"lamposts" poems
soft sound of shoes on new pavement
hot & clinging.
sentences strung together/hinging on subjects of a wide variety,
petroglyphs, ivory, & māori history.
touching lamposts with the wicked curiosity
of an only child.
cutting the hair of strangers in an alleyway off of downtown,
burning the strands in a bowl w/some potpourri
interpreting the smoke.
Jun 1, 2011
Jun 1, 2011 at 8:42 PM UTC
Forgot the man who said
He used to hide in the TV shelf's cabinet
Out of anxiety and sadness
Hidden from everyone
But haunted by demons
He could not escape
Remember the one who bikes at full-speed
Strong legs, taking himself places
On adventurous journeys
To the neighboring destinations
Remember uncovering the eyes of the girl you love
To show her an expression of your ardor
In full bloom.
I want to love someone like you
Someone articulate
In expressing compatibility
Someone free-spirited and sturdy
I want the you I remember
The you that remains is one I forgot
The sadness that desperately clings to
The joy that nervously trembles on the steeple
I know there is more to be remembered
And less to forget
The story I remember is spray-painted
On a construction site spelling out:
L-O-V-E
It is music playing in a nearby house
Two love-struck teenagers
Dancing under lamposts
Imagining moonlight
The you that remains
Is you with your puppies
And just loving the runt
"Maybe", I think now,
"He's the runt and the runt is him"
Sep 10, 2014
Sep 10, 2014 at 11:44 PM UTC
I was in the street of a busy city.
One of those cold concrete cities
With loud noises and fast paced people.
Standing alone in the warm smog
Nobody noticed me as they passed by,
Walking to wherever they felt they needed to go.
I may as well have been a lamppost.
Not even that, they would notice a lamppost at night
When they use it to guide their way home,
From what ever they were celebrating that evening.
They don't think they could gain,
Any kind of their quick bursts of joy
Through a conversation with me.
Like junkies they go through life
Looking for the next high,
Hoping that whatever high they're on
Will help them get to the next one.
They can't see me.
I am alone.
Chasing lamposts.
Mar 25, 2012
Mar 25, 2012 at 8:16 PM UTC
a roadtrip to somewhere,
just so we could watch a meteor shower.
we didn't even know exactly where to go,
only that we wanted to watch the shooting stars without the city's glow.
at first adrenaline filled our somber and tired selves;
we were all fueled with the idea of seeing something magical at twelve.
then came the rush of being lost in lonely, secluded roads.
suddenly we realized, this trip, to our parents we should've told.
*whose is that car parked at the other side of the highway?
were they here even before we stopped to look at the meteors fall away?
should we flee or should we stay?
i don't want this to be our last day.
**oh god please help us
we're running out of gas***
and just as we are consumed with panic,
and fear of strangers in places, dark and exotic
we drive back to the city,
where the people are awake and much less creepy.
when the lamposts became brighter,
and the surroundings no longer sinister,
where the stars we so longed for became much hazier,
we simply laughed at our cowardice,
and at our overly-hightened suspiciousness.
as dull, yet terrifying the world can be,
even with rare astronomical phenomenas that are oh so sightly,
adventures are really, no less scary.
yet everything can still feel mesmerizing,
and even reassuring,
so long as you are able to find just the right company.
Aug 18, 2017
Aug 18, 2017 at 10:04 PM UTC
Three years now I have followed
the path in which You've set.
Great milestones have been met
but the anchor's chain still drops.
The year before last,
challenges were external.
At a time, post-vernal,
the flood began, sans-ark.
Simple words assailed in waves,
ignored through red-skied mornings.
Ignominy aborning, through lovely scornings,
a reflective pool showed the two visibles.
My path had grown dark between lamposts
the distances grew with self isolation.
Without light, advances cause irritation--
with light I can see my fright.
To all I've hurt,
and for all it's worth,
my robbery of mirth
requires penance.
This pen knots the future,
a copy to be sent in turn,
for my lost friends to learn
the pain one wields with a pen.
Jul 23, 2014
Jul 23, 2014 at 7:48 PM UTC
i'm not inspired to smoke cigarettes because i'm always trying to get in shape but every finger i lift is a freighter's worth of dead weight.
i envy their lack of conscious thought;
i **** them in my mind for the disparity between their capability for labor and apathy towards the thought of an imaginary savior.
faith means believing what isn't there. you held me tighter when i told you that i don't wear seatbelts because i'm always dreaming of dethroning lamposts and kissing trees on the side of the Pike. foliage is far more gregarious without all of the gore but you said that you'd stay forever and your ghost sits on my shoulders like a dump truck full of ashes.
i don't know if i've ever written a full paragraph without dreaming of this pen sprinting through my chest, blood like nectar.
drink me and feel your potential dissipate like dust bunnies.
you would have stayed forever.
lie to me again and tell me that i'll wear my seatbelt someday.
Sep 13, 2016
Sep 13, 2016 at 12:39 AM UTC
real; the unscabbed scars on my knuckles and arms remind
me of rough trees and the grimy surface of soil stomped
on, you compare them to wildflowers but i know that this is
only because you are the type of person to enter a restaurant
with a sign that reads caution and order something anyway,
simply because you are too nice and hate to think of businesses
shutting down and of people failing, maybe this is why
you love me, i still have not figured it out yet
real; walking into school makes me feel like a deflated balloon
and everyone that says hello to me is blowing me up
again with methane i am slowly becoming too big to be tied
down with a ribbon called responsibility and fear,
the anxiety that enters my mind when i am forced to stand in
front of strangers with judgemental eyes and fake smiles
becomes mind numbingly painful and it makes me question
whether or not i am still alive. i still have not figured out
why i am yet.
real; your smile lights up the lights on the lamposts by the
train station where we met it transforms phantoms into people
paper planes into reality and nightmares into dreams
your touch leaves nothing but good intentions and blissful hope
and it leaves my cold unbeating heart yearning for warmth. i
still have not figured out if i like it or not.
not real; you love me. you kiss my wrist because you care
about me not what i went through. you love talking to me, you
wonder about how stars could ever die because you
think i am a walking sun. you keep your promises and tell me that
you care every night. i'm a good person. i have aspirations.
those pills on my bedside are not mine. the mirror is shaking.
i never meant to hurt myself. i'm sorry for all the things i've done.
i have potential to be better. i am beautiful.
*not real not real not ******* real*
(h.l.)
Dec 2, 2015
Dec 2, 2015 at 7:09 PM UTC
do you remember when
all that mattered was
holding his hand
like the smell of the sun
on his sunburnt skin
laying on the sun-set sand
do you remember when
the only song you know
was his second name
and the only dance
that your feet understand
is a step with his toes
can you take me back
when the lamposts died
the other night
and i'll ask myself
why the sun shines
only on the two of you
take me back to sun screened streets
where all that mattered was
our touching feet
Jun 9, 2019
Jun 9, 2019 at 3:09 AM UTC
Today I went to a bookstore
A grief observed by C. S. Lewis.
Into a ziplock bag went this book, and
A quote from C Raymand Beran
--what is a friend?
I will tell you.
I drove the forty minutes along the dull highway
Lamposts like hovering, ghostly figures,
And slipped this package under the windshield wiper of your car.
Why is it that my own words can't express
What I'm feeling, so well as others do?
A-
For the tenth
-a friend
Those were my only words.
Your mother died eight months
Ago tomorrow, and here I
Sit. Selfishly hoping you'll speak
To me again.
Mar 9, 2013
Mar 9, 2013 at 2:45 AM UTC
A panic would settle all over her face
Each night as she pulled the blinds,
‘The world outside is a scarier place
Whenever the day unwinds.
I’ve seen the changes that darkness brings
When the lights in the street go out,
There are screams and cries, and animal things,
Can you say what it’s all about?’
I said I couldn’t, it wasn’t the same
For me as it was for her,
‘The night is merely a lack of light
But nothing has changed out there.
The lamposts stand, they may not be lit
But they’re still upright in the dark,
And as for sounds, and animal things
These are merely dogs in the park.’
‘Dogs don’t howl, or bay at the moon,
They don’t have a Lion’s roar,
And what sits tearing, out in the gloom
Just out from our own front door?
A line of vultures sit on our fence,
Flapping their wings for prey,
While howls and grunts are making me tense
The moment the day’s away.’
‘I’ll take you out and I’ll prove you’re wrong,
There’s nothing to fear outside,
It may be dark but the world goes on
There’s just a turn in the tide.’
‘I wouldn’t dare, there’s a sickly moon
That beams on down from a height,
It has a sheen, and the sheen is green
Whenever I put out the light.’
‘And who is the man at night who roams
Out there on the cobblestones,
You said it’s the window cleaner man
But the window cleaner’s Jones.
And Jones is tucked in his tiny bed
By the time the clock strikes nine,
I know it’s true, for his wife has said,
And his wife’s a friend of mine.’
‘It’s only some ragged, passing *****
Or a gypsy, out for the air,
They park their vans on the common land
Where the village holds its fair.’
‘He jingles coins as he walks on by,
And hums, but it’s out of tune,
You’d see, if ever you part the blinds
Him walking under the moon.’
I’d had enough, and opened the door,
And took her out to the porch,
I felt so confident I was right
I didn’t carry a torch.
We walked a way out into the street
She shivered and gripped my arm,
I waved my hand in a calming sweep,
‘You see? No cause for alarm.’
The air was suddenly filled with bats,
And some were caught in her hair,
While round our feet, a scurry of rats
Brought screams to the street out there.
The vultures sat there flapping their wings,
And launched themselves from our fence,
A man was jingling coins, walked past
Then I knew why my wife was tense.
I dragged her back through the open door,
All bleeding and cut and hurt,
Pulled the bats from her tangled hair
And the ones attached to her skirt,
We never venture outside at night
Not after we pull the blinds,
But leave the world of the after dark
To the man who jingles the coins.
David Lewis Paget
Jun 19, 2015
Jun 19, 2015 at 8:37 AM UTC
Of the reflective windows and minds:
From the window screen
Little Sj town appears glowing
The high glass windows of my hotel room
Reflects the hilltop
The lamposts outside, like fireflies
Rains nostalgia
Of places and faces
Jul 19, 2019
Jul 19, 2019 at 2:13 AM UTC