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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

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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

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.

ClockThe clock is ticking the clock is ticking the clock is ticking
Only owls can save you from the crows, but the owls are all dead
You trade your minutes for magic beans, but they only stretch
The minutes into hours, while you wait, expecting something more

Forever and never are the same in the schematics of a life
The crows constant cawing and pecking remind you that you live
The touching against a friendly soul now and then makes you want to continue
The clock is ticking the clock is ticking the clock is ticking

Reason flies out of the window with a shiny trophy in its beak
Love falls into the earth and becomes dust, unforgotten, unassuaged

Quick Fire SketchA man walking. A dog barking. The man's head is on fire. The world is on fire. The fire is on fire. The fire burns unevenly down one side of the man's lapel. The man is naked. The man glows from within, red razor slash smile, concrete eyes. The man is gone, and a moon appears. It rises quickly and disappears. A tree is barking. The woman's eyes are taped with black electrical tape Xs. She looks for the man, then leaves with the trees. The fire has missed her somehow. The dog is barking at god. God is on fire. These words are on fire. You are on fire.

A Drunken HymnFuzzy and smokey, creamed and strained
Clap on, clap off, cornered and drained;
Seeing is sawing, kneeing and gnawing
Hammerhead rhythm, red herring brain.

Do you want more sentimental sleaze?
More eyelinered fat kids, diseased?
Perhaps Superman will fly in and drink gin
With you and your uncle's mad niece.

(I like my flatliners flat, my beer strong
My ghosts to stay dead, my wood to last long
Forty acres and a mule is not enough
Give me your head, I won't be too rough.)

Slippery and slimy, or scaly and dry
Cankered and cancerous, bloody well wry;
Being's believing, but knowing is fleeting
Fifty steps down to the what and the w

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

DrownBlackness at three AM
Dead stars
Mason jars
Books of hymns
Ribbons, wreathes, smoke
Phone calls from the dead
These things I know
And
Think
Of
As
I
Drown

Lambchops and RazorbladesLamb-chops and razorblades, barbed wire dessert
Blackhand man resurges, gather 'round;
Shadows eat the light, he eats the shadows
Blackheart bound with rough twine, engorged;

with sweet dreams turned to sour mash
with fear of echoes on twilit playgrounds
with summer's sudden screendoor slam ending
with attic wigstands cooing sick-sweet things

Head-cheese and shrapnel, red lipstick dessert
Blackhand man resurges, gather 'round;
Moths eat his clothes, he eats the holes
Blackheart bound but bursting out, engorged;

with severed birdwings falling from the heights
with rotten fruit boiling in fly-filled bins
with spineless slithering

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.

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Gentle

by =Bark, Jul 28, 2011, 4:51:50 AM
Literature / Poetry / Romantic / Post-Teen (Mature) / Free Verse

In the deep shadows of a summer's night
Close and muggy blanket spread
Frogs sing hymns to the sky for rain
Fireflies carouse amid tall grass
like fairies;
sparkle
flutter
dance.

Stars poke pinholes into the darkness
Too warm to cuddle, holding hands
The moon's hazy light disappoints the frogs
But shines delicately on her face
like a caress;
whisper
laughter
love.

Soft stirrings begin in the treetops
At last a gentle cooling breeze
Ice cream boardwalk memories of the day
Will burn throughout winter's wrath
like fire;
flicker
crackle
glow.

274

25 38 4

Gentleby =Bark

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prompt 'fire'. I came close to incorporating all three prompts, 'shadows' and 'lightning bug' were the other two.
Comments and suggestions are welcome.

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*prettyflour Aug 5, 2012 Hobbyist General Artist

This has been featured in my journal!

[link]

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=Bark Aug 6, 2012 Writer

Thank you very much!

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~RequiemsandReveries Aug 14, 2011

Wistful sigh. I'm nodding.

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~SZografos Aug 6, 2011

More beauty for the senses. Your summer poetry has made a home or itself.

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=Bark Aug 6, 2011 Writer

Thank you very much!

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~SZografos Aug 6, 2011

I meant a home for itself...
and you are very welcome.

A treat to return to an inbox full of your poetry.

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*chryssalis Jul 31, 2011

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=Bark Jul 31, 2011 Writer

Thank you!

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*MililaniMak Jul 30, 2011

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=Bark Jul 30, 2011 Writer

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