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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.

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.

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

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.

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

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.

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

edgethrough cloud-spackled skies, lightbeams;
longshadows race across longlawns
twilight's coming, better wrap it up soon
even the longest days aren't forever.

blackbirds fly low, the silver ones high;
treetops move swiftly but gracefully
soon stars will dance with them, winking
at the secret that everyone knows.

we're all sleepers here, this world a dream;
dervishes and banshees in our brains
we reach for the evening star.

a wish for freedom is a wish for death;
does anyone remember?

welcome to bo-bo land.

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.

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

Listen to me.

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

Mad Little DreamApples and mannequins, Gypsy fire shadows
Dream a little dream of me, sweet baby
Gears and cogs, crows and rows of corn
Dream a mad little dream of me

November twilight comes early, and sometimes
The sky is dull red at night
And all the clocks chime and the whistle blows
Dance in the Gypsy firelight

Harvest moon's gone and the stars shiver cold
From the Clocktower down to the river
Remember the times that we swam through those stars
When the moon was full in warm June

Dream a little dream of me, Ladybug
Dream a mad little dream of me
I'll drink to you and try my best to fly
And I'll always dream of you

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

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More from =Bark

WRIGLEY AT TWILIGHTWrigley field at twilight
The stands are empty but for the ghosts of yesterday's crowd
Singing "Go, Cubs, Go"
As we dance and swirl out near the ivied wall
in centerfield
Laughing because we so rarely dance
and are so happy to be here
in each others arms

WHITE TRUCKSa line of white, unmarked trucks passes
a man in a scratchy wool coat stands and watches
leaves rustle and branches start to move
clouds sweep across yellow violet sky roofs

and the

trucks keep moving, man keeps watching
shadows, sun, clouds, birds diesel screeching
vibrations, tremblings, earth moving, lurching
someone whispers "Is this all there is?"

still

white trucks moving, coat man watching
strangely calm in the midst of the moshing
dreamer keeps dreaming, birds keep screaming
Someone whispers "Is this the end, then?"

but

it all keeps going on and on endless line
white trucks wool coat birds trees wind sky
reels of w

Pillowsoft down dreams
Bland cushiony memories
Float down through the mindseye
and nestle in the hollow heart

Furniture and photographs
Coffeecups and mirrors
Open windows, city streets
With eyes closed I see clearer

Pillowsoft fingertip touch
Strokes my fevered brain
Closed eyes invite scattered sunlight
Colored feathers, rainbow rain

Falling through the soft void, then
Thirteen steps to the third floor landing
It's good to be home again
Where my love is standing

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Grandmother's House

by =Bark, Jul 13, 2011, 1:28:34 PM
Literature / Poetry / Emotional / Free Verse

The 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.

Grandmother's Houseby =Bark

Literature / Poetry / Emotional / Free Verse

©2011-2013 =Bark

Written for the 'Special Places' prompt at

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~Alex0Jericho Oct 22, 2011

such sharp, clear scent evocations! fantastic! you have a wonderful strength with them--i've always had to fight them tooth and nail to come out of hiding. (so i've been a bit jealous over that!) for me, at least, scent 'imagery' is always strongest, always whipcracks me right down in the piece. well done!

Reply

=Bark Oct 23, 2011 Writer

Thank you very much!

Reply

!apple-dark Aug 31, 2011 Professional Writer

You are just haunted with so many lovely images. You are a dark and winding ghost and I love your poetry.

Reply

=Bark Aug 31, 2011 Writer

Thank you very much, what a wonderful compliment!

Reply

!apple-dark Aug 31, 2011 Professional Writer

You are so welcome.

Reply

`FuzzyHoser Aug 24, 2011 Hobbyist Writer

Well...this put a smile on my face.
Perfect.

Reply

=Bark Aug 25, 2011 Writer

Thanks!

Reply

`FuzzyHoser Aug 25, 2011 Hobbyist Writer

Oh no, thank you!

Reply

~Bakape Jul 31, 2011 Hobbyist Writer

Extremely easy to relate to. Has this slight nostalgic after-taste, but still very refreshing to see something so cheerful from you.

Reply

=Bark Jul 31, 2011 Writer

Thank you very much!

Reply