"mjb" poems
it’s quiet and i hear nothing but the snowflakes
hit the fabric on my shoulder
i hear nothing but the paper
burn as my inhale imitates the gust of
wind that guides the cold to shutter skin —
street lights sit above the lit, white-flowered flakes
as they dance to the ground as a group
that whisper soliloquies to the crimson
lobes that hear nothing but the snowflakes
hit the fabric on my shoulder,
a hazy fog covers the air before my face
as it sways from nostril to upper lip —
a sight down to an illuminating ash,
blinking to meet a lid to whited lash —
as the paper burns
the smokey sky is content
with silence and nothing more
than a look to the fields MJB
Aug 5, 2015
Aug 5, 2015 at 2:29 AM UTC
I wish it was easier for
people to forget, if things left their
mind as easy as they let
them in, tough skin
wouldn’t wear thin
as easy as it is right now,
my past is full of imperfections
and bad decisions, leaving unstitched
incisions beneath the brink of sanity,
but who’s isn’t? every time falsities
start, my mind races
with my heart to contemplations on
when to finish, they tattoo the past
of others on their insecurities,
fuelling the fire that burns a hole
into respect and reputation,
creating a vicious cycle
of revenge and envy,
each gossip verbally vomited
into naive ears pulls the marionette
strings of perception into the road normally
taken, two roads may have diverged
at a yellow wood, but when the ignorance
burns yellow to ash, the road less taken
seems blocked, so the next time you hear
something about another, don’t be too quick
spread the word, the game of
telephone can get a little distorted when
the next phone call
you get is that they
were found hanging from
a rope.
MJB
Feb 17, 2016
Feb 17, 2016 at 1:37 AM UTC
what does the man behind his desk
at the publishing company deem
worthy of publishing and
how much are his shoes?
I wonder if my words
will entice him enough to begin smoking,
or quit smoking,
or have a drink,
maybe sign a contract
or rather have me one,
will he turn off his Bach
to understand or
turn up his Bach to understand?
will he analyze my grammar,
or the need of post secondary?
I wonder if he will bring forth
his obsession of
having a finger in his ***
to his wife after reading the erotics,
or will he put a finger in his ***
will I be read in a
reader’s digest in 25 years
while a man of elder
near ***** his pants,
or will I be dwelled as an elder,
and I bet you they’re over
200 bucks. MJB
Nov 27, 2016
Nov 27, 2016 at 8:49 PM UTC
she's in the
those pine
floorboards
that cry to you
when your
feet whisper
to the door,
she's in the
backdoor
hinges that
weep when you
clinch your jaw
hoping she stays
asleep
she knows
but she loves you
and she's tired
of being stepped
on and shut out
and soon you'll
find yourself
dragging
cinderblocks on
pine needles
leaving through
the front door. MJB
Sep 29, 2015
Sep 29, 2015 at 12:03 PM UTC
it’s 12 degrees outside
excluding the breeze, I hide
behind the rising smoke
of the cigarette just lit,
my fingers are falling off,
nails ripping to the marrow
a ****** stutter impairing speech,
a seizured grab to the fleeced pocket
leaves only the other hand to freeze,
such a sacrifice to something
old-me said I didn’t need,
I kick around snow
as my leather boots wear a
coat of white as I shiver
and inspire, throwing a black
coat over my lungs
“hey do you have a lighter?”
“yeah”
the ash sails down
and kisses the filter and a flick
collides the ember to exhale it’s final breath
to the frozen floor,
I step inside and
suddenly, I’m cold again.
MJB
Aug 5, 2015
Aug 5, 2015 at 2:33 AM UTC
her innocence is soluble
when dipped in
expectations,
her mirror;
like the bottom
of dinner plates,
her wrists are
tire marks on
gravel roads,
she sees not
what we see
but in what he
sees is what
she cares
but who is he
now?
a riptide splitting
face paint
saturday nights,
veins of toxins,
staring at roadkill
and streetlights
and garbage
hugging curb-sides
mixed with dust
days followed
with headaches
and remorse
dying not
I can see it in her
eyes
she’s only 16
MJB
Aug 19, 2015
Aug 19, 2015 at 10:49 PM UTC
an intrepid image of consistency to living painlessly
floats aimlessly through an adjacent sea of complacency
that finds way to drift further from shore.
worries of capsizing and baptizing
in this ocean of social chastising
leaves me coming back for more.
descending the sail paints
images of pale
skys clouding progression,
shadowing the sun’s oppression
to shining through the cracks,
dreams reflect the water
of sailing to shore and
never coming back,
the table in cabin
covered with cigarettes butts
and empty bottles,
leaving stains of black
on the whispering floorboards
that sways with the current
that restores more
contentedness to being
lost at sea.
but, I wake up to reality
sea sick
MJB
Jul 21, 2015
Jul 21, 2015 at 7:47 PM UTC
I sat watching 3 girls,
couldn’t be any older than 12,
wearing shorts cut by
expectations and
taking pictures
with coffee cups and
wearing make up
stronger than
perfume clouds
following like
hitchhikers
and
a slow car.
**** magazines and enraptured
by the irrelevant famous,
exposing the youth’s lack
of interest in literature,
callow and murderous,
glasses filled and cocksure,
the world in front of them
and yet they’re taking
steps backwards
MJB
Aug 11, 2016
Aug 11, 2016 at 6:53 PM UTC
I wonder what type of whiskey
the man painting road lines
at 3am drinks,
am I stereotyping
or am I foreshadowing
my trip to the liquor store
in 10 years?
MJB
Nov 27, 2016
Nov 27, 2016 at 8:53 PM UTC
Find that
someone that
becomes the
gust of wind
who turns the
weight on your shoulders
to dust.
MJB
Aug 5, 2016
Aug 5, 2016 at 9:52 AM UTC
a soft voice that can
sanitize a mind, and
that mirrors skin like linen,
hair flowing faster than
blood to her heart,
looking in her eyes
proves that cerulean skies
can walk on earth,
anxiety blurs the lines
of a perfectionist,
leaving reservations
in the minds of anyone
lucky enough to
grace tangibility and
her footsteps cohere,
with lips rarely touched
a godless man can feel them
in his fingertips when praying
to a god he doesn’t believe in.
MJB
Aug 19, 2016
Aug 19, 2016 at 9:28 AM UTC
subsiding repetition
seemed inconceivable
and to reside at the
brink of light was all but
but achievable,
and to rebuild you must first
fall apart but to find peace
with mind you must
first with heart MJB
Mar 6, 2016
Mar 6, 2016 at 9:27 PM UTC
She saw through
my pseudo smiles
and
empty eyes and
gave me
iris’ of blossom
and perpetuity
if she had kaleidoscope lenses
she’d still see
me
clearly,
she’ll always
be my median of
perceptive mires
or
thoughtless meadows,
if a diamond in the rough
sleeps on spikemoss,
is it
still worth something?
MJB
Aug 1, 2016
Aug 1, 2016 at 3:47 AM UTC
I miss the confusion
of who had
cigarette breath
when we kissed,
or who’s pack was who’s,
but what I miss the most
is the thought of
killing myself with
the one I love.
MJB
Mar 22, 2016
Mar 22, 2016 at 2:35 PM UTC
a broken vessel
and bailing water is drowning
out the ability to drift back to shore,
it’s always calm before the storm
but when a breeze disappears
the chance of moving anywhere
flies away like the seagulls
laughing in cocksure,
the water seems so thick
like drifting in ink that draws out
abstracts of stagnancies
and ever time I row,
the boat rhymes in harmony
with the singing current
and cisterns will begin to cry,
I can’t travel alone and
I don’t know how to swim
but at least the sand below
will be softer than rock bottom
MJB
Aug 22, 2016
Aug 22, 2016 at 1:20 AM UTC
her legs
wear tattoos
of backseat
stitching as
drainage hair
paints faces,
searching
for love in
automobiles
parked behind
churches
or grocery stores
and only finding
comfort in
fogged windows
that give
no reflection
MJB
Sep 14, 2015
Sep 14, 2015 at 12:59 AM UTC
I told her she reminds me
of a bird chirping at 1am
and she never asked why,
strange yet beautiful,
inconsistant and seldom,
appreciative upon scarcity,
a hedonist of silence
has never found serenity
in the blurred lines of infinity,
but the confidence of
clamour will fade
with every night a chirp
goes unheard,
the consistency
of inconstancy is the hand
that feeds and the
bite that bleeds. MJB
Jul 21, 2016
Jul 21, 2016 at 12:58 AM UTC
The aftermath of a finished
cigarette lingers in the air
and I pick at it like a
cobweb in the wind,
floating aimlessly
unable to grasp,
and I’ve never felt so weightless
MJB
Jul 21, 2016
Jul 21, 2016 at 1:01 AM UTC
I'm a mosquito trapped
in a clapping hand,
I know that I can be bothersome
but I'm just trying to survive.
MJB
Jul 21, 2016
Jul 21, 2016 at 1:20 AM UTC