MUSIC SERIES – Zombies

Spooky season is almost over, but I wanted to write a poem inspired by This is Halloween…so here it is. 😀

 

Zombies

 

You will see them on the sidewalk

in search of sweet morsels;

their legs scraping along the way

as they savor their treats.

 

They lurch into a sudden sprint

toward my small corner house.

I can hear their fingers scratching

as they try to get in.

——

 

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The Red Eye – A Poem

Hey there, I took a break from the music series this week to write a poem that’s been nagging me since I woke up.

 

The Red Eye

 

From the windows of the wet plane

I see a white bird migrating

away from its spring time meadows

in the sanctity of midnight.

 

I wonder if it, too, wields

the fire of a red dragon

waiting for its feathers to burn

to a set of bloody scales.

 

I wonder if its heavy wings

are waiting for the chance to spread

or if its watery brow steams

beneath the hard rains of the storm

 

and from my small leather backed seat

confined to sit with the people

who looked for their peace in the sky

I wonder why he doesn’t dive to safety.

——

 

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Awaiting Pets (and Other Haikus)

Through the Window

They will never know

that I saw them together

sitting on the grass.

 

Behind Schedule

Even now the clock

seems to be drifting faster

than I can keep up—

 

Night Terrors

Their shifting outlines

stand, staring in the window,

just beyond the light.

 

Editing

Pressing a pencil

against a piece of paper

changes don’t to do.

 

Awaiting Pets

He came to my leg,

leaning just beneath my hand,

and looked in my eyes.

——

 

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Sitting Dogs (and Other Haikus)

Text Back

The three blue bubbles

bounce in the left hand corner

bursting with silence.

 

Fear of the Dark

There’s nobody there.

Nobody in the darkness

clawing at dead things.

 

Eyes Closed

Walking with eyes closed;

somewhere an ambulance sounds

a sharp reminder.

 

Looking at the Bar

The circular stains

of an overfilled glass cup

that sat for too long.

 

Sitting Dogs

Their tails kick dust

when they drag against the dirt,

waiting for dinner.

——

 

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BEAT

Beat

 

I am lying in the dark

with a hand held over my heart

listening to the heavy thud

of blood pumping through my veins,

 

and the beat seems to blister

as the blackened air grows thicker

in this hollow veil of smoke

that cloaks my body from pain.

 

Still I wonder about the chains.

The stains that silence the soul,

dragging behind the cinder

like the cross behind a sinner.

——

 

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STRIKEOUT

Like an umpire shooting bullet holes

through a neighborly batter’s defenses,

you should strike through the draft of your paper

with the black ink of objectivity.

 

Or else you’ll be an executioner.

The ink will become your vicious black hood

and the pen will be your dripping red axe

swinging at the necks of innocent words.

 

Or worse yet, you will be back in high school,

stuttering sentences in a mirror

as you prepare to ask Suzy to prom,

just to doubt you had a shot to start with.

——

 

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LOVE POEM #74 – SO COLD

Outline for me the love in your blue lies.

Was life so cold between these crimson walls

that you would search for warmth in winter skies?

Are you so conned by the sweet siren’s calls

that you would cast away your canvased life?

My love has birthed for you the finer things,

and you forget so quick that lasting strife

which bound your comely hands in puppet strings.

Then sketch your will with Neptune by your side

await those waves to take you through the light.

You’ll see those shallow waters swell with pride

and drown you in that cerulean night.

Yet when I see you float beyond that door,

I know you’ll wish that you had stayed ashore.

——

 

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BAT SONGS

The shade of bats fluttering in the distance engulfed the lights of the stars, like lines of black paint against the night. The chill metal of the bench was sharpened as they passed overhead; their shrill chatter echoing in my ears. Their beckoning song seemed to call out, “Sleep, Ulysses.”

——

 

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OUR AMERICA

So I mentioned last week that Tuesdays would be about dreams from now on, but after the travesty in Las Vegas yesterday, I couldn’t in my right mind not say how horrible I feel over the subject. So I did what I often do in that circumstance and wrote a poem about it. Before reading it, please consider donating to Las Vegas. Here’s a link to a GoFundMe. Ok, here’s the poem. Feel free to comment:

Our America

We may not be slaves

to the sins of our fathers,

but we are certainly born

out of the wombs of their actions.

 

And while we may not bear the chains

that granted them power over men,

the scars they inflicted are still fresh

on the skins of our history.

 

The flesh of this America

still burns with the toil of war,

where brother fought brother

so that our brethren could be free.

 

The first tears broke over the face

of the American Dream in 1830

when Jackson uprooted the free

in the name of freedom.

 

And again we see the strength of arms

spattering our lands red with blood,

to protect the egos of the fearful.

 

From Orlando to Las Vegas,

that river runs deeper than the oil pipelines

those dream eaters feast their pocketbooks on.

 

Well I say to them:

We do not like your America.

 

Your America is not

the land of the free

and the home of the brave,

but the land of greed

and home to the slave.

 

So we have come to take it back.

With pitchforks and torches,

with iron and steel,

with the bodies of our comrades

gunned down by the bullets

of your deranged militia laws:

we are coming.

 

Like the beating heart of the mountain

and the roaring calls of the ocean:

we are coming.

 

Like the lionhearts of Europe

come to claim their throne from John:

we are coming.

 

For this is our America.

 

Not a land of destiny and perfection

but nonetheless a home

to those who would strive

to see a more perfect union.

 

Not a country unsullied by pride,

but nonetheless a home

to those who would strive

to see the error in their ways.

 

Yes, this is our America.

An America where men can be queer.

An America where women can dream.

An America where blacks do not fear.

 

This is our America,

an America that has never been,

and yet I swear this oath again—

our America it will be.

——

 

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LOVE POEM #54 – FEAR OF DEATH

I’m finally afraid of death,

not because I’m afraid of dying,

but dying before my children are ready

for me to leave them on their own.

 

Children who I haven’t even met yet;

children whose cries haven’t broken

through their tiny, shaking lungs yet;

children who haven’t even taken root

in the safety of their mother’s womb yet.

 

A mother, who to me is still unknown.

One perfectly sculpted woman,

who I have yet to fall in love with.

Who I have yet to share dreams with;

yet to kiss over candle-lit dinners

and travel to cliché capital cities with.

 

One who could show me that love isn’t found

in the superfluous places we buy flights to,

but in the people we board the planes with.

 

But now, after seeing my father off at the airport,

I pause at the door handle of my car,

worried that the plane will crash,

and those excited, to-be children

won’t get to meet father.

——

 

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