"overlaying" poems
Depression is
"I should shower now, while I'm still feeling okay."
Depression is
Drinking water with every bite because you don't want to eat.
Depression is
Having an audiobook on while you sleep to keep yourself from waking up vulnerable.
Depression is
Taking risks to try and reach yourself.
Depression is
Vivid memories overlaying themselves on reality.
Depression is
Wanting to do your schoolwork but being unable to find the strength.
Depression is
Not answering texts because too much interaction tires you out.
Depression is
Having to work harder than everyone else for the same result, and being called lazy anyhow.
Depression is
Sleeping for 14 hours and still being tired.
Depression is
The guilt that comes with finding one person who makes you feel good, and knowing you will burden them.
Depression is
Being left by your lovers or friends because they don't understand.
Depression is
Piles of ***** laundry you wish you had the inner fortitude to do.
Depression is
Wandering the empty roads in the middle of the night because you can't sit still.
Depression is
Reading a book whenever you are in public to ease the stress.
Depression is
Not always
Visible.
Apr 25, 2016
Apr 25, 2016 at 12:34 AM UTC
reaching the back of you
not sure I could. not sure i would.
scent of the crime uncommitted uncovered
the meandering is the man demigod demagogue taking
time
pleasured mercy
the remaindered searchingly
suffices
you don’t speak plain english the only tongue i got
insert the coin in your slot commencing researching the
way in and
don’t think i want to find the way out to the
back of you hiding in the inside learning the way you visualize
playing amy winehouse as an overlaying graph to the autoroute
to the south of france, sur-la-mer, why ever leave and you come
in my mouth poems new each time
no exit. no back of you. stuck in a longingly heaven
this house is my home and I know the sun brightest
when i put my coin in the slot of play and press the
new tune button at 4:10AM
Mar 18, 2018
Mar 18, 2018 at 4:17 AM UTC
Lo, the drunken ordinance of light through
stained glass, lest to rehash the peopled
white of infinity.
Reach...with what folding passion second
guesses the labor of its love...the warm
footfalls of the sun overlaying the intricacy
of a snowflake...as captions of bone
dissolving upon the motion picture.
Perpetually opening seasons enamored
directionless...cancellation and activation
which is The Spark upon dark...striations
of dreams upon the gyres of galaxies.
Proofs positive of palpable breath, given
and taken in gloried passage.
The cloistered ghost gifted the laughability
of its cloister.
A polish fit for heresy...listen to the
crystalline structure as it bats its eyelashes.
Oct 11, 2014
Oct 11, 2014 at 10:27 AM UTC
When my sister played Clair de Lune
I’d go into her room and sit on the floor
with my ear to the side of the piano
so close that the sound would fill my mind
with the image of the long, coiled strings
vibrating, glowing golden in the darkened box.
I could hear my sister’s feet dampening
and undampening the pedals, muting the
strings, then letting them ring, resonating,
one note overlaying another, could hear
the creak of her piano stool and smell the
smell of wood dust, like old sheet music,
and my ear would pulse, almost hurting
from the sound of the hammers striking steel.
And I would begin to imagine things,
different things each time:
my aunt in a blue flowered house dress
standing in her kitchen holding a jar
of homemade pickles, her thin white hair
always in tight pin curls.
Or I’d be alone, in a long, softly lit hallway,
the walls covered with wainscotting and
lavender striped wall paper yellowing
near the ceiling. At the far end of the hallway,
a solarium, and beyond that a balcony
glimmering in sunlight.
Or I’d be in a field with small, white flowers
bowing with the weeds rhythmically
and sensing that I was
loved by someone.
And it would be that my sister’s
fingers were pounding deep into
my chest, and always, always
by the end of the piece
I’d ask her to play it one more time.
Jun 6, 2015
Jun 6, 2015 at 12:17 PM UTC
We are all dealing with it together
sitting on these chairs side by side.
Therapeutic Counselling; it's that general motion
that lonesome melancholy
Grieving people flocking together
likened to the Vietnamese phrase
'Same same, but different'
And every now and then,
Someone, quiet and
unassuming will
whisper words
That strikes
a chord
In your
heart
We're no longer playing those
single notes on repeat
Blame, pain, hurt and defeat
It resonates so deeply
A whole symphony erupts
In your lost thoughts
Dvořák final moments,
Notes cascading down your face.
Eyes wild, eager and hungry for more
tears, mingled with a melody of vulnerability of the human race
Beethoven Fidelio- an operatic shuddering possession. Body breaking, mind
astrewn. Rhythm of rapidly
crushing sanity
Tchaikovsky's Sixth
white keys masquerading as happiness overlaying the sound of
sombre black keys striking suffering
and grief and everything else in-between in the greying colours of your mind.
Music of your
stricken heart lost in
the underground,
In these chairs next to you
Woman who also grieves
With a warm embrace around your body
Our wet shoulders
Absorbing the sounds of your dying souls
Until we're playing a single courageous lullaby once more
Heal heal heal
And heal we shall
Apr 3, 2017
Apr 3, 2017 at 5:06 PM UTC
returning
to the place..
to remembered beds
and nourishing breakfasts..
home of
our growing years..
this one nestled
in imponderable
Animas mountains..
these reflections
of an autumn retreat
now daily receding
into November bleak..
a white bench
vantage by streamside
afforded absorption of
the stream's flickering lights..
and later reflected
by a ridgeline full moon
decorating the dining..
life friends together
celebration and renewal
of many good years..
a white bench
also gathered reflections
from distant heights
where nighttime chills
painted evergreen and aspen
setting lanterns aglow..
the glow casting shadows
on the valley's red cliffs
those red markers of our
formative days..
a white bench
now gathered the sounds..
an old train's
whistled announcements
evening and morning..
a reminder of time
enclosed in this
valley of stillness
which we were favored
knowing once more..
a white bench
gathered the guests
from distances afar..
their life glows
and shadows
in conversations revealed..
overlaying past
with present..
end and beginning..
Logwood
we returned...
Oct 28, 2012
Oct 28, 2012 at 6:14 PM UTC
______
*I can't give you my trust,
I can not get close to you,
I can not let you hold me even when I wish for you to,
I can not let you show me how you love me like others used too,
I struggle when I listen, or try to concentrate, to the things you say,
I struggle to communicate my feeling back to you in the same way,
I sometimes feel like I'm too demanding of you,
I don't know how to do the comedies of a give and take,
I feel like I sometimes only take, and leave a burden on top of you,
I constantly feel guilty for what I do to you, I feel guilty for the things I do,
I get to have you, but I am not worth someone like you,
I hope I don't hurt you too bad, on days when I am too sad,
I sometimes need to relax and detach. my dissociation won't last forever,
I know I am not perfect in this world that is so dull and grey, but I try,
I each day, have tried, I empathise more then not,
I am sorry more then not, like the fears I cry tears over,
I wish I could overcome them, I wish I could stop avoiding my past,
I wish I could forget all the bad, make memories that are good and will last,
I can't remember day to day tasks, and I can't remember anything un-sad,
I wish that when you told me things I could understand it better,
I wish I handled things better, learn to fix them on my own,
I wish I didn't depend on you for help, but I wouldn't if I could fix it myself.
I wish I stopped staying in bad places and leaving the good ones I find,
I want to not act so compulsive with these addictions that surround me,
I wish I could get rid of the overlaying grief that hangs over me,
I wish I could move on from what has been taken from me,
I want to stop letting it exhaust me,
I am tired, but never sleep, and to sleep wouldn't help my tiredness,
I tried to sleep with you and lay down next to you wide awake,
I wish I could of been sleeping as peaceful as you,
I feel plagued by all my bad memories,
I want them to go away, because they only make it harder for you,
I know you don't love me, I know at least you shouldn't love me,
I worry that I worry you, and I don't want you to be worried about me,
I feel like you deserve more, and better, and should get it.
I want to protect you from the damage I can put upon you,
I feel the panic inside brews, and I can't rid myself from it,
I wish you would save yourself from me.
I get angry, and mad, and upset,
I do this rather then having an emotional shut down,
I hate that I lash out, I don't want to get mad at you,
I hate myself, I wish that I could love myself like I used to,
I take risks hoping that something better could happen, but it doesn't,
I feel alone,
I feel abandoned,
I feel rejected,
I feel helpless,
I feel trapped,
I know you left because you felt like this
I lost you, because of all these things,
I know what I did wrong*
Mar 2, 2016
Mar 2, 2016 at 12:49 PM UTC
petals of the willow
vibrate with mild rain
as our approaching footsteps
run through them
coalescing in a magical scene
seemingly beyond a stroll in the park;
above,the crepuscular sky hangs
fake-looking,like a stageplay's backdrop
with a myriad of still blues overlaying
one another
and the clouds like puffy scabs atop youthful skin.
I think we are slowing
down (perhaps,unconsciously to fit
the pace of the scene)
and I think our footsteps are mirroring our heartbeats,
I know Mine are
And I know Yours are mirroring Mine.
beneath us the willows' petals tremble soft
and I am glad
to be alone with You tonight,to belong to the park
together,forever entuned,
forever entwined-- if only for tonight.
Aug 14, 2019
Aug 14, 2019 at 12:08 AM UTC
**For Sheron, On Our Seventh Anniversary:
Bound and Boundless**
~~~
*different shaped,
a square peg, a round hole,
and yet, the carpenter is pleased
two planes,
different shaped,
yet overlaying,
occupying
conjoined space,
angular symmetry
and yet, the geometrist is satisfied
can*
bound and boundless,
*fully opposing notions,
incontrovertible,
yet be in pleasing poetic
combination?
how
can it be,
two bonded,
distinct spheres
contoured with crossover
bordered blended boundaries
exceed aligned,
beyond merest connecting,
overlapping,
intersecting
two circles
electronically collide,
venn diagrammed
to share,
programmed unknowingly for creating
a big bang
of a harmonious, simultaneous
new star creation
this mystery,
this poem,
its
resolution~solution,
comes to the poet
late in life,
yet contented, believing,
it is a far, far
better
thing that he does
now,
than never
life and love
living in unison,
transforming, deserving
of a unique discrete,
le nom est
l'unite
perhaps you are thinking,
this poem, a failed attempt,
neither the best or the worst
of any written anywhere
upon this green globe,
this day
yet he smiles
as it composes itself,
for though without its own sustaining merit,
it is a poem
regarding the best work
he
have ever done,
and the unity
it portrait paints,
is a
nova
worthy surely
of a thousand millennia
and yet, the poet is content
with its
content*
~~~
Dec 20, 2015
Dec 20, 2015 at 7:05 PM UTC
The painting collided with the steaming floorboards,
a single nail which once held the frame
torn in half like warmed taffy --
a single string, thin like a strand of hair,
dangling in the painting's place,
swaying in the slightest breath.
The wooden six-panelled window trim cracked and whined
but the glass remained untouched,
reflective of the doll carefully decorating the fur-covered bed.
Crystal eyes blink but do not break,
a manicured hand overlaying her mouth,
melding with the porcelain that is her skin.
Her elongated lashes dripped down her blushed cheeks.
She shook slightly but did not move.
Her ears, hidden beneath ruby locks, burst.
A puff of black smoke pushed its way past her curls,
framed by the sound of barotrauma.
Her eyes rolled back, lids fluttered shut,
chin collided with the soft skin of her chest . . .
A slug dropped onto her shoulder,
wiggling side to side with its newfound freedom.
It lost its balance on her delicate sleeve
and landed on my lap in a gooey pile of slime.
There are too many mirrors in this melting room . . .
I can't twitch my eyes without meeting the doll's.
The mirrors shattered as the frames which held them contracted.
The room glittered like the inside of a snowball,
but soon the luster turned to dust,
and the shards left clinging to the frame turned black,
bubbling glass dancing to a lethargic beat down the length of the walls,
trickling into the melted monstrosity swaying like an angry sea.
All the while the doll sat content in her fur-covered bed.
Sep 11, 2016
Sep 11, 2016 at 5:39 PM UTC
A stark shaded light swings
From the office ceiling
Making cartoon shadows chase
Crazily around the walls
She stands on one leg
Quite easily and bizarrely
And types with her other foot
Tapping the lettered keys
With the stiletto heel of her shoe
And hanging in the juggling rays of light
There is a trilby hat with teeth and no eyes
Wearing a raincoat indoors
Ectoplasmic cigarette smoke coils
A trilling piano
Tickles around a neon light
Somewhere
Out there
The stiletto becomes a cigarette holder
Daintily dribbling ash
****** trumpet notes insinuate
Sliding brass around the walls
Overlaying the chasing shadows
Teeth do a flash-bulb grin
The top comes off a bottle
And two glasses are splashed into
Negotiations are pursued
A flirting of commerce
Flash!
That grin again
A service has been purchased
Glasses *****
The light still swings
A jazz singer sings
Pouring sweetness over the neon light
Somewhere
Out there
Outside the moon scowls in silver
A pistol writes an anonymous threat
And with inappropriate optimism
The chorus presents
A monstrous garish dance routine
Bang!
And screams off-stage
The dance becomes the soft-shoe scatter
Hands slide inside double-breasted jackets
The cops howlingly arrive!
Car doors slam, bam!
But all players have dispersed
The night is seamless again
And a lazy jazz band plays
Behind the neon light
Somewhere
Out there
By Phil Roberts
Apr 21, 2016
Apr 21, 2016 at 3:52 AM UTC
Isn't amazing how our demons portray art
How something so terrible can make it appear as if everything's okay
Our souls as its canvas, painting vibrant colors
Overlaying the dullness beneath these hues
It also sculpts smiles with puffed up cheeks, but not from crying
Sadness contained, soon to erupt
Theater also comes into play
As we act as if nothing is eating us up from the inside
Maybe our demons aren't so bad, they're just really artistic
Nov 29, 2015
Nov 29, 2015 at 1:42 PM UTC
When I look at you,
I see nothing but your eyes -
Those beautiful brown orbs -
And I hear your voice in song,
Singing as if only to me
From above on your stage.
What I feel is another story,
Of another genre entirely.
As I go beneath that creamy skin,
All the pain begins to resonate in a way
Your guitar can only imagine -
Every note from you contained within.
Are we talking the mental or the physical,
When the scars all stay the same
Whether they're tears shed
Or more drops bled by and by?
I see that false ecstasy
Overlaying that torment hidden within.
The pain of seeing boy after boy
Playing the game to gain
What you always know they want,
Hoping time and again that it's not.
Morning lies rise with the sun to wake you,
Acting as if you never knew.
When you get home,
Sitting in your room, curtains drawn
- The darkness a close friend -
Contemplating your railroad track arms,
Wondering how it got you from no to Yak to Smack;
How to catch the mainline to noon?
You arrive on time every time.
Climb aboard as you lay back,
Finding your secret ecstasy in this life of misery,
Wishing it didn't have to be this way,
Wondering why you let it get this far -
How do you find time for more?
But this time, from the dark of your room,
As you watch your stop come and go,
You take it one stop too far.
Keep to your seat and let the dice roll.
You've always known it to take the toll:
Seeing your feet submerge in the tar.
That beautiful white hue turns ice blue,
a color that has always become you.
Breathing slows and falls in line,
Same as the rest it knows best -
This drowning has been long time coming -
And it's not scary as you thought it could be.
So now you climb to the front of the bus,
Driver says, "Sorry, *** they're no return trips",
But as the door opens, the light blinds in.
Sirens blare and voices begin,
Surging into motion returning you to withdrawl reality.
Voices from Angels of men, giving you one last chance to live again.
Oct 16, 2011
Oct 16, 2011 at 5:58 PM UTC
the argent sun,
has chased away
the piccaninny dawn
and is now lazily,
racing the clouds
to the apex of
the bright blue sky.
the dew is drying
on the grass
and the blucat
is seeking his first
triumph over his
lizard foes.
we sit on the back deck
eating a simple breakfast
cereal and toast.
while surveying
the burgeoning wealth
of our vegie garden.
tall shoots of corn,
and tomato vines,
laden with fruit,
just begining to blush red.
lettuce protected,
within their plastic tube forts
and carrots with their wavy
heads....
and overlaying all,
the smell of citrus,
both lemon and lime.
then, the heady fragrance
of the papaya trees
and the passion fruit vines...
we acknowledge,
with thankful hearts,
we live in a little corner
of eden....
borrowed for a time....
then to break our reverie, the blucat,
drops a squirming skink, tailess,
on the top step
a murps his triumph...
and the kookaburras laugh
.......long and loud
Oct 19, 2014
Oct 19, 2014 at 4:46 PM UTC
A stark shaded light swings
From the office ceiling
Making cartoon shadows chase
Crazily around the walls
She stands on one leg
Quite easily and bizarrely
And types with her other foot
Tapping the lettered keys
With the stiletto heel of her shoe
And hanging in the juggling rays of light
There is a trilby hat with teeth and no eyes
Wearing a raincoat indoors
Ectoplasmic cigarette smoke coils
A trilling piano
Tickles around a neon light
Somewhere
Out there
The stiletto becomes a cigarette holder
Daintily dribbling ash
****** trumpet notes insinuate
Sliding brass around the walls
Overlaying the chasing shadows
Teeth do a flash-bulb grin
The top comes off a bottle
And two glasses are splashed into
Negotiations are pursued
A flirting of commerce
Flash!
That grin again
A service has been purchased
Glasses *****
The light still swings
A jazz singer sings
Pouring sweetness over the neon light
Somewhere
Out there
Outside the moon scowls in silver
A pistol writes an anonymous threat
And with inappropriate optimism
The chorus presents
A monstrous garish dance routine
Bang!
And screams off-stage
The dance becomes the soft-shoe scatter
Hands slide inside double-breasted jackets
The cops howlingly arrive!
Car doors slam, bam!
But all players have dispersed
The night is seamless again
And a lazy jazz band plays
Behind the neon light
Somewhere
Out there
By Phil Roberts
Feb 2, 2016
Feb 2, 2016 at 3:29 PM UTC
is it possible to miss the potential?
to yearn for what never was,
the possibility;
what seemed to be coincidental?
the passing by of two minds, two souls,
intertwined,
or a skew by my perception;
hope overlaying my scribbled fragment of you,
what you could be,
what you may be, underlying a connection.
by constellation you were made,
shaped by stars,
away from vein;
coated, in folk music and denim
leaving me to wonder,
what caramelized your eyes
to brown & delicate thunder
deep, soft soil; richest out from under.
Aug 21, 2016
Aug 21, 2016 at 12:55 PM UTC
A stark shaded light swings
From the office ceiling
Making cartoon shadows chase
Crazily around the walls
She stands on one leg
Quite easily and bizarrely
And types with her other foot
Tapping the lettered keys
With the stiletto heel of her shoe
And hanging in the juggling rays of light
There is a trilby hat with teeth and no eyes
Wearing a raincoat indoors
Ectoplasmic cigarette smoke coils
A trilling piano
Tickles around a neon light
Somewhere
Out there
The stiletto becomes a cigarette holder
Daintily dribbling ash
****** trumpet notes insinuate
Sliding brass around the walls
Overlaying the chasing shadows
Teeth do a flash-bulb grin
The top comes off a bottle
And two glasses are splashed into
Negotiations are pursued
A flirting of commerce
Flash!
That grin again
A service has been purchased
Glasses *****
The light still swings
A jazz singer sings
Pouring sweetness over the neon light
Somewhere
Out there
Outside the moon scowls in silver
A pistol writes an anonymous threat
And with inappropriate optimism
The chorus presents
A monstrous garish dance routine
Bang!
And screams off-stage
The dance becomes the soft-shoe scatter
Hands slide inside double-breasted jackets
The cops howlingly arrive!
Car doors slam, bam!
But all players have dispersed
The night is seamless again
And a lazy jazz band plays
Behind the neon light
Somewhere
Out there
By Phil Roberts
Aug 23, 2015
Aug 23, 2015 at 7:16 AM UTC
bohemian rhapsody parades
amidst greensward moored
erupting profusely toward cerulean skies
ushered with invisible rip cord
this Earthling self assigned to an (elder)
box office catbird seat - hoard
ding a secluded nook
upon premises of Highland (highly adored)
Manor Apartments nestled
within bucolic (cost wise, a ford
double) Schwenksville, Pennsylvania
(40.2562° N, 75.4638° W) explored,
sans (founded in 1684)
pleasantly assaultive stimuli
conducted brake upon metaphysical ratiocination,
where sunshine poured
upon variegated mother nature
arrangement, viz spectacular
vernal suite scored
a top ten hit orchestrating
exquisite (August) May day presentation,
which mutely roared
bedazzling this sensate
being overwriting gourd
fully stocked, when brittle
winter snowy firmament forced accord,
asper overlaying habitat
palimpsest akin to (sic) ward
before an a may zing exuberant poly
chromatic onset splashed vibrant
brilliantly colored palette, toward
this captive observer,
where choral symphony courtesy of flora
and fauna sensational
encore performance
(day at the) opera captivated ensured
fixated this tethered primate royally
impressed and allured
by aural and visual
regalia fit for a lord
and tailor, while solar orbitz
directed by Helios,
whose journey across
deep purple celestial sea deplored
noiselessly casting lengthened shadows
signaling luminous hued dusk
chariots of fire earthly dome ceiling ablaze
pearl jam disappearance,
when daylight blinks adieu
til the morrow, when dawn
betakes the reins to reign cosmos chose
zing emergent rays announcing
morning haz broken
nudging, prodding, rousing from doze
well rested body electric,
where energy flows
as attested from me noggin glows
nsync, sans panoply
of soundgarden crescendo propose
zing ideal material sharing circadian rhythm
thru the time stream yours truly rows.
May 2, 2018
May 2, 2018 at 9:41 PM UTC
Down the luminous hallway lined with rough white walls,
murmurs from the students and teachers flowed from the classrooms.
At the end of the seemingly never-ending hall,
A bright red exit sign loomed over the cool stairwell.
Footsteps echoed as we made our way down.
Snow softly dusted down, creating a white hazed view of the world outside the window.
The halls now littered with artwork hung to the walls.
The smell of wood floats about.
Music and machines mix together overlaying the hushed voices.
Down the opposing hall, burnt coffee and the rattling of the kitchen fill the empty space
As footsteps bounce from wall to wall.
The white lights shine off trophies
Screams and squeaks, muted by the walls sound through this hall.
Hums from the dripping fountain mask the voices
Leaving them to be nothing but whispers.
Dec 13, 2018
Dec 13, 2018 at 10:12 AM UTC
Begin.
Ready your work area and clean your surface.
Prime the texture of your canvas:
Smooth out all those exterior bumps and grooves.
Always allow time for the last to relax.
Laying your foundation is the subsequent step:
Be sure to pat a bare layer of skin all about.
Brighten under those eyes
before moving forward.
Once more, allow your layers to relax.
Contour those ****** features to reveal an under-truth,
illuminate curvatures of shadow and light:
Sweep in, sharpening under those cheekbones.
Sweep out, lightening the cheeks.
Sweep up, darkening those temple.
Sweep underneath, sculpting that jawline.
Sweep down, deepening the nose.
Blend, blend, blend.
Redden those cheeks:
Moderate your quantity,
balance your quality.
Add a splash of color behind those bright eyes:
Beige, Corduroy, and Chocolate.
Again, always blend.
Darken those eyebrows:
Bend the brow around—
highlight under that curve!
Line those eyes with coal:
Carefully curve over those waterlines,
Steady your hand, do not to smudge.
Curve your brush up, up, up:
Build those lashes.
Open those eyes ever wider.
Accentuate those relaxed lips with a pleasant hue.
Before the final step, double-check for any unintentional slip.
Dust with finishing powder before overlaying with a setting spray.
End.
Afterward, review your work:
First, remember your anticipating canvas, ready to be refashioned.
Now, appreciate her every extraordinary color and unique curve.
Finally, admire not just the craft, but also the delicate and dedicated crafting.
This reflection, our masterpiece.
Apr 15, 2016
Apr 15, 2016 at 12:57 PM UTC
Body like an old house
Rickety frame from where
The termites have made their homes
Warped wood and rusty nails
Bones like beams
Skin like plaster
Hips sway like lace curtains
Moved by the breeze
Overlaying dusty glass
Your tongue like flames
Flick it out
Set this foundation ablaze
Feb 4, 2014
Feb 4, 2014 at 9:57 PM UTC
my god, my woman
when they’re angry with me
both turn away,
and do not answer my pleadings
when they’re pleased,
they wink, demurely tossing my hair,
making cloud armadas in tight formation applaud,
the overlaying overlap of all existence
the apple’s knowledgeable
in every everything everyday
teaching
to never say
God is a He
nope
God is the Mother of Me
Dec 1, 2018
Dec 1, 2018 at 10:31 AM UTC
worn-out marble floors
hard against black high heels
gleaming in a fifty shades of grey
under the heavy strip lights
rows and rows of cheap clothes
expensive junk for poor fools
contaminated handrails
a shocking blur of different colors
bloodshot eyes screaming
everywhere red lipstick and lace
attracting young women
smells overlaying each other
advertisements and hushed words
surrounded by general noise
pillars crumbling under pressure
faked smiles and aching feet
tired escalators
elevators that have given up
a raging headache
'exit' sign shining green
Oct 8, 2016
Oct 8, 2016 at 2:27 AM UTC
February 28th, 1968 marked the date
Boyce Brandon Harris
(my octogenarian widower father)
purchased a small tract of land
constituting shadowed sliver
once hailing, hallmarking, harkening,
glorious vast "Glen Elm" estate,
which circa 1910 encompassed
a hundred plus acres of woodland
Pooh would Winnie
(including a pond frequented
by migrating Canadian Geese)
eventually zoned for commercial,
industrial, and residential development
(all in the name of productive land use)
particularly put into motion
courtesy Donald J. Neilson,
who transformed expansive woodland
rivaling shutterfly
sprouting like mushrooms towed stools
booming explosively
after ample precipitation
little houses on the hillside
little houses made of ticky tacky...
popped up overnight
transforming landscape
displacing flora and fauna with vinyl city
(minus spit of property papa bought)
manicured bumped uglies with wild wisp
reduced pristine niche leftover jot haven
squawking disoriented geese instincts
thwarted, where drained wetlands
a Arcadian past suburbanization
overlaying (palimpsest like) rural setting
trademark bucolic print Currier And Ives
stock in trade signature prints
landscape sparse human population
country aire sprinkled with family farms
fresh dairy, produce, vegetables
butchered animals free ranging
without synthetic injections
nostalgia faintly recreated here
Highland Manor Apartments
Schwenksville, Pennsylvania
a slip of country revered
against a Paul Ling urbanization
nothing appears familiar
retracing roadways now major highways
frequent moments breeds alienation
familiar ground confusing, frightening, and perplexing.
May 17, 2018
May 17, 2018 at 8:57 PM UTC
"The sun dazzling above the morning sky with cotton clouds overlaying its bright from time to time. Cool winter breeze kissed my cheek as I walk along the street. I looked from afar with you on my mind – feeling your presence, your hand holding mine."
Sep 7, 2015
Sep 7, 2015 at 11:11 PM UTC