"ghosttown" poems
no one is around
i walk down the streets of a vacant wasteland
forgotten, discarded, tattered
red cups drag across asphalt
with no force pushing them but the
tired alcohol stained breath of the wind.
this beautiful sunday morning-tainted
by the drunken cheers of last night
the life-poured, guzzled, shot
out of this place
death hangs over the streets while a
drunken hibernation swallows my
"highly esteemed" peers.
shattered glass cracks beneath
my feet as i follow the pathway
to my house; to my successes
this place…
this is home.
May 20, 2014
May 20, 2014 at 4:54 PM UTC
My heart beating alone in a Ghosttown, dhak dhak
The ringing phone in an empty house, ring ring
The dripping of water in an abandoned home, drip drop
The soft breeze rustling the curtains in an isolated place, swoosh.
My soul in a Ghosttown, cry.
Sylvia in her kitchen, cut.
Whitney in her bathtub, drug.
Lucy Jordan in her house, laugh.
My love in a Ghosttown
Hades in Tartarus
Hestia at the Hearth
Kitty Genovese in New York.
Adam and Eve in Eden.
Zeus and Hera at Olympus.
Marilyn and John in the White house.
A Ball, A Ballad, A Masquerade.
A Dove in Normandy.
An Olive branch in Kashmir.
A communist in America in 1940.
Dreamers & Idealists in existence.
Mahatma Gandhi in 1948.
John F. Kennedy in 1963.
Martin Luther King Jr. in 1968.
John Lennon in 1980.
Imagine
I have a dream that one day
we need men who can dream
where there is love, there if life.
A heart beating
beats of isolation.
A soul weeping
the tears of loneliness.
My Soul
My Love
My Heart
all in a Ghosttown.
Jan 31, 2020
Jan 31, 2020 at 4:40 PM UTC
The last time I was home feels like an eternity ago.
I wonder if my wife and children still love me.
Do they even remember my face?
Will I ever see them again?
For nearly a year we’ve waged war.
At times I feel like I don’t even know what for.
Squabbles over government, weapons, power, fear, nowadays it all feels the same.
Some say we do it for our country.
Sadly her habit of injustice makes me question whether patriotism is worth losing my life.
A good night of slumber interrupted by a boom.
Another bomb, if only God would intervene and end this war.
Upon reaching the site of the explosion I’m greeted by bullets flying overhead.
It isn’t the combat that lingers in my mind however; it’s the carnage that follows.
We manage to drive away the enemy, but the scene around us will torment me until I die.
A village once thriving and exuberant, now a ghosttown in more ways than one.
Our captain yells to check for any survivors.
Tearing apart the rubble, I find all of them dead.
One is lying in a pool of blood; he looks just like my son.
Tears flood my eyes as I stand in the hell called battlefield.
Jan 23, 2019
Jan 23, 2019 at 7:18 PM UTC
Lately,
my mind has been writing
white words on white paper.
I’ve been singing lullabies to the void,
standing where the truths you
left unspoken go to die.
And I stay up all night, pondering
if this is the place I’ve always lived in.
If I have to accept this is the place
I’ve written my name on a red mailbox,
even though dust is the only thing inside,
where I wake up and water the daisies
in a garden invaded by wild forget-me-not's.
Maybe this is my hometown,
maybe I’m just meant to be
the lonely character that spies
at their neighbors through the lens
of worn-out binoculars wondering
how it must feel like
to be seen.
Oct 19, 2019
Oct 19, 2019 at 11:25 AM UTC