Here is some of my favorite poetry. I’ll have links to my own as well as to others’ with their permission. Enjoy! 🙂
I. . The Den –
Waking up in the Den of Sirens,
where rivers no longer flow, and the air is
as sour and dead as the resin coat under Her fingernails,
you feel Life, creeping home to your body
as if you didn’t know it had gone out for the night.
The sweet stale odors of coffee and still burning tobacco
fill your lungs, enticing you, calling you back into Her web,
away from those bothersome thoughts of home and sanity,
and cauterizing your fear with the fire between Her lips…
…Waking up in the Den of Sorrow,
where voids are never filled, She consumes you
offering nothing in return but Her own emptiness; Her opiate.
you see Life, banging on the side door of your mind,
finally locked out after so much sneaking around.
The sickly ripe scents of beer and sweat sting your throat
And remind you of Life, sad and alone, left out in the cold.
But She soothes the pain of the living, numbing the senses until they surrender,
Prisoners to Her warmth forever…
…Waking up in the Den of the Dead,
where men are left to rot, and
Hope is smoldering in the ashtray before you,
you hear Life screaming your name, but is muffled by
years of ignorance, and the excuses She whispered in your ear.
II. Insomnia –
drifting afloat on a legless bedspread
a soft gray ocean of fibers carrying
you out to sea again.
Like driving your car from the backseat
or watching the world from inside your tv.
a brilliant light pierces the ghostly sheets,
breathing in deep the exhaled smoke
in the shadows of my room,
and reflecting my dreams on the walls.
bloodshot memories of happenings that never were,
scorched onto the surface of still open eyelids
searching the past like a textbook
and realizing that the answers
are always in the back,
and how unfair it is that studying always puts me to sleep
III. Have we been Asleep –
Have we slept?
The Body aches today with pains too familiar,
Origins held back to protect,
The sleeping dogs are best left a forgotten memory.
Sights that can’t be unseen and lives that can’t be unlived,
Actions, reactions, fractures and factions,
We push and pull, standing still forever.
Waiting for something to come along and calm the fever.
Wide eyed and awake, has it always been?
Recalling yourself like catching the wind,
Always fleeing just beyond your wisdom.
Like a dream that refuses to end.
Breathe in deep the poison you choose,
Lost in the world you created to lose,
A shepherd in the woods leading no one to nowhere,
And then looking back and wondering how you ever got there.
Have long have we been asleep?
Or have we even slept at all?
“Searching for my Cigarettes”
Dec. 17, 2009
Every hour of everyday is spent searching for something…
shambling toward an ever changing destination, only to find
that the closer i get, the farther away it seems.
everyday is a circle whose diameter shrinks with my hope.
this cigarette, this hit, this person, these occupations
are all just buying me time until i discover some truth
over and over until my lungs turn black and my heart grows cold.
I know that i will never find it. yet still,
my soul is screaming for something more
like the itch on your back that would go away
if only you could stop scratching it.
I’ve been scratching for a long time now,
and my back is really starting is to chafe.
I’ve wasted too much time looking over my shoulder
holding on for dear life trying not to grow older.
I’m beginning to think that life is simply the search.
if the journey is the destination then there is no destination
for we are eternally bound to the earth,
to life, to suffering.
cursed are we searching for meaning. knowing that
only when we expire will our journey bear fruit.
for then we will truly know if we are right or wrong,
or if there is an answer at all.
until then…we are simply exposition.
And so I search, not knowing what for
and hoping that when opportunity knocks
i won’t be too stoned to answer the door.
Sunlight Through a Curtained Window
To be fair, I noticed her strawberry hair first,
as she was sitting cross-legged in a desk across the way.
Gathered we were that day to start a family.
Regardless of race, creed, wealth, or sexuality,
we came to find our individuality and to expand everything we
ever thought we knew about anything. As she stood to say her name,
the sun caught a glimpse of her face,
fair skin matching the auburn locks that gave the rays
themselves purpose. And I couldn’t help but think
that angels do exist.
As I approached the tentative angel,
I prayed to her father that my words wouldn’t tangle.
For I’ve been known to mince the better parts of conversation
with an overabundance of one-liner stints and obvious embarrassment.
The result is always awkward and the soul train leaves the station again
with just the one passenger still aboard.
So I sit and we meet, and I immediately notice
that she looks down when she speaks. Such beauty
should not be wasted staring at her feet, when her smile
could make the sun set in the east and I wonder
how long it takes to get from earth to heaven. In time I’m sure
that I could get an answer
but for now she remains silent,
observing this new world.
Taking careful notes on the people around her,
trying to find out if this indeed is the place her heart has found her.
And then, she leaves.
And I’m left to fill in the blanks
that she has created in my mind. I look forward to seeing her again
and I ponder the chances that our souls will entwine.
And now I’m rhyming. And I never rhyme!
But I guess infatuation takes hold and I can’t help but feel
that there is something more to this being than first impressions.
Maybe she thinks just like me. Maybe she is wondering
about the guy who sat across from her and noticed
the deep and endless ocean found just beyond the reflection of her eyes.
Maybe she writes in the dark
because that is the only place where she can see
the brightest parts of her soul pouring out
onto page after page.
And time would stop in orderly fashion.
I would look to the ocean in her eyes and see myself staring back at me
through years of disenchanted love affairs. As our bodies move in sync,
we would notice the tiny imperfections of our hearts reflected in our gaze.
And I find that the most beautiful part is not knowing.
I’m lost in the thought of what could be. The hypothetical expression of thought transcending reality in order to alleviate the loneliness. And I’m wondering when I’ll see her again.
I’m wondering if my thoughts are enough to express my intrigue.
I’m wondering if, if, and if.
And the bittersweet symphony of it sings in the thought that angels do exist.
And if I have found one, then please, don’t let this be a dream.
It was the best of times, only he didn’t know it.
Grasped firmly in his right arm, her hair arching
Just slightly over her forehead brushing his gristly chin.
Giggling like children with a secret too hot to hold.
The air between them electric,
He decides to get a little bold.
He moves in slow,
Hoping for the best but preparing for the worst
Surprised to find that she closes her eyes first,
Lips pursed, embracing him unto her.