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Grandmother's HouseThe smell of hot concrete rising from the sidewalk
and the tar on the wooden bridge
The sound of trains coming and going
So close that the small house was rattled

It was always summer, there.

Screen doors and a small rotator fan were enough
to keep out the mild heat of June
The train whistles sang me to sleep at night
With their wistful traveling tune

It was always summer, then.

HollowdaysShortened dim days and long starless nights
The wellspring, the windchimes, the starlings
Are gone
Dreary tunes about razorblades, and ash, and bone
The lost man's song, the October sonata
The walkingman shoeheels clack empty sidewalks
Past blank storefronts and soapsmeared windows.
Summer is a distant fire, muted by mist, fog,
Coldbreath
Hollow days are here again.

BitterBitter-sharp and angled
The stake through my heart
The brightest sun cannot penetrate
The cold seizures as I die
and die
and die, everyday;
but still somehow remain.

You only had to die once.
I've died a thousand times
since you left.

Dying is no way to live.

PorchBleak and cold, November coming like a freight train
Sorry little colored lights twinkle above the city
The heart sees what the eyes miss
The eyes miss what the heart wants
The cycle never ends
I want an early summer afternoon
I want a house with a porch, with
Windchimes and hanging vines
Potted plants. Colored rocks and shells
I want stained glass windows. Dreamcatchers
I want the floorboards painted gray, the house white with black trim
I want willows in the yard
I want heaven.

I Took the Blue BusYou didn't put the phone back, left your pills on the table
I went thirty minutes without thinking of her
You made cookies I didn't eat, watched movies I didn't see
I went thirty minutes without thinking of her
You talked, then you didn't, then you talked some more
I went thirty minutes without thinking of her

You took the elevator, she took the stairway to the stars
I went thirty minutes without thinking of her
You swept out memories, wrote a manuscript of dreams
I went thirty minutes without thinking of her
I had coffee and cigarettes alone at four AM
I went thirty minutes without thinking of her

She took the stairway to the stars
I took

Raindrizzle-dream drops plop against the pane
the sun's so much farther, far away today
whispered memories replace buoyant talk
of starfish and freedom and flying away
no, no dreams of flying today, just quiet
words of long ago and what might've been
promises made in the sun hold no weight
on a day when the grey's pouring in
you remember her, now, from so long ago; dancing on sand so white
(it was bright as a headache)
hand-in-hand laughter, a day without end;
but it did end, when you weren't looking, and suddenly
it was ten years after, and you were sitting alone
watching the rain
inside the drops you hear gulls crying, waves rushing; children calling out
to each other as they play
a radio plays your song, she squints into the sun
(the most beautiful creature you've ever known)
you hear her whispered "i love you" and then it's just
rain once again

Grass AngelSunsplashed buildings, clear blue skies
No traffic, no pedestrians; silence.
The end of June, the end of music.
No birds, no wind, no dreams

except this one.

This clinical, sterile dream,
Inside looking out
at nothing.

As the sun slowly makes its way
across the sky,
The only sound is the ticking clock.

I'm going outside to make a grass angel.

Lawnmower ManThe lawnmower man
carelessly murders yellow daisies
heedless of their cries

If there is a god
he is deaf

A Dirty FloorThe yellowed linoleum is stained with uninterpretable patterns
Perhaps ten thousand nights of decadence, maybe ten thousand days of happy children
Thin sunlight through dirty windows shows only battered confusion
Leaving traces of lives that never meant a goddamned thing
No more than abstract patterns on a dirty floor

DadHis once strong bones are now brittle
His staunch heart now weak
His soul is tired, ready to go
But we hold him back, saying no
Not yet

Selfish love wants not change
Even at the expense of the loved
Stay a little longer, be strong
But it's us who are weak, unwilling
To let go

Goodbye, Dad. I'll miss you.

Falling AwayIt's not the falling behind, it's the falling away
Unable to stay vertical, no horizontal to catch me
Blindly boring white days falling in and out of sleep
Waiting for something to end and something to begin

Talking about white things and birds and death stars
The location of heaven, the door that won't open
The hollow sounds of the memory gears turning
The falling, falling, endlessly through a sea of white

(Did I mention the white nothingness? Of course, yes,
It's all I have left to talk about, the falling through white)
It's not the falling behind, it's the falling away
Catch me.

The Wind-DownI'm tired, a clock winding down in an abandoned sickroom
You're vibrant, a sunspot, a splash of color, a dream
That I dream when I'm fevered and sawboned

I'm a ghost already, a shadow that crossed your path
You sing your pain, and heal your space in the world
Bringing light, laughter, dizzying falls from great heights

We sing our pain together, sometimes, and I almost live
But the clock is ticking, the sirens call, and you
Cannot bring your brightness into the dark places

I'm tired, and the crows gather in anticipation
Perhaps they'll carry me to your beautiful world
And release me with the Christmas snow

ListenDry, powdered, flaky
Words drift to the ground, unnoticed
Like snow, like dandruff, like
dust

Listen to me.

Cardboard I feel sick. The coffee's too strong, the morning too dark. Cigarettes
taste like cardboard must taste, although I've never eaten cardboard. (I
wonder why I hear "tastes like cardboard" so often. Are people eating it?
Should I try it?) No, I feel too sick. I want to spill my guts. The fluid
in my lungs, the bile in my stomach. Void myself of whatever inside is
making me feel this way. Heartsick. Cee's heart got sick and died. Whatever
gods there might be hated me so much, they kept me alive for their
amusement. Brainsick, soulsick. There'll be no sun today, but it's still as
dark as twilight at eight AM. It could (should) be

SymphonyIt's the measured breathing of someone on oxygen, here in the small hours. I don't know where it's coming from. I hear it beneath the white noise of the air conditioner.
It's the faint jumpiness of a phone ringing, a monitor flatlining on a loop in my memory.
It's the droning in my own ears, the hum-buzz of the tinnitus, the electricity and insect sounds.
It's the whistle of a train, much louder than it should be. It soars over the top of it all. There are no trains nearby.
It's four AM again. The silence is not golden.

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Bozo WigThe sun falls silently down, all the lightfingers reaching up
Where do i go, now? I'm a shadow in a coffee cup
Too dark for seeing, too weary for dreaming, too damned
something all the time
I'd kill for a trenchcoat and army boots
Anything's better than killing time.

I dreamed you were at the door.

The cars crawl by like snakes, hissing in the street below
What do I do now? I lost my license long ago
Too dead for living, too alive for dying, too damned
something all the time
I'd kill for a shot and a beer
Anything's better than this cheap wine.

I dreamed you were at the door.

I've written everything down, all the words tattooed

EqualityTwelve-o-five AM. A crashed car on the north side of town, a woman without her medicine on the south side.

The two were as different as two people could be. Charles was young, white, wealthy, healthy. Carmen was old, black, poor, ill.

When I wheeled them down to the morgue, they were equals. Nothing else mattered but that they were human, and those they left behind were equal in their grief. Two families were not going to sleep tonight.

I had to wonder, how many people are equal with me in their hatred of their job?

HOUSE Out through the fields of tall weeds and wild grasses, past a decayed oak and rusted-out pickup truck; into the dense woods on the other side, where the ground is carpeted by multiple layers of dead leaves, built up over the past century. Deep in the heart of these woods is an old house, its boards gray and weather beaten. At night, flickering blue lights dance through the darkness, but there is no one there to see…

A steaming day in July, the air heavy and hard to breathe. Insects of two dozen varieties filled the thick air, thrown into a frenzy from the heat. The drone of their buzzing had become background noise. I was totally focu

Sunday (Summer)Another summer Sunday, hot, close, quiet
But with a restlessness beneath
Mad to be free

I can't stop thinking of wind, and lullabies,
and fever

Identical houses in rows, sidewalks, fences
Straining not to explode with
suppressed passion

I can't stop thinking of barking dogs, and sirens
and freedom

Three ShipsWe sailed in three ships, with three crosses, after
the three singers died
The father, the son, and me, the bastard grandson
who kept the count

Black water, ribbons of black clouds, illumined by
the strange moonlight
There were no stars in the sky that night, only
in the ground

Smooth ripples, silent bells, the world holding its breath
Waiting for the docking, and the three fires, and
sparks flying up into the starless sky
to form three new ones

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Breakfast At Connie's

by =Bark, Jul 3, 2011, 2:29:29 AM
Literature / Poetry / Emotional / Free Verse

Small birdbones, brittle
Large eggs over easy
Tiny dogs yip and nip at the feet
Under the table

A lock of hair in ashes
A crow cawing from the bookcase
Breakfast at Connie's is always
So damned surreal

Last chance for a smoke before the show begins
Light 'em if you got 'em, or just light a candle
Italian Catholic grey-eyed girls
Love ceremony

A pumping heart dessert
Hidden in plain sight
Ignored by all as proper etiquette demands
They leave softly

Marching in softshoe-step rhythm
Crunching small bones beneath their feet
Wondering why it's still dark and why the
Show still goes on

Breakfast At Connie'sby =Bark

Literature / Poetry / Emotional / Free Verse

©2011-2013 =Bark

3:00 am musings.

~~joy 0 0~~

~~mad 0 0~~

~~sad 0 0~~

~~fear 0 0~~

~~neutral 0 0~~

*katarthis Jul 10, 2012 Hobbyist Writer

Connie's must be an interesting place. A little dirty perhaps, provincial, traditional, what have you, but homey, welcoming from the hours of dinner and family gatherings, and then back to a quiet time.

(Can you tell I don't really understand it? There's a deeper meaning buried in the words, or so I think.)

k

Reply

=Bark Jul 10, 2012 Writer

Thanks very much. Yes, there's a deeper meaning. I lost my grey-eyed Catholic girl to heart disease. This is a small tribute to her, a song of mourning for me.

Reply

*katarthis Jul 11, 2012 Hobbyist Writer

I am sorry for your loss. Such tributes are personal, deeply meaningful, and I thank you for sharing it with us.

k

Reply

*TheMadMulatto Jul 19, 2011

I like when you muse in this way. Sharp swing of the mind in several directions easily followed.
Soft tip toes still leading to a crunch.

Large produces from tiny things...
Beautiful.

Reply

~EmmaSloane Jul 11, 2011 Writer

on so many levels..

Reply

*AlecBell Jul 8, 2011

I love the meandering stream of intention upon which the poem drifts.

Reply

=Bark Jul 8, 2011 Writer

Thanks, Alec.

Reply

*AlecBell Jul 8, 2011

Most welcome, Ron

Reply

!apple-dark Jul 7, 2011 Professional Writer

One of my favorites by you so far.

Reply

=Bark Jul 7, 2011 Writer

Thank you very much!

Reply