"spooked" poems
It is funny to see banners wishing Happiness displayed with cinematic glamour,
the pictures and hordings of Banner heroes.
The one at Tannery Road junction was peculiar to mention.
Here it was common
The captions "Happy" used to summon names of sundry festivals-Local and national, even internstional.
What's uncommon was the bold prints
of a hero's name ARUMALAI outshining
The caption and his larger than life picture establishing the photographer's digital brushing skills.
A passer by wondered who'd be this Arumalai,
Is he so great as to be advertised in polivynil?
His glorious deeds may be what they want you to heed
Still never ever seen or heard of his manners
Anywhere than in these motley banners
Just as a function
at the Tannery road junction
Each one passed by this colossal glance attracted provoking protracted ruminance what do this expensive banners really mean?
In another occasion
the glaring glorifying picture
of ARUMALAI followed the tag
Corporator,
Below the man posing a DICTATOR.
That was a period to a period of mystery!
Banners changed with seasons
with greetings on religious occasions
Festivals of importance
Birthdays of men even
with crowded profiles of hailers
Whose unrully manners
Too clogging up the banners
Like a wanted list of jailors.
One day a strange banner
hooked by the Tannery cross over
Spooked and shocked every passer-by
There the usual banner cut out
the larger than life image blings-out
Arumalai the BBMB corporator
Posing as dictator!
There was no wish of any kind.
It was a notice startling any mind
The sad demise of ARUMALAI
The BBMB corporator
Still possed as dectator
By his living promoters.
"He was sick and the local dispensary advised a minor operation.
He was administered
the necessary treatment.
Was referred to a super-speciality
centre and was declared dead.
His sad demise was advertised, he was forty.
His chummies complained of medical negligence", was the only news summary
in major news papers...
What was the reason for the minor surgery
What're the preparations
for the corporator's operation
All are mystery for a causal itinerary
passer by crossing over the Tannery Road junction, wondering at the strange envountering with banners
that come and go
Keeping no annals
Floating on the mind for a while
Stopping at the red's knell,
Moving with the green signal
The rise and fall of heroes
As binary one and zero
The banners tell a story tertiary
Of the rise and fall of a luninary
Within a plane ofmomentary
Variation of red and green
On the Tannery road's screen.
Dec 7, 2018
Dec 7, 2018 at 5:13 AM UTC
sit down, pen and paper scrape together,
come up with something clever.
blank mind
stare at the paper-don't doodle!
holding your head in your hand is not writing-
supposed to be writing
all of these skillfully woven thoughts that should be
bursting forth, but aren't.
stop spell checking, do it later. maybe that's the answer:
automatic writing
OK go into trance let the pen and hand dance.
don't think, let the ink flow from the inside to the surface,
you're thinking on purpose...stop it! OK this is obviously not working,
it's just jerking off and it doesn't even feel good, although it should.
Come up with a subject, not abstract thought...wait...thought has no
place here. where is the Muse? I'll blow a fuse if I don't get to use a
clever phrase I turned today. what about childhood walks in the woods,
first love, real love, not in-puppy-love with Jody Foster!
during the day all the stuff that's enough to fill a book gets wasted
and lambasted. I'm mad as hell and here I sit
broken hearted did my time and only started three hours ago.
could have taken a tour by now and, holy cow!, the Tao probably took
less time to write than this night of the living dead man
with two pinky and the brains.
where the hell am I going with this clap trap? this is out of hand, out
of mind-otherworldly. is this all that i am:
meaningless gobbeldy-gook
I'm getting spooked. it's time to stop and drop the needle on a different track,
stop the attack sit back relax choose to lose my senses, dulled and lulled into
false pretenses, mend some fences with myself, or else.
Or else, what? Not contemplate, deliberate, speculate, ruminate, investigate,
radiate...KNOCK IT OFF! Just put the pen down, get up, walk out of the room.
Nov 7, 2012
Nov 7, 2012 at 3:29 PM UTC
Are you relieved to be normal?? It's something only you see.
Wasting away with a false impression we're all as strange as can be
I take some consolation as light reflects differently before passing my eyes and disguising inside mistaken identity
Spooked by our shadows safer with backs against trees
Wandering hopeful in vast space kicking round autumn leaves
Vanish like Houdini chained in a box at the bottom of the sea.
Just like smoke through every vent caught by any breeze
I think a part of everyone resides somewhere else
The 21 grams we lose in death
We've all wondered what it was in the corner of our eye
Maybe you looking back at you now you've died
Say there was no answer just questions?
Would we stop looking for them in the bottom of glasses?
Something seems strange but I'm not sure
It's not a disease there is no cure
It's not a house of cards or castles made of sand
But a poisonous web spun by delinquent human hand
Sunny days and weekend stays in places far from home
Meet the locals to say goodbye before you've even said hello
Leaves in trees so eager for a breeze to fall
This is no life at all.
Its one or two things that remind me it's a game
The tedium like nails at scabs and the blood it'll bring
A slice of lemon is all I need to add a little colour.
Perhaps a banksy on my garden wall.
Having a door held for me.
Strawberries for breakfast.
Punctuality.
Four feet at the foot of my bed.
Not waking contemplating regret.
Sun on my face
Sand in my shoes
A different kind of saltwater kisses.
Grandstand welcomes from close friends.
Tearful goodbyes everytime.
The magic must happen when I blink or during the blackouts when I drink.
Aug 25, 2013
Aug 25, 2013 at 6:09 AM UTC
It was a Saturday night in the park
his trees were singing
out of tune
his clay pigeons needed to come out
of his closet
for he was parked
on a stool
at his favorite watering hole
amongst a full house
where pairs beat singles
and there he was
shooting blanks
drowning in his sorrows
on his nine lives of lowlife
hoping for a sitting duck in despair
the kind that waddles right up to the Romeo's
with suspense in their hearts
and spontaneity in their wings
a cackle
that he can tackle
to take home
to his garden bed
for him to be fed
but what he got
was for not, naught, knot
wistful thinking
sitting in a bar sinking
for the jukebox played a broken record
finding love in the wrong places
and the joke squarely was on him
for thinking, he could round the bases
looking no further than the escape of his glows
or a crutch of decoys
and sitting ducks
for he was no Romeo
yet
there he was still, like steel,
a stole away in society
forlorn, preserved
like mamas mothballs tucked away
in basement storage
squandering the forage
for there were no triple treats
tonight for him
or forever sounds grim
for his reality check gone dim
or
no eye candy
for his heart beats
no picnic
for his ****
and all the bottled whiskey
could not drown out his pain
as his eyes were slain
as the sitting ducks turned
from his fantasy corner
phantomlike
and though
he's sitting at the bar, a loner
reminded that in cards of life
pairs beat singles
and in his worn hand
familiarly holds a lonely joker
for it's like he tries
and its
like his sitting ducks
are like hoofed deer
and his little sweets,
are spooked
hoofing
away from his
now darken forest
like red ants at his picnic
and the gleam in his eyes turned
to the poorest
its
its
as if his life and watering hole
was condemned
his garden bed cut at the stem
it is as if he has a red vest on
and a rifle don
and all the hoofed deer
panic
looking at him in fear
like he's manic
or maybe it's his eyes
that hold dark skies
he orders another double
trouble
for what else is there to do
on his Saturday night
than to sit in a bubble
forever sounds grim
but sing him a sweet hymn
he says please
to wit as he steals peeks
at the bartenders triple treats
like a bee to a hive
his joker still strikes a beat
if only he can find a bolster
for his gun needs a holster
and a deer in the headlights
would be hard to find
the confession now told, tolled, towed
through tears
the guy in the bar window
is me, sitting
resigned
Logan Robertson
10/18/2018
Oct 18, 2018
Oct 18, 2018 at 6:23 PM UTC
I dodged a desert eagle bullet and disappeared
As the swan's trumpet rusted
During the Pentecost
As the ordained minister pressed play
Chiang Kai-sheck pressed on against communists
My horse got spooked by some type of anomaly
Making me late for my two o'clock train
So now I have saddle bags of useless words
My cigarette's one giant granny ash
And my bowl is cashed
May 26, 2014
May 26, 2014 at 10:50 PM UTC
By the time he'd hit eighty, he was something out of Ovid,
his long beak thin and hooked,
the fingers of one hand curled and stiff.
Still, he never flew. Only sat in his lawn chair by the highway,
waving a *** wing at passing cars.
I was a timid kid, easily spooked. And it seemed like touchy gods
were everywhere—in the horns
and roar of diesels, in thunder, wind, tree limbs thrashing
the windows at night.
I was ashamed to be afraid of my grandfather.
But the hair on his ears!
The cackle in his throat!
Then on his birthday, my mother coaxed me into the yard.
I carried the cake with the one tiny candle
and sat it on a towel in the shade.
I tried not to tremble,
but it felt like gods were everywhere—in the grimy clouds
smothering the pine tops, the chainsaw
in Cantrell's woods—everywhere, everywhere,
and from the look of the man
in the lawn chair, he'd ****** one off.
Mar 6, 2014
Mar 6, 2014 at 2:29 AM UTC
I stretch forward, elongating my neck, making the hairs that grow down onto my nape prickle,
envisioning
my true horse-nature.
I’m hooves clopping on river rocks. My mane combed to one side, my angular muzzle huffing.
I’m strong and sturdy – muscle and a soft steel kind of strength. And yet at the
whistle of a windblown reed,
I’m gone,
scattered and spooked.
I trace the angles that connect weakly on my rawboned face. Strong lines
never broken never snapped,
just shifted and sifted easily.
I stand before others, pulled loosely together, unsettled in my people-clothes.
Loyal – love me.
Wild – but not too tightly.
I sit for sketches
sometimes hours sometimes minutes sometimes seconds sometimes months.
I look like a human,
solid to the fingertips of others pressing in – but
I’m a ghost.
I’m burned by the red clay of a canyon wall, shiny from the sun. My sweat reflects ribbons of
wet diamonds
at the bottom of a cold, fast river.
Jan 18, 2013
Jan 18, 2013 at 12:42 AM UTC
My feet what can I say, well they're not the bravest
little things, not small but average I think.
well I put them out the sheets and what did they
do scurry back in was it cold was it warm, who knows?
All I know is that it was pitch black darker inside than
outside because stars twinkle down little light bulbs
of above slightly lighting things gently down below.
My feet what can I say, that flat foot that wanders
wherever it goes I don't know, my body just follows
those ten little digits and the flat palm of my feet.
I am but a traveller on this journey they don't mind
when it's light, this is their favourite time. But a "BOO,
and I'm standing there while my feet are running away
In to the horizon and then I follow in the distance.
My feet what can I say, they're not the bravest of appendages,
When they get spooked they run a mile in under a minute.
But the only problem is what are they connected to when
they leave. "I'm like I be back in a whileeeeeee!!!,
I'm out of breath but there on the spot jogging up and down
and for what a sneeze a shout and then there out. I put my
hands on my knees to keep them eased, to the spot they must
stay I look down and i know that they want to walk, run off again.
I can't blame it, just on the palms of my feet those dam digits
they have their own thoughts. Like a centipede they linger in
the thought of moving where I want to stand in a static form.
But we think we are in control but look below it's those appendages.
Mar 16, 2016
Mar 16, 2016 at 9:16 AM UTC
I swear to god I've seen that pole
about a kilometer a go
I swear to god I've seen that tree
barren, wasted of it's leaves
I swear to god I've seen that barn
bent and crooked on that farm
I swear to god ive seen that pond
the ugly geese have spooked the swans
I swear to god I've crossed these tracks
our shocks are shot and so's my back
I swear at god everytime
I have to make this god dam drive
I swear to god it always snows
humongous flakes, down in droves
I swear to god it always rains
when the gas tank's almost drained
I swear to god the traffics jammed
every inch of the trans
I swear to god the coffee's weak
like the towns, bland and bleak
I swear to god it's all the same
this road must lead to hells gates
I swear at god everytime
I have to make this god dam drive
Nov 11, 2015
Nov 11, 2015 at 5:18 PM UTC
Team one will go North of the church to the Lake Paul area. Team two will go East On Old v.f.w. road and scout all the trails there. Team three will go west to Wolfards crossing. And team four will go South to Fosters creek. Radio in if anything is seen. Stay on channel 15. Before all the teams leave do a radio check. All ready! Here we go. We are most likely looking for a black bear or possibly a huge mountain lion.
))This is Team North do you copy. No movement or anything unusual.
)) This is team East.. Had a little movement but they were nothing but raccoons.. All clear so far...
)) This is team South! We have major movement here by the creek! Its running an we are in pursuit! Dogs are going crazy! ))) Gunfire ))) Team south do you COPY!!! TEAM SOUTH DO YOU COPY? this is team South! We got it!!! We got it!! Its a grizzly bear! I can't believe there is one this far down South!
Good work guys! We will meet up with you guys shortly
Look at the size of it! Wow! This is surly our killer! Where is team West Team West do you copy? " I think they are on a different channel. Ill head out there and go and get them. " Yeah it tried to get close but the dogs spooked her away! She could run but not outrun our bullets! This has to be some kind of record!"
)) All teams do you copy!? Yes go ahead John.. Go ahead John are you there? You guys need to see this! Hurry!
" Oh my Lord! Is that all of them!? No some of them are over there." But they are all dead! Torn apart! The entire team is dead! 15 people dead just like that! They did put up a fight as there is bullet shells and shotgun shells every where. " What the hell were they shooting at? "
Aug 31, 2015
Aug 31, 2015 at 2:51 PM UTC
Thriving thrush and widened poppies
Blinding green; a blanket, sprawling
The snow recedes, nature ignites
Wrapped in heat, and warmth, the light
Just like the renewal of my unfolding time
Stepping out from the shadow of my mine
Twas dug deep into the hillside of youth
Slowly we’re pushed out, hatched, spooked
It’s time for growth, and strength, and spirit
Walking towards the stones to clear them
Pushing, heaving, life goes on
A rumble of waves and thunder and drums
My feet will meet the ancient rough
Emotion of awe and surrealism erupt
Highlands and high towns , all that I’ve wanted
cobblestone streets I have always trusted
Mar 6, 2012
Mar 6, 2012 at 7:22 PM UTC
I look at my left wrist,
The fleshy part,
And I see a window
Into my dark past.
Yes, there are scars
From battles that I fought
And demons that I tried
To cut out of myself.
I grew up playing
Doctor and house,
But no one ever told me
Not to cut the demons out of myself.
I could feel them inside me,
So I tried to get them out,
But my knife wasn't sharp enough,
Or my inscisions were too shallow.
I tried knives and other blades,
I tried alcoholism and drugs,
I tried filling the void with other things,
And popped pills around the clock.
I thought, if I can't **** my demons, maybe they'll **** me,
But I don't want to seem defeated,
So I cut out the middle man,
And tried on my own to **** me.
I woke up in a hospital,
In a gown I'd never seen.
My arms and legs were strapped down
And I began to scream.
Not a scream like getting spooked,
Or when you're taken by surprise,
But the scream of a girl in horror movie,
During her process of being exorcised.
I screamed in horror
And I screamed in pain
Realizing what I had failed to do
And my life would never be the same.
Nov 16, 2015
Nov 16, 2015 at 2:23 AM UTC
Morning mind crackles,
Darting flight of spooked birds,
. . . One lover has left.
Oct 22, 2013
Oct 22, 2013 at 11:21 PM UTC
The news never stops, but sometimes it breaks
strange, like when the cops tell us,
Man throws dog at sister.
It didn't fly far, but across town,
the Police did finally catch another stray dog
on the Eisenhower Expressway.
I hear it's driving a '98 Toyota Corolla,
which has nothing to do with
the 3 critically injured
when their vehicle hits a pole
on the Kennedy Expressway.
They could be spooked by the report
that a Suburban girl, 11, threatened
to shoot up her school bus.
She's been told pink bullets
are the latest preteen fad,
and to prove her absurd point,
there's more bad news of
2 children injured in a Far South Side shooting.
Add their names to the piled-up statistics
and the multiple PR reasons
an often divided
State Legislature and Mayor Daley will try again
to crack down on gun violence.
This equation's always out of balance.
Apr 29, 2010
Apr 29, 2010 at 7:17 PM UTC
Part 1:
&words; spill out:
heart-hued as a sunset accident
steeped in courage
&staining; my night sleepless
∈ prayer
our hands raise up to caress this newnight,
&cast; scattered shadows like
spooked birds in flight
Part 2:
&inkscribble; spreads
fully across the tablet
of my sullied, aging heart.
Pages soaked&dying;
purpledark
weightedbeauty
after you speak the sunset-things
to fruition across the fields:
Nebraska solitude&desire;
Part 3:
&rising; again
on a third day, I must depart
&break; our day in two
(you&i;)
The sun&i; shatter time,
as the dawnmirror
remembering dusk
cracks today into the night
&words; escape
from parted lips&uncapped; pen
to fly above the broken world
as sparrows rising like
Son&Word; resurrected
pouring salvation on the stony soil
of our souls
like sundrench in spring
&script; winds verdant
vines around us
watered by heavenwords of
forever ago
Part 4:
&ink; fills up my bookheart
as I return it to a cage
&leave; the you&i; behind me
in a vagabond-blue nighttime
Oct 17, 2012
Oct 17, 2012 at 4:37 PM UTC
Mediating throughout my body is a shivering cold, the winter is here and snowfall is now of old, yet I continue shaking in a blindfold.
Wandering aimlessly in these woods of life,
trying to fixate and aim and not ***** the competing wildlife.
My one chance to make it in this forest,
I must listen as though I am this woods leading aurist.
All of this preparation for one shot at a "happy life",
a cookie-cutter form of "what to do" with your knife.
As a twig snaps beneath me and all is spooked I suddenly realize,
I now hypothesize that I must revolutionize my own "happy life"
I sprint through from and away the woods without a second of regret or care of the startling noise I paraded through these sacred woods, the bright moon leading me to all that I wanted...happiness.
Dec 4, 2016
Dec 4, 2016 at 12:29 PM UTC
The way you make me feel is incredible. Nothing like the first, nothing like the second, I may have loved them but, not like I love you. I have never met anyone that makes me feel the way you do. My head filled with a no vacancy sign, but the electricity was out; somehow you fixed it. That "no" shines brighter than it ever has before.
When you said, "When you put your hands on me." The thought I caused you even just for a moment, to be afraid of me, just breaks my heart. For you filled my life with nothing, but natural smiles and joy rides. I wish I would have appreciated and it all more.
I'm the last man on this earth who should take anyone willing to enter my dark, closed off & broken structure. Anyone willing to enter my life of chaos and mystery is more daring than any human before. If you persist, you'll come to the place that shatters the pain those with reckless hearts left me. You'll open a pure, passionate soul. To get to the damaged site, you will have to fight through the maze. Those who hid my affection left no map. I think you were almost there. You had me but like most something in my destroyed halls of lost love. My guards spooked you off. You ran far away and left me empty again. Lonely again. I had begun to draft our story. I'm hoping you'll decide whatever barricade halted your journey, brings you back. My hand hurts from writing first drafts. I desire our story to be everlasting. So long the Bible envies it.
If you can make it to the place where love is locked, you have found the key. The key to my heart. Promise me to leave that no on my vacancy sign forever lit.
Jan 4, 2016
Jan 4, 2016 at 4:14 AM UTC
Under the naked tree
They saw each other drenched in silver moonlight
Revelling in a mad dance of love
Echoing moans through the night
Two lost souls
Had found one another
To lose themselves
To each other
They'd found their spot
Where not a being would intervene
So there, they reunited, each night
Sparking a silent fire, in this place so serene
Under the naked tree
Revelling in each other's sight
Began a mad dance of love
Echoing moans through the night
Tides rose, and winds spooked passers-by
As from him, sweet kisses, she stole
A soul, free from the binds of its corpse
Had just found another, to make her a whole
Feb 15, 2017
Feb 15, 2017 at 1:37 PM UTC
It all begins with pounding fists
against my door, and men with guns
and yellow tape, and me afraid,
I’m on the floor and crawling toward
the front room drapes to peak outside,
oh what in the world have I done?
A bit relieved, I find out why
a regiment is in my yard,
they say the man that lived next door
has turned up dead behind his shed,
they said he died an awful way,
with eyes ****** out by who knows
what, or why, but either way a
nasty death; poor guy.
The landscape man called 911,
but what he saw he wouldn’t say,
was so surprised to find him dead,
he swallowed his tongue, his face all red,
and there they lie both side by side
the one alive, the other dead.
The EMTs revived the one,
the older guy had long since died,
the guy who lived, they took away
to where? don’t know, they didn’t say,-
but rumor is a padded cell
where all he does both day and night
is moan and drool, he just ain’t right
from what he saw that spooked him.
Within a week I notice things
around the house (not his, but mine)
the porch out back, the wet wood stack,
the shifting earth, the sticking doors,
disgusting insects on the floor,
the pungent stench from underneath
the house, the vents that weep a
sickly brown and soupy **** I
must confess in ignorance,
I didn’t know a house could bleed.
I try some bleach, some cleaning spray,
but just can’t scrub the **** away,
it just gets worse, and just when I
can take no more a chasm cracks
behind the stack of sticky wood,
and from the hole a flying horde
of Satan’s pawns and slugs and prawns
and beasts of sorts I swear I’ve never
seen before come shrieking out and
flock about so loud the sound is
deafening.
And now I know what mute man saw,
he saw what’s left, the face of stone
when people die at home alone,
the rigor mortis, gouged out eyes
when killed by things that men despise,
those beasts that creep and crawl and fly
about as Satan’s pawns or slugs
or prawns or whatever else might
make them cry or swallow their tongue.
I really don’t know what the big
deal is - good god
its only BUGS.
I guess I’ll call an exterminator.
Sep 18, 2010
Sep 18, 2010 at 11:28 AM UTC
For when I find my lonely soul
with head and shoulders hanging low
wandering through the streets at night
I'll walk on by that scary sight.
My life is full of empty space
that I will not let go to waste.
And if I start to lost my way,
I'll find a way to fill the blanks.
With empty space there's room to grow
Don't be spooked by your own shadow.
When times are dark and things seem grim
just tell yourself "I won't give in."
Sep 25, 2014
Sep 25, 2014 at 12:11 PM UTC
large herds of caribou
as much as one million strong
spooked and frighten
by the seasonal changes and
being triggered
by their intincts
flow across the frozen tundra
organic life in full bloom
while the weak old and young
become prey for the meat eaters
finally we merged into greener pastures
Jan 12, 2013
Jan 12, 2013 at 5:35 PM UTC
There’s a silence out in the fields tonight
Where the barley sheaves are stooked,
Their shadows stand in a menacing line
While the wives at home are spooked,
They peer from windows, they peer from doors
And they lock their shutters tight,
There isn’t a man in the valley’s span
For they didn’t come home tonight.
They left their cottages there at dawn
As the sun was on the rise,
Wandered out with their ploughman’s lunch
And rubbed the sleep from their eyes,
They carried their sickles across their backs
Their ******* hooks and their flails,
And who could read took a crumpled book
To read with a half of ale.
They bent their backs to the task ahead
Of reaping the sheaves of grain,
The clouds were billowing overhead
And they said, ‘It looks like rain!’
The sun went in and the sun came out
As the shadows flitted across,
They stooked the sheaves at an angle so
The rain would drain from the crops.
The rain held off ‘til the afternoon
When the men were streaked with sweat,
They sheltered under the Sycamores,
Laid down their tools in the wet,
The wives were busily cleaning homes,
Preparing the worker’s tea,
They didn’t look out to the barley field
‘Til the sun dipped into the sea.
They didn’t look, it was almost dusk
When they noticed something wrong,
The men would usually come back home,
They’d hear them, singing a song,
A silence settled upon the land
And the wives came out to stare,
But nothing moved in the barley field,
The men were just not there.
Their faces white in the pale moonlight
The wives sat still, and stared,
The stooks were seeming to move about
And the women, they were scared,
The stooks lined up in the barley field
Like a pack of hooded ghouls,
And lying right in the midst of them
Was a heap of reaping tools.
There’s a silence out in the fields tonight
Where the barley sheaves are stooked,
Their shadows stand in a menacing line
While the wives at home are spooked,
They peer from windows, they peer from doors
And they lock their shutters tight,
There isn’t a man in the valley’s span
For they didn’t come home tonight.
David Lewis Paget
Feb 24, 2014
Feb 24, 2014 at 3:29 PM UTC
As I see you
Laying next to me
As the ghost
That never seemed to fade
Away from the
Destroyed shine of you
In my ajar mind
I was spooked
Like a child
I ran away
From what you spoke of,
Words I thought
You would never produce
Out of your vocabulary
I remeber words
Tripping out of your mouth
And into the treadmill
Of my mind.
Still running
Cutting deep,
Packing my bags
Was the hardest part
Of living with you.
Not the scratch marks
Left on my cage
It was the idea
That no matter how many bags I packed
I couldnt slow down those words.
You see,
You are my past.
Standing as the brick wall
In my future.
No matter how black and white I am,
You, my past
Will find the murky gray spots
On the crack of my skull
And keep running on this treadmill
Jul 23, 2015
Jul 23, 2015 at 2:11 PM UTC
Temper-
now, now, there. He is
man of raging waters-
ease flees his body
Like birds spooked by passing train.
Time and truths drag down his shoulders as
He walks his well-worn path to
Earn his well-worn dollar.
His arms limp to pick the tempest bottle
That fill his flaccid faith with the warmth of a hundred singing choirs.
Temper, now - hallelujah, hallelujah
He fills his cup - king of kings-
and pours it down the funnel of his spine,
And like the clown that blows up balloon animals
He blows up a lion
blows up a fighting ****
He blows himself up into hope-into happy.
Temper man, mine,
I am branches of his trees
Snapping in the sudden gale
The storm that brews beneath his feet.
I am what he preserves -
what he destroys
Makes me like one of his castles
That
drip-drop
drip -drop
rise in the sand
I rise, towers blossom fragile
Queen of Drip-drop Land
- temper man watches it all wash away
I am sullen and silent and stirring
His madness alive
as he tangos with electrified demons on the beach where I puddle.
Oh how tiring it all is,
And he'll wake to drag his medal with him
As he walks the dusty road to clutch his dusty dollar
So he may do it all again.
Shan 01/05/15
Jan 6, 2015
Jan 6, 2015 at 3:31 AM UTC