United Lives

poem, poems, poetry, writing

Topographical romantic

Meets

Tenacious Masthead.

 

Bonded by The Game,

The pricing of effluent,

And New England foliage.

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Garden Games

poem, poems, poetry, writing

A beautiful garden

Kissed with bitter-sweet pollen.

Colors:

Blue, yellow, and burgundy

Each insists the best honey.

They cannot fool this bee

Gathering pollen sickens me.

Drunk:

Inhaling the perfume

From a stunning red rose.

Whose crimson petals

Have begun to close.

Frosty:

Spring has left her

Riddled with thorn.

I now fly in circles,

Wings tattered and torn.

Cracks in the Fence

poem, poems, poetry, writing

Talking about the difficulties

Was easy as the

Wind passing though the trees.

The bark furrows around

A gaping abyss.

A void in

White Oak tryst.

She hung a swing

From that weathered branch

And swung upon rotten twisted rope

And molded board,

Without a second chance.

The wind blows

Field grass of sweet vinegar

Summer surpass.

Like cards shuffling

Through a bridge.

Swirling, sorted memories passed.

Smiles,

Eybrows,

Brow creases,

And sneaker squeaks.

Queen of Hearts,

Ace of Spades,

Suicide Kings,

And One Eyed Jacks.

I recall time

Through cracks in

The wooden fence.

Booze is Banned in Bellwoods Park

poem, poems, poetry, writing

Trinity Bellwoods Park is

Calm and complacent.

People in pic-nic pods,

Running shoes off and toes curling

Hot and sore in the green, green summer grass.

They strum metal guitar strings,

Drinking Tecate from that

Red and gold aluminum condo can.

They live in the moment.

Burning free time,

Minds far from the hours

They sell to the man

Or woman.

For a pay cheque every other Friday.

 

This girl sharing my hand,

Her visage is a marketing scam.

Identifiable like a lighthouse beacon.

Sitting amongst the grass, twigs, and parked running shoes.

My pupils know the brand

Like our energy

Like I recognize her face

From all the others

In a second synaptic fire.

All because of that red and gold pattern.

 

My attention is drawn

To the Pine apple drawn in spray paint

On the flat-metal back of the

No hockey,

No alcohol,

No after dark shenanigans sign.

The same sign that is painted to my City garbage can.

An amateur Tag Artist.

Making a lasting impression on their environment.

 

A woman cracks her blanket like a whip.

My peripherals notice this.

The affogato in my cup

Grows colder with every sip.

The vanilla ice-cream slowly succumbs

To the boiled espresso bean.

‘Ain’t that always the case

 

The soft thwack

Of a tennis match

Metronomes that small portion of the day.

With small talk laughter,

Reinforced by alcohol and marijuana and nicotine.

Intervals of several pristine seconds.

It has taken longer to record with pen and paper.

 

The guitar string tinkles along

And the day retreats

Hand in hand with the twilight.

Her Eyes in the State that Owns Autumn

poem, poems, poetry, writing

He opens his eyes

And outpours a glossy reflection

Of deciduous leaves performing a colourful revelation

And leaping to the earth

Parachuting on the invisible pull of gravity.

Back looks she

With eyes icy

Sometimes husky grey.

They swallow him

And slowly blinking long black lashes

He is locked in the

Boundless rim

Where pupil meets iris.

It’s the Atlantic ocean

And the flow of shipyard

Through the pumpkin head bottle neck.

The bones of slaves and seamen

Lay below the streets of the Port-city

As though it were a layer of sheetrock.

He walks along the black painted tar

Of last winter’s state budget expenditure.

It’s her

And the past foreclosure.

It’s the shanghai tunnels below the city

Where intentions are knocked unconscious

And dragged, feet bumping

Towards the lapping shores.

Still the image that remains

are those frozen, grey husky eyes

And the orange, green, yellow, reds, and purples

Of the sugar maple’s sun ray collectors

That play softly in ghostly

Autumn reflections.

Rorschach Memory

poem, poems, poetry, writing

Trials and troubles are healthy.

Believe me when I say

I have had a few.

I don’t want to bore you

But glance at these lines

And read these ink stains.

I want you to look through my eyes

Ride the electrodes in my brain.

It helps keep me sane.

Lord knows who I would be

Without pen and paper.

Lord knows who you would be

Without vice.

I’m in love with routine

And caffeine

It’s best not to dwell on the past

But don’t cast her a blind eye.

I love the blue sky

Unchanging my whole life

Even through my ceaseless roam.

Cloud formations,

The splatter paint canvasses

Of my scrolling memory

I look upon shapeless wonders

And build a story.

It’s a rabbit.

A face.

A sailboat.

An ever changing Rorschach collection.

I lay on green grass

Watching them lazily.

I don’t let them

Phase me

Because I am so far away.

Poetic River Runs Rapid

poem, poems, poetry, writing

I canoe hard,

Up churning currents of poetry.

Like a summer camper on a river,

Or a spliff, rolled poorly.

The river of poetry.

Not the words of publications

but the words of public vocation.

 

These waters are hazardous to your health.

Like nicotine

Or unaccustomed wealth.

They bring about sunshine,

Speak of humanity.

Whisper- unspoken calamity.

 

The reader may assume

Fiction is nonfiction.

The one Blunder.

Like saying “It’s going to pour”,

Because of thunder.

Don’t work too hard

For these words of poetry.

Let them fall from your lips.

The river is calm and it drifts.

Like the Mooring of a hundred rocking ships.

 

Don’t sink your ideas.

Worrying of antecedent manuscripts,

English professors,

Or that genius word.

All words are genius.

A simple combination of ink absorbed paper.

 

An eclipse one can view-

Without those damned glasses.

The little details that have fallen through the cracks.

Collected and wrapped, so they may stack.

Pious to one’s self

Upon a bookshelf.