"midmorning" poems
Genocidal midmorning serenade
We paint tomorrow with
Corpses
We see the New Lands
God the father is here
Blessed Israel!
---
Oh the inferior races
Gone without a trace
Genocidal liberation!
Come come
If you got a lot of money you may live
To sing the free world into place
To stand before god's face
And the world death shall create
Mar 19, 2013
Mar 19, 2013 at 5:22 PM UTC
You say you've got it all figured out,
got the science down at age nine-teen.
I roll my eyes, because that's just silly.
I'm older than you by a year at least,
but regardless, I watch you hitch your
skirt up and strap your heels on before
leaving the house. You think I'm crazy
to stay around only to meander about
in my fuzzy socks and stained sweatshirt.
I'll have you know that I actually quite
enjoy my one-women tea parties with
Ms. Austin and the Bronte girls on a
Friday night. At least I won't get a head
ache from strobe-lights and my utter
confusion when it comes to pretty-looking
cocktails. I realize I probably won't be
seeing you until midmorning anyway
when you stumble rather impressively
into the kitchens still in your club clothes.
You'll make a disgusted noise at my
pillow fort, my coloring books, my
towering stack of certifiable Disney
DVDS and I will pretend not to notice
that you smell like stale sweat, alcohol,
and aftershave.
You will feel compelled to tell me all
about him, all about them, all about all
of last night--down to the last disturbing
detail--and I will burry my face in my cereal
so you can't see the faces I'm making.
Undoubtedly you are bragging
(or so you think), but really, I'd rather
not have had so-and-so pawing at me
all night, because neither you nor I
know where he's been, and I personally
find no appeal in waking up in someone
else's unfamiliar room because my comforter
is super soft and fluffy and I feel like a
princess when I go to bed all clean
and cute in my PJs. This way I can get up
whenever I want and take a shower and
be loud and not have to put the seat up
when I *** or quietly try and find my way
out of someone else's home.
Also, I'm lazy most of the time so
I definitely wouldn't like the walk
home so early in the day. I have to say
that I much prefer my crayons to your
aspirin, my forts to your mysterious
bathrooms, my imaginary sword fights
to your hike home. Most importantly,
I like waking up regretting nothing the
previous the night except that I didn't
get to watch all of Mulan and what her
reflection really shows.
Feb 2, 2013
Feb 2, 2013 at 1:51 AM UTC
Your spine curves like a saxophone,
I intend to play our symphonies
on the pearls that decorate your skin,
That trumpet in your throat sings
loud and full of life,
Please share it with me tonight,
The metronome across your chest
is a warm reminder of who I have
been looking for,
We do not even notice the broken
strings we share in our necks,
looked past tongue tied apologies
in the midmorning outros,
lay with me here tonight,
as if we were a chorus,
in just the right tune
Sep 27, 2014
Sep 27, 2014 at 11:20 PM UTC
As I wander in, the path ahead unfolding
I'm forced to reassess the playing cards I'm holding
Conquer and divide the uncertainties,
only to find they're alive, they've multiplied
And though my days wandering down the wrong path have ended
Its set for the aimless wandering to begin
Most days are unsurprising
I can see the sun arising
Illuminating the things I've learned thusfar
Though still leaving me with a tin can for a heart
It's like looking in the rear view mirror,
objects no more nearer, rather farther
And it's only getting harder seeing, believing that my intuition's not deceiving,
That the feeling that's haunting me
Isn't just because of where I want to be,
That what I see is what I see,
That I haven't shrouded my head in rose colored glasses,
Not clouding myself with whatever flight of fancy
Passes me from midnight to midmorning, warning me
That morning light dancing across my bed isn't the harbinger of another day of medioctiry,
But the bringer of the life I swear I see.
That I haven't deluded myself concluding,
Reading signs alluding to some moment frozen inside my head subconsciously
That I swear has been there all my life,
That I'm fated like I thought, not condemned to waiting,
Not believing without reason, not deceiving,
But seeing the redeeming that I've seen,
Just believing what I've seen.
Just believing.
Mar 5, 2010
Mar 5, 2010 at 2:36 PM UTC
I think sometimes you forget that I'm real.
Days pass by, a text message in the midmorning.
Another later in the afternoon.
Its been a while since you've told me "Goodnight".
It hasn't gone so undetected.
I keep myself defended. No photos, no updates online to remind
You that I'm human.
I've come to this conclusion as I drift further from you.
(not by my will)
I know it because I believe that when you and I are face to face once more,
When you hear my voice speak your name,
Hear its hollow inflections,
And see the shadows in my eyes,
You will remember.
It may not change everything or anything at all, but perhaps I'll no longer be
A robot, fictional character, or fading memory.
Dec 7, 2012
Dec 7, 2012 at 11:46 PM UTC
* Tumbling,
Tossing,*
Dawn, midnight-midmorning’s crossing.
Comatose in an arcane ether-realm, I’m watching.
Through the pastel, piercing mountains –rifting, I lay drifting.
The curtains parting, releasing two daylight captives, falling.
*Tumbling,
Tossing,*
Unfinished dolls of porcelain, tangled mess of hair -streaming
A girl, brunette, no eyes, no lips –smiling or screaming.
She wears dress in tones of pallid, matching his wee bow-tie -stark against jacket wafting.
Their skin, fire-cast, spare of flush, their jointed arms –like birds, flapping.
*Tumbling,
Tossing,*
The boy finds rest in clouds where birds lay nesting and mists –gently cresting.
He’s posed, his hand exposed, for her hand, inanimate, he’s reaching.
She’s losing ground rapidly, with but mock sense of gravity, while in clouds peaks are breeching.
Chest shattering, glass chattering,
*Tumbling,
Tossing.*
Skewered bodice, broken bits of her calling, giving rise to the blind though she’s not yet done falling.
All at once, his cries come with his fresh face & his babbles, nearly maddening.
Struck with the frozen bite, eyes & lips bursting –painted from her plasticine features -her tears biting and cries raging!
From her inky tears is drawn a river, running, gently cradling before suddenly she’s drowning!
*Tumbling!
Tossing!*
Through the waves, her ceramics washed to skin- her hollow, broken chest now heart beating & lungs pleading!
She takes her breath from the dark waters of her rift, living tattoos on her skin now flourishing, blossoming!
Her soul, wide-awake, taking root in her skin; finding wading too shallow, she seeks higher things of depth & so flies with a lofty dive into the heavenly expanse of underwater, pitching stars for her catching.
Paying one last glance at her lost mate, cowering, she leaves him sobbing after her on a path he won’t be following.*
Tumbling,
Tossing,
Surviving,
to Surpassing
...
She is Rising
Jun 16, 2014
Jun 16, 2014 at 6:33 PM UTC
Light of the dawn
A midmorning song
We lay awake
All day in bed
Wondering about the day
We will be wed
Winter winds blow on through
My open
And seared window
She cries asleep
Into her weathered pillow
I'm afraid for you
I'm afraid for me
How many times we gonna' through this babe
Until we can truly see?
Mountains with bare sides
No flowers, no snow, no rain
There ain't nothing to gain
When the love ain't the same
Two guns on my hip
A cool cigarette flip
The guitar player gently
Fingers his wooden pick
Out on the horizon
Where the sun and moon set
Angels play their hands
With no interest in the bet
Luck is a lady
Smooth and tangier
Don't go away baby
Stay right here
Lost souls on an ancient highway
Take a drink, go my way
We walk through the fog
We trample through these ancient groves
Any man who has followed
Has once thought
Not to do what they were told
"A million and one secrets,"
Chuckled the referee,
"A thousand things keeping
You from me."
He holds up both his hands,
A smile painted on his face.
"At least you got what you wanted.
Your solidarity and my inevitable death."
He twists the the .45 in his hand.
He pulls the trigger.
He falls to the floor.
At night,
When all has fallen silent,
Rats tap
On our window.
They're hungry like
We all
Are. I feel sorrow for these outcasts
Of nature, society, reality,
They were born in the gutter
Only to die
In the gutter.
Entering the threshold of
Mind and skin, it's hard to believe
Every one of us
Is
Kin.
The horrors
Of our violent, imaginative mind,
Can only mean
God chooses not
To materialize.
We'll have
To put
Ourselves on
For size.
Say I have lack of faith.
State I am a non-believer.
And I will listen, I will nod and grin.
But I wish not to dabble
In tribulations of deaths win, for what I have done,
What I am, and what I will do,
Will have no weight of
Religious sin.
All I can judge myself on
Is what I have and haven't done
For each
Fellow man.
Sep 12, 2014
Sep 12, 2014 at 2:29 PM UTC
A questioning whiny breaks the sound of approaching footsteps
Deep brown eyes glint in the midmorning sunlight as a figure appears
A powerful spark when both sets of eyes meet
A reassuring neigh comforts and warms the heart
A firm stomp to show he is ready
A smirk from the rider
A majestic creature galloping through the fields, we begin
A confident leader takes charge; there is nothing that can stop us now
A ray from the sun warms my face and glints against his golden hide
He is free
A perfect unit moving rhythmically through the wind
A mane made of silk flowing behind him
I feel my troubles flowing behind me, and leaving me
I am free
He rears up to the sun
No real destination, no true reason for the ride
We are free
Jun 17, 2012
Jun 17, 2012 at 10:29 PM UTC
Galloping through the field there is nothing that can stop me now
With the midmorning sun glinting against my golden hide
I feel free
Moving through the wind with my mane flowing behind me
It feels as if traveling upriver against the grain
I feel free
I rear up to the sun that is sending down warmth and guidance
No real destination, no true reason for the ride
I am simply free
Jun 17, 2012
Jun 17, 2012 at 10:39 PM UTC
I awake and the day
stretches out before me
and I wonder how I will
pass the time?
I could clean.
Less clutter means less stress
and if there is one thing I need
it's less stress.
I could work.
Due dates are fast approaching
and the truth is I do enjoy the challenge
and the feeling of satisfaction afterwards.
I could read.
Just take the day and escape
to an alternate reality where people
act with purpose and in the end
it all makes sense.
I could walk out.
Just throw this life away and find another
Variety is the spice of life and in all honestly,
I've done this all before.
But as I think and stretch
like a cat rising from a nap
my hand brushes your head
and my fingers slip through your hair.
You stir slightly, your arm subconsciously
wrapping around mine, and I know what to do.
I unplug the alarm
silence my phone
hold you close
and have midmorning dreams
of nothing but your beauty
Jul 15, 2011
Jul 15, 2011 at 2:05 PM UTC
you are city buses
and rain slicked streets.
and your neon heart pulses a mile a minute
but i have never seen someone so captivating.
youre an old apartment
with concrete walls
and sometimes in the winter the cold creeps in
but you never know whether to smother it with blankets or to leave.
youre midmorning traffic jams
but instead of anger you accept it and you sit in the car and you soak up life like a wildflower and ive never wanted to be the sun more.
Nov 29, 2014
Nov 29, 2014 at 5:29 PM UTC
When you told me you were leaving
I had practiced the path of which my
fingers memorized the curvature of your spine
and your ribcage.
That way your memory would forever be in my fingerprints
The week before you left. I watched you
carefully,
And then all at once as you threw
yourself against the wind.
The way you tried to absorb into the clouds above you.
You just wanted to go home.
As much as I wished, you would never call my arms home
Instead they were a nose that was ever tightening against your pale skin
Too tight but too loose.
I just wanted to love you.
5 days before you left.
You told me we were better off without each other.
That I was merely a past memory.
The nights we spent limbs oustretched and entangled meant nothing.
But you wrote me my first love letter.
Slipped under my dorm room door
Softly like a midmorning whisper or a kiss goodnight
Just fast enough to be seen by a fleeting eye or felt by a barefoot
You told me you had no idea we would turn out like this.
3 days before you left.
I laid awake in both disbelif and awe that someone who was once so close
Could stop and then suddenly restart my heart again and again
until finally it lulled itself back into a chaotic slumber.
The day you left
I refused to watch you leave from the rearview mirror
Everyone knows you only look through that mirror if you want to watch something dissapear.
My blind spot was way to thick
And my tears were traces of past memories that were yet to be written
I was too selfish to even aknowledge the simplicity of a goodbye
But you wrote my my first love letter.
Feb 12, 2012
Feb 12, 2012 at 9:12 PM UTC
you loved me
the way i love dirt.
like a promise,
a glimmering spark,
a catch on the inhale.
a soft and malleable thing
glowing faintly from its core.
you loved me like i love
dusty records and animal bones.
you loved me ephemera,
your glittering oddity,
your very best party trick.
i loved you all the magic
i could muster.
i loved you
every star i'd ever counted and
the memory of falling and
the shapes of all my favorite words.
you loved me
pheromones and
midmorning drunk dials.
you prayed and you promised and
you slipped your shaky fingers
five fathoms deep beneath my skin
and tenderly uprooted my veins.
you sweetly cracked
my ribcage wide and
picked all the seeds from my guts.
you lit up my new hollows
and found you hated
clean white walls.
you never quite forgave
the way i let you ****
the parts of me that you
knew how to love.
i loved you flooded lungs and
atheist's prayers
and never enough.
you loved me
the way i love dirt,
and sometimes in my dreams,
i cover you in daisies
and weeds
and trees with tough roots.
i watch the wild things
climb high and nest in the branches
stretching out from your ribcage,
wildflowers tangling their roots
through your bones,
your body a home
at last.
Jul 15, 2015
Jul 15, 2015 at 12:58 PM UTC
To have a sky that belongs to you
Ownership of blowing winds
Passion that thrives on fiery rains
Timid enough to tickle palm leaves, midmorning breeze
The Cat Lord reigns
The Gentle Bear croons
Fox Queen moon eyes over pounding rain and fragile dust and life in balance around and within
Perfect nestle
Triads and purples
Bass and tremble
Gentle
May 29, 2015
May 29, 2015 at 8:56 AM UTC
who needs a clipboard anyway?
the back of a lover's legs are enough
lacking the flat judgement of wood
embracing the fluid of my words
upon the sweet kiss of skin.
absorb me in the cracks of your mind.
soak me into the patience of your smile.
drink me in the holes of your eyes.
lead me into the scars of your past.
lose me in the folds of your heart.
crack open the yolk of my heart
and let me leak into my streets of veins.
allow me to drip into your soul
and sink like grinds to the bottom
of my midmorning melancholy coffee.
the ink of my favorite pen
seeps into the threads of my sleeves.
i sit, watching it spread across fibers
to infect new lands and
conquer old stains.
my ship never had a sail but
my hands are strong enough oars
i can carry myself across oceans
treading night after night
until i reach you on the shore.
Jul 17, 2014
Jul 17, 2014 at 11:31 AM UTC
walk with me through lavender fields
the stuff which essential healing oils are extracted
relax with me in wind swept grasses
warmed with midmorning sunlight
stroll with me to forest canopy
and atop pine scented carpets
of dried Christmas tree needles
which fill my burlap drawer and closet freshener
quietly guide me over
fallen branches upon which mosses have grown
down winding paths of brown earth
brightest green leaf and fern
half a mile along we see the broken edges of blue sky
trail leading out to rocky cliff
overlooking beach strewn with driftwood
unhewn telephone pole
down the steep traversing path
to sandy shore of the tiniest pebbles
where tall orange rocky formations rise from
waters like islands....
walking along the water's edge
leave our footprints
where no one else has stepped today
enjoy every moment
the stuff which up until now we have only
gazed upon trough our windowed world
of yearly calendars.
Jun 5, 2014
Jun 5, 2014 at 12:41 PM UTC
here,
in the steamy, pulsing
***** of summer.
here, in the wet of it.
here, in the sticky mess of it.
here,
in the undertow of a humid human storm.
here, in the midmorning fog.
here,
in the tip-toeing of august mud.
here, in the thick of the last gasp before the plunge
into the darkness of autumn.
here, in the center
of the heart of the spiral of this endless cycle.
here,
in the bull's eye of summer.
Aug 4, 2016
Aug 4, 2016 at 4:26 PM UTC
As I sat on the shade,
One sunny hot midmorning,
Memories of August holiday,
Loom large in my brain.
I think about this lass,
Cynthia my hearts' nurse,
Images forms about us,
How I scored as she pass.
I love my daring doll,
For she spares my soul,
Even after the world tells her all,
Choreographed to make us fall.
I love to hear her giggle,
And smile with her innocent face,
Face full of live ,love and hope,
That surely reads clean tommorow.
Every time she talks I get touched,
By her utterance that sounds true,
She got a cute voice that merges ,
Her Immaculate nature .
The ardent ambition to succeed,
Is second to her nature,
'er shy look and reservedness,
Proves that she is my malkia.
Chebet come with a ring,
You be our witness on this thing,
Come along with your king ,
We celebrate all as we sing .
Sep 5, 2019
Sep 5, 2019 at 11:12 AM UTC
Along the white sugar river bend
Dew kissed fields of clover set ablaze -
in midmorning sunshine
July arbors teeming with concord grape ,
scuppernong and muscadine
Whitewashed farmsteads , aromatic ploughlands ,
red clay shoulders girdling country byways
The cackle of curious guineas , of bay hounds and
gray geese
The clap of breeze driven mirrored cattle-
ponds
The splash of shellcracker , bluegill , yellowbellies
and bull frogs
Land of a million daylight colors
Woodland groves sprinkled in piedmont -
blues , in golden stippled brushstrokes across antebellum -
oak and majestic pines ...
Mar 13, 2018
Mar 13, 2018 at 3:13 AM UTC
A Peregrine Falcon circled the vast expanse of grounds surrounding the huge manse in Old Pasadena. It soared, looking for a favorable tree to land upon. Rabbit hunting. The bunnies loved to crop the grass growing on the expansive lawns.
The bright wind played windchimes of the leaves of the trees, a lilting, rustling sound barely heard above the birdsong of midmorning in Pasadena. A normal morning in every way. But not for Sir Arthur Barrett. Nor his murderer.
Lord Arthur's heels beat a tattoo on the Persian rug in his library. His hands first scattered the pieces of the puzzle he'd been working on, then grasped at his throat, constricted as it was by the plastic bag stretched across his face and neck. The muffled sound barely heard over the cacophony of birds...
---
The old mansion where Lord Arthur met his violent demise was named Puzzle Tree Mansion, in part by the many Puzzle Trees growing on its property, but that was not the only reason. The entire mansion was a puzzle.
Every room of it. Each had a secret. A false bottom drawer. A secret passageway. You even had to solve a riddle to work the bidets in the bathrooms! In short, it was a puzzle, within a riddle, within a conundrum. Sir Arthur had loved it that way. He had, in his lifetime been a writer of mysteries. The author of arguably the most popular American mystery... The Monkey
Puzzle Box.
Jan 16, 2022
Jan 16, 2022 at 8:01 PM UTC
The Odd Narrative
Steamed up window my finger I paint a landscape,
Mountain, forest and a lake; the peak cries into
the lake it becomes a vast ocean,
where trees, are made into wooden rafts floats.
Midmorning, there is only an outline left of the crest,
this will happen to Himalaya,
it will be a grassland on a plateau, where horses gallop,
flying mane and all that,
since man won’t be there to domesticate and make them
drag bunk beds and kitchen stoves around the pampas.
The rest of the world will have sunk into a big sea that is so still
it spends all its time mirroring the blue sky thinking it’s seeing
is so deeply in love with the image,
that doesn’t notice the man in a rowing boat; he’s one time forgot,
he has married a big fish
which he thinks is a mermaid, every so often he puts his hand in
the sea and strokes the fish’s belly: “without you,” he murmurs
“I would truly be alone.”
Apr 10, 2017
Apr 10, 2017 at 12:53 AM UTC