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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.

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

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

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.

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.

HalloweenThis is October's last song, before the winds
Rip the trees bare and November's cold grasp takes hold
The celebration of dead saints and sinners
The lonely wandering song, the looney tune
Flickers from porch-pumpkins grinning like skulls

This is the dreamworld, the fertile earth of imagination
Wet leaves underfoot, the song is carried house-to-house
Curses upon that house that does not receive it, spirits
Will play their mischief and sing louder than the wind
This is October's last song, beware, hear it well

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

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.

RepetitionThe frayed edge of the day is pressed down by the weight of bulky cumulus. Smooth, pin-holed night has its heel on them. Treetops dance in ritual conformity. Raindrops plunder the stars and feed them to the clouds. Tall grass dances, is beaten down, rises to dance again. Repetition. Memories sweep in through the open door in a cold burst of October. She owns the wind, she is the wind; the wind that shrieks through your mind on nights like this. The Visitation. You know her name, but do not speak it. Why would you? Whether she hears or not, she cannot answer with anything but a howl.

Frayed edge of day pressed down by smooth, pin-holed night,

:No: ExitForty-seven teeth of steel
are clamping down
on the day.
Pins and needles pierce.
Hot wax drips down
without end

on this day

Where is the green-haired doll?
Discarded by the woman who has no ears.
The day stretches, but doesn't break.
Pulled and pushed and thrown around
disoriented
it remains.

There is no highway for escape
only a lonesome, dark, old country road
Neon
signs at the starting point
pointing in all directions.
This Way That Way No Way
Forty-five angels hide in terror
They do not speak.
The day yearns to break
but night will not release it's bone-tight grip
Somewhere there's a door

All things end, eventuall

OctoberOctober; the world is dying
Going out in a blaze of glory
Not the slow painful birth into Spring
But a quick descent into Winter
Wind howls through fiery leaves
Change. Death. Mourning.
A wreath made from twigs, dried leaves and orange berries
For my Autumn girl.
And the days rush headlong into night.

FuneralI could've gone all day without seeing that
Green door, green door, green door, green door
Red door
I could've gone all day
White truck, white truck, white truck, white truck
Black limo
Headlights
Greyday
Funeral
March
I could've been gone all day
Wind, wind, wind, wind, wind, wind
Rain
I could've ridden in back with the flowers
I could've gone home
I could've gone all day without seeing that

Pompadour ManGreyscale cityscape in the rain. The pompadoured provolone man sits in the diner. His coffee is cold. His laptop is old. The diner is old. His suit is old. He likes things old, and thinks now of old days when it rained this way. He wants to think about the future, but she calls from the past, through the sound of the rain. He wishes wishes that cannot be realized. Dead is dead, and gone is gone. Her heart blew up, and that was that.
But it wasn't. Pompadour Man's life ended then too, but he had to stay in this world. In the rain, in the grey. He sighs, sips cold coffee, and wonders what he's doing here. Open laptop, check e-mail, close. May

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.

Nothingi have no new words
no new ideas, nothing but that same
bleakness, blackness, bare-boned sadness
open-eyed madness
nothing new to say

the brainworms burrow deep, itching
screeching, screaming blind pain
bloodrip, mindmatter, black tie gag
guiltscattered, smoke, blackash and slag

empty fields should be filled with flowers
ghosts can't dance, and must be softly turned
away, into the mist of memory's urn
where trees breathe and shells sigh
down in the hallow

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Cheesy Sci-Fi Chapters 1 and 2 1
The rain kept up at a steady drizzle. We were in R Sector, flying low in our small hovercraft. It was my second tour on earth, and I wasn't very happy about it. Who would be? A world where it's always dark, usually raining, filled with various groups who all want to kill you… Fadderman rode shotgun, and we scanned the dark streets in silence. The one certainty here, things were never quiet for more than a few minutes. A constant pounding barrage that kept everyone jumpy and on edge.

The barricaded tenements of the Earthies shone wetly in and out of our spotlights. Here and there a brief electric blue glow shone. We still didn't kn

BiographicalitiesFIVE DECADES 10/05/10

when i was a child i lived within a bright circus of illusion
it surrounded me, but i could only see it, not touch it
i was in the center ring with the dark lions nibbling at my feet
the light dying out before it reached me in my small prison
where was the spotlight, and someone to tame those damned lions?

nowhere.

that was the sixties.

when i was a teen the darkness fell and the clowns went mad
no light nowhere, even the illusion faded to black and died
i was in a corner of the abandoned circus tent chanting for its return
the few things i loved began falling apart all around me
where was home, and comfort,

Hospital_RoomHospital Room

Uno cards, crossword books, television
Time-killers in hospital rooms
Sleeping often to pass the time away while
waiting to pass away

Hoping for a visitor to bring
A card, or flowers, a forced smile
Just to pass the time away while
Hanging on one more day

Institutional cleanliness can't override
The smell of sickness and death
Loved ones' attempts at happy talk
Flowers in a vase, baby's breath

Bright incandescent lights can't hide the shadows
That creep from the corners of the room
Haunted eyes of patient and visitor alike
mute suffering, useless wishing, gloom

Wishing to grab time by it's swift feet
and hold i

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I Took the Blue Bus

by =Bark, Oct 21, 2011, 2:19:04 AM
Literature / Poetry / Emotional / Free Verse

You 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 the blue bus to nowhere