Agitation of hands. Strength of words.

3WW

•January 30, 2010 • Leave a Comment

Grieve for all
kindred spirits
as the beacons slowly go out,
their fires dying across the world
one
by
one.

20100130 Poem Favouréd(s)

•January 30, 2010 • 1 Comment

Got a few of these for you today.
First is by a fellow blogger I stumbled upon,
or rather by whom I was stumbled upon.
He’s rather great. Give him a look.

Death of a Poem
– Opoetoo

10 years on the blood trail
Of a gut shot poem
Sleeping by tainted indentions in leaves and grass
Dreams of its death – oh to put this thing out of my misery
No compassion for the beast
As it confounds me in red maple leaves
Camouflaging on the ground and
Swirling around my head in scarlet confusion

So thankful for the broom straw
Red tipped broom straw waving me on to victory
To the smell of death
Juxtaposed with
The pungent aroma of the taxidermist’s tight rubber gloves
Dreams of long talks ,smoke rising, interest increasing

A widow maker falls beside me and brings me back to reality
My left hand rusted solid to the lantern
My back permanently stooped
The trail leads down now
They always die by the water
Hopeful and wanting
Soon the leaves will fall again
Death by the water? Victory by the water?

A decade has passed when I find the beast
It falls two steps from the stream
It’s warm breath clouding
Rising into the red maple leaves

———————————–

Now some lovely Bukowski.

Consummation Of Grief
- Charles Bukowski
I even hear the mountains 
the way they laugh
 up and down their blue sides
 and down in the water
 the fish cry 
and the water  is their tears. 
I listen to the water
 on nights I drink away 
and the sadness becomes so great
 I hear it in my clock
 it becomes knobs upon my dresser 
it becomes paper on the floor
 it becomes a shoehorn
 a laundry ticket 
it becomes
 cigarette smoke 
climbing a chapel of dark vines. . .
 it matters little
 very little love is not so bad 
or very little life
 what counts
 is waiting on walls
 I was born for this
 I was born to hustle roses down the avenues of the dead.

As The Sparrow
- Charles Bukowski

To give life you must take life,
 and as our grief falls flat and hollow 
upon the billion-blooded sea
 I pass upon serious inward-breaking shoals rimmed 
with white-legged, white-bellied rotting creatures
 lengthily dead and rioting against surrounding scenes. 
Dear child, I only did to you what the sparrow 
did to you; I am old when it is fashionable to be 
young; I cry when it is fashionable to laugh.
 I hated you when it would have taken less courage
 to love.

Bluebird
- Charles Bukowski

there’s a bluebird in my heart that
 wants to get out 
but I’m too tough for him,
 I say, stay in there, I’m not going
 to let anybody see
 you.

there’s a bluebird in my heart that 
wants to get out 
but I pur whiskey on him and inhale
 cigarette smoke 
and the whores and the bartenders
 and the grocery clerks
 never know that 
he’s 
in there.

there’s a bluebird in my heart that 
wants to get out
 but I’m too tough for him,
 I say,
 stay down, do you want to mess 
me up? 
you want to screw up the
 works?
 you want to blow my book sales in
 Europe?

there’s a bluebird in my heart that 
wants to get out
but I’m too clever, I only let him out 
at night sometimes 
when everybody’s asleep.
 I say, I know that you’re there,
 so don’t be 
sad.
 then I put him back, 
but he’s singing a little
 in there, I haven’t quite let him 
die
 and we sleep together like
 that
 with our 
secret pact
 and it’s nice enough to 
make a man 
weep, but I don’t
 weep, do
 you?

Posted in Favoured Poem, poem, poetry

Drifter

•January 29, 2010 • Leave a Comment

Away up in the
night sky
everything is grey and cool.
Mists sift past in front of you
and all you see is
pale and translucent.
Petering out clear and
dark at the edges.

Down here
in the real world
we are bathed in this
sickly yellow glow,
that hums gentle and ominous,
amplifying our hatred
and our love.

Make your choice.

Posted in darkness, future, life., night, poem, poetry