinct whistle,your classic demeanor and loving charm. You were the richest definition of a man, a father, grandfather and a husband. But above all you were a protector.
As we sat in silence, you and I and I told you I would try to stay strong through this journey, but it would be hard not to cry. I felt I was losing my protection. No words were spoken , you asleep and me in tears. I knew my heart was breaking because my soldier will no longer be here.
( whispers ) pop-pop I need to know it will be ok, I still need that protection.
(Pop-pop) please don't cry because I am gone. Sing because I am free. Remember now I can be happy. A soldier to you I will always be. My child , I will still protect you for God has given me these wings.
Yes I had to leave but not with out a fight. I lived the way I should during my 87 years of life. Now wipe those tears so you can see I am at peace. I have to go and continue my journey to heaven where my wife has built a new home.
So remember even though I left you . Neither one of us will be alone .
In memory of my pop-pop DAVID E EVANS
Sept 30,1925 - Sept 06, 2012
Jan 18, 2013
Jan 18, 2013 at 11:31 AM UTC
sarcastic humour is intended for your
own appreciation,
witty humour is intended for others
and the hope they can appreciate it,
oddly enough when sarcasm is scolded
you feel very little concern,
but when wit is scolded you do feel
a coldness and a sort need to invent something
more passing off as intelligence,
intelligence needs to be impulsive, blunt,
intuitive, it really doesn't need to be pre-prepared
worthy of a Shakespeare quote, all those
bits of 'life's a stage,' fair enough, but
what if life is a gutter?
sarcasm only works for the one who speaks it,
it's also a cousin of satire addressing politics,
wit knows no satire, wit is a proud humour,
it's too proud to enter sarcastic remarks
in the pig trough of reciting political satire,
wit is a form of narcissism in the end,
it wants attention, being appreciated:
like an anecdote... sarcasm just shoves a boxing glove
in your face and says: can you help me forget,
or do you want to hear a knock-out?
indeed sarcasm doesn't use punchlines like wit,
it just uses a mike tyson method
of one punch one constellation of fluttering sparrows
in Orion in a halo of daze of an opponent:
flat like a pancake on the floor,
but he or she won't be easily flipped or even
count to 10, you'll only have to be content with
what sarcasm is: the easiest identifiable method of
communicating comedy after slapstick humour
of laurel & hardy & (lee) evans.
Mar 19, 2016
Mar 19, 2016 at 8:37 PM UTC
It’s 1:30am and we were at a cute little dance club in Dublin called “The Sugar Club.” It’s a converted movie theater with tables in stadium seating rows. That night was Salsa themed, and the regulars were stylin’ - the men dressed in white Havana or Colima, Italian Linen and women in bright salsa dresses.
The DJ was mixing a gr8 groove - with music from Bassia, Brazilian Girls, Kate the Cat, with some ElectroSwing thrown in from Tape Five, Pink Martini and Doja Cat (Yes, I asked the DJ for his playlist). The tiny, darkly-disco-sparkling dance floor was crowded and refrigerator cold.
We had a good time. Irish guys are funny and unpredictable, they’ll say practically anything, “Shall I buy you a drink, or do you just want the money?” and those brogues make everything they say spankin’ hot.
We all danced a few times, but Sunny’s a gwyn who never seemed to tire. Guys kept asking her to dance and she seemed happy to oblige - I would have collapsed already.
There was a dead-fit guy, Rían, throwing a strong Chris Evans vibe, who seemed completely smitten with Sunny. He seemed a real dean but he didn’t 404 that Sunny’s femme-facing and that he might as well be offering lettuce to a shark.
We’d discussed the possibility that things might come up and decided to avoid delicate public acts of disclosure (Sunny’s gay, Leong’s a communist, etc..) - we’re trespassing different cultures on this trip, after all.
We explained to Rían that we were students, just in town for the Duran Duran concert, and consoled him with a couple of “Black & Golds” (Kahlua, whiskey and orange bitters) - he was a LOT of fun to talk to.
The bartender asked me if I was one of the colleens with “Margot Robbie” - he was referring to Lisa - which Anna found amusing - but I think Lisa’s way phater than Margot.
Jun 17, 2022
Jun 17, 2022 at 3:32 PM UTC
The love that has no name.
A fiery force so strong yet forbidden.
The most honest love can be divided in to two. Those who can’t concieve, blame it on greed.
They also accuse of acting on whim and fancy.
Mrs Evans, down the road, thinks it’s for lust. Hidden on the bookshelf, locked away, descent into dust.
I'm not promoting dishonesty, I'm not defending adultery.
But we few, we true seers into our souls, confess.
For you can love more than one, what man could not?
Dec 14, 2014
Dec 14, 2014 at 5:39 PM UTC
Disappointment dogged their every step
on the trip back from the Pole.
Amundsen had bested Scott,
as the World would soon be told.
Evans was the first to die,
to perish in the frost.
Oates, the poor old soldier,
was next to pay the cost.
Crippled by an old war wound,
Home base too far to go,
He walked out in a blizzard
and was buried by the snow.
Eleven miles to fuel and food
The three men left were stranded
A fierce winter storm held them at bay
Empty bellied, empty handed.
Bowers first, then Wilson died,
felled by dysentery .
Scott, their brave Commander,
then wrote his final entry:
“A pity, I can write no more,
too weak to venture out.
Nearly snow blind from the Frost,
by Winter put to rout”
Eight months later, a rescue party
came upon their sad remains
Robert Falcon Scott had died.
The world would learn their names.
They raised a cairn of ice around
the place where brave men died.
A crudely fashioned wooden cross
they placed above on high.
Jan 4, 2012
Jan 4, 2012 at 10:34 PM UTC
My thoughts circle in worry,
Dripping resentment and judgment
Into the purity of now. Help me.
I know what I do, but I do and I do and I do.
Danna Evans
May 29, 2014
May 29, 2014 at 12:10 PM UTC
I have no sad delusion life will end, though I’ll move on
Into endogenetic, and the stillness from which we were born
To lie there undisturbed, Earth Mother cradles us until she’s gone
These thoughts all race across my mind,
and I’m just trying to hang on
What happens then as I believe is, we‘re ****** into the stars
To sail the Solar winds alone, far beyond Jupiter and Mars
Living bits of energy, ride on the Cosmos intra vires
Somehow I can hear the sound, but it’s much too faint,
and far too far
I must admit I’m at a loss, to understand what may be true
The answers to my questions, as of now are hidden from my view
I contemplate the subject looking up, to skies of cobalt blue
Somewhere far in distant time, some ancient place...
we rise anew
To live and love yet once again, and know that we exist
To see the softness of your eyes, and feel that soothing, gentle kiss
It’s late and I must sleep, and so my thoughts begin to slowly drift
The stars revolve above me once again…
and so the dreams persist
A dream of immortality?... that’s partially correct
Perhaps a glimpse within a hope, one instant to gently reflect
Upon our awesome journey, and the thought that life will resurrect
Consider such a moment.. where you and I, and God connect
And so my friends do not distress, about life’s imminent demise
We’ll live again light years from now, for the Universe shall improvise
Heaven waits for those who see the light, and all it so implies
Look deep into the cobalt blue, and you'll find your dreams there...
in the skies.
Dean Evans
12-17-14
Jan 1, 2015
Jan 1, 2015 at 9:19 PM UTC
Oh, to be a sad balloon... and sail the wayward wind alone
To leave this troubled world behind, embark upon the vast unknown
Yet somewhere.. I can hear the soulful song that loneliness intones
I realize that there are things your heart, and mine…
could not condone
It seems that I may so escape my darkness.. in the shining sky
Perhaps to drift away in blue, where sorrow fails to underlie
I hope you realize, within my dreams… I never saw you cry
I rise to sad uncertainty, with cigarette and eau de vie
I wait for the approaching light, and hope to witness healing dawn
The sun however, fails to so provide what hearts depend upon
But I suppose the wind has seen to ordination .. love foregone
To leave my spirit resolute, embodiment of hope withdrawn
These thoughts that crowd my mind at times, have left me strangely ill at ease
Though I recall my dreams of love, do not misunderstand me please
My aspirations lie above, and there are many thoughts of these
Until my sorrow once again, arrives upon the savage breeze
To leave me here in desolation, endeavoring to soar the skies
To wonder, when will truth contend... dispatch the dread and dire lies
Can I have hope of happiness?... well I don’t know...but I surmise
My sorrow stands as barricade, for tears I’ve placed there in your eyes
So I aspire to ride the wind, out far beyond the waning moon
To leave disorder furthermost, where love and kindness
then commune
So I may know the many reasons, hearts were broken... much too soon
I bid farewell to radiance,
in a wretched ode to a sad balloon...
Dean Evans
12-31-14
Jan 1, 2015
Jan 1, 2015 at 7:14 PM UTC
No not stupid
You stupid
Me learned.
No not drunk.
What about more lines
Than just four?
One more?
Two more?
Change in form and
Stanza size.
What'd your English teacher say?
**** you, **** off,
Don't care, won't listen.
You don't mean nothin' - nowt at all.
Oh look back to four.
What do people write about?
There's a girl here wearing heels
To a relaxed creative thing.
Do I write about that?
Do I write about 'love'?
But I don't believe in it.
Go on then: green fields, pretty skies, blue-eyed boy.
Melt my heart.
Or nature: the pastoral, eh?
A green thought in a green shade.
Be conscious of the spilled blood that went into the making of the wild sky.
Sheep and cows and trees and England and dear God what is that smell?
Dr Evans said the last thing is death.
To sink into the ground and be eliminated.
Forgotten and remembered.
I should very much like that.
Well, there you have it.
A poem about poetry.
Call it postmodernism
But really I'm just bored.
May 28, 2014
May 28, 2014 at 11:53 AM UTC
A girl from the north country with eyes deep as the Great Lakes (if the Great Lakes were green).
Writers in numbers too great to mention.
The truth and those few who have the guts to tell it.
Contrasts and textures like white wine and black satin or the brown and white of tan lines.
Burgundy, my favorite color. Strong coffee and good bourbon. Garlic and spicy foods. Yuengling Lager. Pall Malls. Evan Williams.
Classic movies. Indie movies. Movies.
Mozart, Warren Zevon and Bill Evans. Beethoven's late Quartets. Leonard Cohen and Joni Mitchell. An endless list.
Lingerie (but not on me). Women in hats. Women in dresses. Long kisses. Women with souls. Women with brains. OK, women, though very few good ones seem to exist.
My sons. Tibetan art. Champagne. Apple computers. Cats. Space travel. ****
Quantum Theory. Buddhism. The Tao. Burning Bushes. Shiva and Vishnu.
Ghost driving aimlessly to see what I find. America is mostly off the interstates and mostly dying.
Young people who listen and know I'm real and like them..
Blueberries: food of the gods.
Breaking any rule I think is chickenshit in any way possible.
And so on.
Apr 17, 2015
Apr 17, 2015 at 9:04 AM UTC
Oh, there is light in such places:
The galleries of Soho, the catwalks of Milan,
The boardwalks of Blackpool,
But it exists to flatter, to obfuscate, to tell alluring lies,
A trompe l’oeil of a family picnic
Etched on the wall of an abandoned orphanage,
The siren song crooned by a spider
To the enraptured and wholly credulous fly.
Ah, but the illumination here!
The sun reflecting off the roofs
On those Bob Evans and Shoney’s you would shun,
The starlight backed by a host of owls, a symphony of crickets,
All serving to peel away the layers of artifice and cunning,
To be shucked away like so many cornhusks,
Allowing the secrets of the universe to be whispered to you,
Faintly yet unmistakably, and once moved by these epiphanies
What is to stop you from running along the narrow, unlined streets
And green open spaces in mad, unfashionable celebration,
Exempt from the clucking of the chic and the congnoscenti?
Dec 2, 2016
Dec 2, 2016 at 10:34 AM UTC
I used to say,
In a judgmental way,
This is what forty five looks like.
I used to preach,
In my ego speech,
Get bangs not Botox.
Be like me.
Be whole, be pure,
Being real is the cure.
Be like me.
But now I see,
How my judgments blinded me
Of who you are
While I hissed…be like me.
Now I see
What I missed…you are like me.
I am sorry sister.
I judged myself as true
And in turn I ended up judging you.
Forgive me.
For I am you and
You are me.
Danna Evans
May 27, 2014
May 27, 2014 at 12:06 PM UTC
The day is fading once again, the forest stands in silhouette
And I upon my balcony with Bergerac, and cigarette
Survey the Moon that rises to illuminate, with harsh regret
My lost and lonesome memories of then and her, the sad
Annette
She called to me in velvet night, across the brawny moor
I found the moment contrary, resisting not her soft allure
I walked in nightmares sad lament, my heart decreed herein de-jure
I ascend the last few steps and stop.. and softly knock upon the door
I stood but for a moment there, the opening ajar
I sensed soft music on the breeze, originating from afar
Looking up I saw my tears reflected in the evening star
I stepped inside, a haunting scent adrift upon the evening air
I listened as the music played inside my mind, a soft octet
Silently the windows sang, with ornate glass in raised rosette
What happened next my heart denies, although has not forgotten yet
There beheld my eyes the hollow face of her.. the sad Annette
She sat there lost in solitude emotion thus demure
Her sedentary countenance at once was sullen, quite obscure
Attire of one whom long ago had donned her lost haute-couture
Though words cannot describe my feelings, as I sat...
and gazed at her
She looked my way but for a moment, she had sensed my hidden pain
Effaced a tear she’d wished unnoticed, smiled at me and then
She said “I love you”, closed her eyes and spoke these words again
It seemed as if she’d thrown my naked soul…
out in the rain
No other words were spoken as I turned, to take my leave
Annette had given me another reason, so to grieve
To see with crystal clarity, the failures I’ve achieved
To make my heart another lonely wretched refugee
To sit at days demise again with wine, and cigarette
Attempting to relieve my mind of her, although I haven’t yet
I live within the tortured realm of memories I can’t forget
Of years ago and three small words,
offered by the sad Annette.
Dean Evans
4-5-15
Apr 6, 2015
Apr 6, 2015 at 8:57 PM UTC
The ink inside this pen can hold so many words, it's strange
I can describe so many things, or can sadly rearrange
With love or tears of sorrow, which will leave this paper stained
But in the end if no one reads, is love what I have gained?
For all I have inside my mind, flows out of me in ink
All the things I've wished for you and I, or what I think
Happiness or lonesome skies, ecstasy or pain
Lies within the winter snow I write, or summer rain
They say that if a tree falls, and no one's there to hear
Does it really make a sound, this thought fills me with fear
For if so true, then words that come from me, with pen in hand
Will disappear to be unseen, like castles in the sand
I've written many thousands, my words I set free here
I've emptied many pens to love's sweet feelings, and to fear
But my real fear is that my words, maybe just will lie
Until the pages filled with hope to you, will someday die
Words that come from deep inside, in hope of reaching you
But if my thoughts are never read, they're meaning gone but true
So why do I keep these poems coming from my mind?
Because if I should stop, the words would all be lost in time
Time that would see my words just lie upon these pages
No one here to see, or read them, fading with the ages
Someday gone with wind and rain the edges torn and tattered
Like autumn leaves, time will find the thoughts broken and scattered
But write I will, and for no reason but to help myself
Even if the words not read, grow dusty on my shelf
Someday perhaps, someone will browse far, in years to be
The old and yellowed papers, long ago written by me
To wonder maybe who had thoughts of love and loss combined
Who the old and weathered books came from, and from what mind
Some hopeless, helpless lost old soul, A woman or a man?
That sat for days and months on end, paper pen in hand
So now here lies another unread piece of my existence
Something compels me to write, I offer no resistance
I suppose it comforts me in ways, just to see these words
Perhaps just as the sun and sky,
comforts the singing birds
Dean Evans
9-24-07
Jan 4, 2015
Jan 4, 2015 at 7:39 PM UTC