"floodlit" poems
How strange it must be,
to live in the countryside -
to fall asleep to the sound of crickets under your window,
and bullfrogs croaking in the creek.
So far from the sirens -
the Los Angeles Screamers -
tearing through the floodlit nights,
picking us off, one at a time,
huddled in our houses,
alone, together.
Oct 17, 2015
Oct 17, 2015 at 3:38 PM UTC
as you slept in peace,
i washed out to sea
and dreamt that your body
climbed a city building
the water stings my eyes
as floodlit light
pursed lips
or consuming fireflies
do you think they can swim,
i wonder –
do you think you have wings,
i wonder, too
now while i drink salt
i envision an angel
formed from you
Oct 30, 2012
Oct 30, 2012 at 4:54 PM UTC
I want to be alone,
to sit between the
concave hollows of my bones,
nestle beneath folds of skin,
shut my eyes and
make the world go dim,
just me and a pulse,
a heartrate pumping blood
and when I open them
it's not the floodlit streets,
wars, fires or anger I see
but the trees and fields;
the peace i wear like a glove,
vowing not to take it off the
minute things get tough.
Feb 5, 2016
Feb 5, 2016 at 12:13 PM UTC
The Contra jour man hid his grimace,
watching the Punch and Judy show
with vignettes of spectators in like denial,
he clenched his fists
fearful of the spotlight
yet he could not surrender pain
Eventually he try to break the rules
and heal underneath.
Yet his crucifix a new seaside town
with a floodlit vaudeville
presenting songs of belied memories
to which he can only raise a mug
of out of season white burgundy
apparently leading the dance nowhere.
Feb 3, 2014
Feb 3, 2014 at 2:58 PM UTC
The concert ended
The crowd moved out
The show was over
But I had doubts
Whether I could make
The long trip home
Long, because I was alone
I walked in circles
In downtown
Stole glimpses of treasures
To lift my frown
Floodlit fountains
Candle light
Night time galas
Hidden delights
Couples and friends
In happy times
Cyclists and tourists
Youth in their prime
And I walked alone
Single once more
And I dreaded the thought
Of the waiting door
That would lead to
An empty house
I tried my best the fear
To douse
And then I faced it
And I plunged ahead
And went straight home
To an empty bed
Feb 13, 2010
Feb 13, 2010 at 7:15 PM UTC
From that moment the mouthy man in the middle,
top hat in hand, barks and waves our three floodlit rings
into motion with a flourish of brassy blasts,
the big top gets turvy and my stomach's all nerves
making the bushel of peanuts I just munched feel
like broken glass chewed by my friend the tattooed geek.
Martha says, Elephants are supposed to be more
dignified... don't mope! It is hard to grasp for her
tail day after daisy-chained day when I'm holding
this bouquet of forget-me-nots rubber-banded
by a grudge. I tell her, The real indignity's
being dressed in a rhinestone-studded satin cape.
May 7, 2010
May 7, 2010 at 3:30 PM UTC
Some days there are no problems.
Others, becoming more the frequent,
I feel as safe as Anne Frank in
A china shop.
It's never good fun.
But it doesn't have to be this way.
Either the seekers' rubber boots
Squeak up on me
Or I fling myself against the
Floodlit brick wall.
I've dreamed it a thousand ways.
What new can they do?
Their gas and their bullets, and
Their tire irons across my cheek
Cannot hurt me, a fool
Who has no fear of death,
As every day Death walks beside
And casts a grey lens to filter
What I can see.
If I am caught
If I am found out
And if their hands, their hands, their hands
Pull at me until I am We,
I hope the rendered halves
Push forth that warm light we like to hear about
In place of a deluge.
A light
To burst forth doors
And save the ones who perch like finches
Daring never fly.
I might hope only to become a hand.
A hand in which to step
And to be clasped
And in that clasp be free.
For all the men and women and
For all the in-between as well.
I wish that I could give that to you.
To rip away from your grey rags,
Your stars and triangles,
And in the persiflage of silence
Break the gates and cells
With my limp wrists.
Throw stones until my blood be upon me.
Mother.
Father.
Sons and lovers.
Break my mouth and put my eyes away.
Let, though, my skin go last
As a radial, red calyx.
I. We. All.
I wish to be the last to see the sun.
To be at last
And to be me.
Feb 23, 2010
Feb 23, 2010 at 7:25 PM UTC
I ascend the stairs to centre stage,
Beneath a barren balcony.
I hear the phantom crowd's applause
As I approach my mark and pause,
Beneath a floodlit canopy.
Like a sparrow then upon my fence,
Who sings his own soliloquy,
Without a soul to hear me thence,
I speak my heart at their expense,
Who in their absence never hear me.
I whisper words to dying flames,
That now are just an ember,
In younger days our lustful games
Love trapped inside of photo frames
That help you to remember.
For lovers who have lost my trust,
Do I produce my vengeful sword,
My feet they lunge upon the dust,
Across the stage I stab and ******
To strike down Brutus, once adored.
And in the tide of our affairs,
Tis love who wears the laurel crown,
To rapturous silence I take the stairs,
The long lost loves still unawares,
Of the house that's been brought down.
Jun 14, 2013
Jun 14, 2013 at 2:06 PM UTC
Where is the truth in this world?
Does it knock on the door,
When it feels ready to enter
Or does it sneak into the heart
When it is ready to reveal?
Truth, so utopic
As it is to reach the farthest stars.
It overcomes the multiple bars
Seems as yet too metaphoric
Behind the garden of truth
You stand and watch the flowers bloom
But cannot open the floodlit door
Though the heart is seeking for the key
While truth remains still in the mystic breez.
Mar 28, 2015
Mar 28, 2015 at 2:15 PM UTC