"freefalls" poems
Wallpaper pocked with garish roses, gnawed imperceptible by the objects they're tasked to enclose.
Nicotine yellows waste away upon them with unsightly permutations.
An artificial fruit basket blurbs the same comment of unmoving, life likeness.
The couch indents itself with fled bodies, the windowsill allows odd couplings of half-dead plants.
The window freefalls the sky's latest canyon, varying preceptors of light
lacerate its transparency.
Birds push in a compass fails sort of way just outside... their colors and sizes are lights knocked out of some giant mind.
Back inside, the den serializes the spines of shelved books, and the strident terror of family/friend photographs.
Tirelessly pulling out their best-kept faces, while peppered with dust motes.
A splintered vase rests upon the coffetable, just off center, flower-less with a wisp of water inside it.
A turned off television positioned with an idiot's care...stares like a darkened billboard.
Dec 13, 2016
Dec 13, 2016 at 1:59 PM UTC
It isn't music, really
not really
not the kind that you can
dance to
or sing words to
or hum along to
but maybe tap your foot
a bit to
or rock your shoulders
a little bit to
and sway your head
a little nod or two
It's more like rustling leaves
from pianissimo
to crescendo
above the tapping
drips of rain
in puddles circling
round the dangling feet
of waterspouts
and the trilling ring
a brassy bell delivers
swinging from the strike
of an opened door
as dampened shoes
skip shuffle and slide
inside the musty lair
of an old bookstore
all measured by
the syncopated
clapping beat
of hooves
on cobblestone
in time with
carriage wheels
and drumbeat hoods
of rocking cabriolets
He paints from sound
that whistles in the wind
and freefalls from the sky
that bounces in the streets
and whispers to his eyes
that nestles in his pallet
and mixes in his dyes
It isn't music, really
not really
not the kind that you can
dance to
or sing words to
or hum along to
but maybe tap your foot
a bit to
or rock your shoulders
a little bit to
and sway your head
a little nod or two
when you see his aria
composed by strokes
from brushes
dipped in sound
Feb 9, 2014
Feb 9, 2014 at 11:16 PM UTC
Once I soared with eagles
my guardian angel by my side.
Walking tall with confidence
caused my foes to run and hide.
I chose my battles carefully;
I picked the place and time.
If any son dared cross me
I knew his *** was mine.
I remember ocassional setbacks;
times when the going got rough,
but the things that should
only helped to make me tough.
I guess I thought there was a God.
I prayed once in a while,
but I knew I didn't need his help
to go an extra mile.
I rebelled against authority;
took all the freedom I could get.
I could not allow myself to lose a fight;
my *** ain't been kicked yet.
Needing victory in every duel
became my prison cell.
As I leaned hard against the wind
my soul set sail for Hell.
I didn't know it left me;
I didn't see it stray
Fighting one last battle,
it would just get in my way.
This battle was the hardest;
it took five years to win.
Revenge and anger were my weopens;
I wore them like a grin.
When the fight was nearly over
and victory was near,
I prayed to God," return my soul"
but He didn't seem to hear.
I'd look for without Him;
this heart that I had lost.
I'd win it back all by myself
no matter what the cost.
Now standing on the pinnicle,
I fearfully looked around.
My soul would not have come up here;
it's too far from hallowed ground.
Starting back down along the path;
frought with struggle and with strife,
I found I was decending through the
wreckage of my life.
While pawing through the ashes
of the bridges I had burned,
I found the charred remains
of all the lessons I had learned.
Confused and battle weary;
I could not tell wrong from right,
but I prayed that at the freefalls end
there might be truth and light.
Now I'm lying in the smoke and fire
at the crash site of my soul
peering out through Godless eyes
as a snake peers from his hole.
I should have had some warning;
a shot across my bow
but my spirit spiraled down and down
and look where I am now.
Like a marble in a funnel,
my soul spun 'round and down.
With a lack of positive energy
it finnaly hit the ground.
Now I'm at the bottom
With no way to go but up.
God, please give me the strength to feed
my soul;
your sacred wine to fill my cup.
This was the first poem I was ever able to
right. At age 56 it came to me in a dream and I got up and wrote it down.
Dec 10, 2014
Dec 10, 2014 at 12:17 PM UTC
As a periwinkle twilight descends upon the neighborhood, the eyes of the homes near me lift their sleepy lids.
The metal below my body cools and comforts as the fingers in my peripheral tenderly stroke brown flaky shards from its surface.
In the distance, the highway coos it's nightly song and the crickets respond
rapturously, a motorcycle flies by.
Im too high
up for the bugs to find me.
I savor the street’s gentle curve
and think how the light grey pavement might be soft and soothing after all.
A bat freefalls, snags a current of air on my left
I hope that this fire escape doesn't fall
~~
8-14-17
Apr 21, 2018
Apr 21, 2018 at 9:34 AM UTC
I used to fantasize about the existence of a never ending hole
Huge and full of nothing but darkness, wind and freedom big enough to jumo into and fall forever
For so long I forgot that anything can touch me
So long as I forget that anythig exist outside of the air licking me
And If i felt lost I fantisized company
Someone to do backflips with and laugh
Silent cause the air grabbed the sound and held it
If I didnt I was happy
I was a child and it was all I dreamt about
endless wind and air and dark and abandon
I am no longer a child
I wish freefalls would consume my dreams
Just one more week.
Oct 29, 2017
Oct 29, 2017 at 1:04 PM UTC
falling is feeling alive again on open roads and dusty lungs filled with old bones my closet feels so full of skeletons I got an adrenaline rush from killing a spider today royal flush full house of cobwebs and dead flies and wishing you and I were whole again
the smell of nail polish is ingrained in everything in my bedsheets bottles bleed black and red and gold and glitter
glitter always sticks to hardwood floors and skin I’m sick of things sticking to my skin I am not a spider web stop sticking to my skin
dusty decay painting my nails the color of old scrapbooks I take photos because I need memories to exist outside of me I can’t remember anything except how it feels to dry-swallow pain pills I’ve forgotten to brush my teeth for the 3rd day in a row old habits die when
count fireflies caught in your claws and claw the mouths from any man who catcalls or calls harassment a compliment fight fire with freefalls oxygen masks and steamboats I want to die on the peak of Mount Everest maybe then I can finally rest my hand hurts from my grip on the pen I stopped paying attention again
my hands won’t stop bleeding my cuticles are ripped again I want it to stop again I want my hands clean again I want to take care of myself again I want to be whole again I want to cover myself in nail polish and then fly
fall down the Grand Canyon
Jul 14, 2017
Jul 14, 2017 at 3:44 PM UTC