On a Hymn Before Sleeping

The sheets can get crumpled:

beware.

Hoards,

nature abhors a vacuum, right?

the whole space

is crammed

with a crushing bone on bone

marrow might

trip the silence maybe

only body

remedy, we cure by sleeping

in.

A body

is always filled,

so

why not fill

it

with the

sweet of

meticulous ebbing

tides?

wind, through the window

any distraction should be

foreseen

and hasting-ly prevented

still,

she must resume

life even after

tasting with the

sweet of

meticulous ebbing

tides

grown to fill her space

screaming when no one sees.

She is grown

the might and weight to hold the ready seed

and

only for so

long, we know beware:

the sheets crumple,

the mess of hair is her hair

the creak of her voice is

her voice,

the sound in her voice

her head speaks in her head

she can’t think to bear the burden

she can’t burden the burden to bear what had been

held

had she not seen

out the window, then

ecstasy

abhorring a vacuum in the

listless light,

and oh, the gentle morning

an encompassed jewel,

glinting with a thousand eyes.

Copyright 2014 Golden Star Poetry

I do not own this photograph

Advertisement

Small Town Musicians who Have Never Seen NY Play a Rhapsody in Blue

i.

the brash sound
of barraging horns
enter a city
which they have never seen,
but only thought about
in a dream.

Nobody ever
speaks about
that hamlet on the edge,
where,
sun baking,
we stand naked,
running like children, over a bridge
whose lake
no longer flows in a steady stream
but lies a stagnant body
as if,
holding up a glass vile
one could see the sun’s reflection through it’s
clear distorted flesh.

Still,
they play music
about the city
they have never seen,
a g o r a p h o b i c,
the l a n d s c a p e r o o m y;
All you need’s a ‘scraper on the skyline
to play a whole new tune
on the rooftops of your own
metropolis
land.

‘Cause,
if nobody bothered to save up the cash
next year or or last year
or the year before that
you can just
empty your pockets to the
dry riverbed
and hope it carries you upstream.

An exercise
in thought:
Think of yourself
as a bus on the way
or a fire escape
housing a homeless cat
or an open sinkhole in the street
and the endless plumbing below….
now, open your eyes:
you’re still in the same place,
aren’t you?

ii.

Penny Perfect, like a biscuit?
the brash sound
No says Penny Pie I’ve got three here
of barraging horns
here Penny Perfect wanna walk some?
enter a city they have never seen,
but only thought about in a dream
no says Penny Pie lemme stay here please
nobody ever speaks about that hamlet on the edge
Penny Perfect that’s fine sweet angel, and
where, sun baking, we stand naked,
Penny

Penny

Penny

Penny

Perfect.
running like children over a bridge
Gingham Gorgeous take a photo
whose lake no longer runs
Gingham Gwenny I’m no looker
in a steady stream
Gingham Gorgeous care to gambole
but lies a stagnant body, as if
no says Gingham Gwenny I feel tired
as if, holding up a glass vile
Gingham Gorgeous what of money? I’m broke and
one could see the sun’s reflection Through it’s clear distorted flesh
Gingham

Gingham

Gingham

Gingham

Gorgeous.

 

iii.

the brash sounds
of barraging horns, now dampened by sounds of rainfall
enter a city
which they have never seen,
but only thought about
in a dream,

while white-washed walls wet and wither in the water .

Nobody, nobody ever speaks about
that hamlet on the edge,
where,
rain pouring,
we stand naked, open armed and empty,
running like children, over a bridge
whose lake overflows in sound.

Copyright 2014 Golden Star Poetry

 

The B-10 Mystery– a short story

Just before we begin–

this is a piece of fiction that I wrote, and I know  it seems a bit out of character, considering the fact that I usually  just write poetry. However, I was very interested to write this, so I hope you all enjoy!

love,

–GSP

 

PROLOGUE

Nobody lives on on the fourth floor anymore-at least, not after what happened to Mrs. Winters. No, everyone stays an arms length from that thin dusty blue carpet and the doormat in front of apartment B-10 that once bore the strange and unfamiliar word “welcome.” It’s funny people even speak of it now. Most people would just label it as a “convenient superstition”.

PART ONE

Molly strode up The narrow staircase nonchalantly, carrying a rather large and unmarked cardboard box. She was dressed in an out of style Calvin Klein tee shirt, a taupe, knee-length overcoat and perfectly washed, but faded and slightly ripped, designer blue jeans, suggesting that she had once been wealthy but recently lost all of her money.Molly Plunked Down the Package outside of apartment B-10, smiled briefly, then ran down the staircase to the lobby and was gone.

A man at the end of the fourth floor hallway had arrived there accidentally, just as the old building elevator, which often malfunctioned, carried him one floor above his desired destination. He observed Molly walking along the fourth floor with purpose, carrying the box, and suspected her of doing something she ought not to do.
The next morning, the man tiptoed up to the apartment B-10 and realized that the box, and whatever lay inside it, was gone. The man shuddered. He dragged his feet back to his residence, then sauntered through the door, unlocked his desk drawer, picked up a shiny revolver and shot himself. If anyone were to have asked him who took the box before he went back to his apartment, he would never have disclosed what he knew: people have a way of constructing detailed and vivid stories on their own, and have such wild imaginations that it would spoil the fun of explaining it.

 

PART TWO

A small portion of a conversation between a Ms. Hewitt and a  Mrs. Cooke, at seven thirty eastern standard time, Monday, June seventeenth, 1996.

Ms. Hewitt: You know he had a bad day, Maggie! It was bound to be a rash decision!

Mrs. Cooke: No, not the way I saw it. He was pacing around the kitchen table giving me that look. I got so freaking scared,  I–

H: Well don’t you dare blame me, I was the one to get nearly 50 letters from the man,while you sat there at home doing nothing to stop him.

C: Don’t exaggerate.

H: What?

C: I said don’t exaggerate. It’s called a Hyperbole.

H: Yes, we all know you went to grad school, Margaret.

C: He only sent you five letters.

H: More like 20.

C: The point is, I know he hid it from us.

H: So… he had it brought back for…safekeeping?

C: Bingo!

(there is a long pause. Ms. Hewitt breathes heavily)

H: Let me get this straight. Are you telling me that Bas***d had the balls to do PLAN G?!?! Of all the–

C: Nobody has to know!

H: Oh, but they will know, they will Maggie, the second it gets there someone’s gonna go bananas. And if it gets out, It’s gonna be–wait, who did he hire?!

C: Molly

H: Ah Shit! you’ve got to be kidding me!

C: I can always have her let go–

H: No, No! It’s all ruined! she knows too many people…

C: We have it under control.

H: That’s highly doubtful.

C: Beth, we have it under control, okay? I love you but–

H: Yeah, love you too.

C:  What I mean is,  sometimes things don’t  turn out how you want them to. And, I know it’s never getting any better for us, but–

H: You want me to order flowers?

(Long pause)

C: You’d do that for me?

H: Of course.

C: Thank you darling.

H: Not a problem. Call me if anything else goes wrong in the next 24 hours, which I’m sure it will.

C: That I will do.

H: well, so long for now.

C: so long.

Copyright 2014 Golden Star Poetry

 

 

 

Celia As She Wanders

i

At a loss of my HEART
the CIRCULATION in my BODY
and VESSELS
go HAYWIRE
with VEINS all BLOCKED and OH-

ii

When I think of you
I faintly taste rice,
rose hips, and winter

i am carrying a stifled love,
an exhausted,
misplaced wanderer.

oh cant you see?
when the door opens,
I can still love you
just as if it could have been.

but if only that were true,
with butter melting over the crescent moon
“come, oh night” says she who waits!

the window
is nothing

the hour
is late,

and my her bones look fragile…..

was she tired?
no

but never once the doorbell rang
never once she heard them clammer, with

kites
and
maypoles
flying!

and now she faces the breath of that
empty un-struck noise
of that tangible
cold,
described only by the horses
as they canter away:
my my her bones look fragile…..

iii.

when they are merging the lanes,
by her ankles
are smooth
cool
cornerstones
of the mountain she meant to climb
yesterday.

Lord, she knows! She knows it, damn!
when you hold her she was everything!
when you hold her she grabbed the sky!
when you hold her she wanted the light to hold the world in it and kiss it over
and over again!

and now she sits heavy
on the ghostly porch
where she once saw you smile.

that ache she never speaks of
as she gazes at her
reflection in the
mirror–
“what about me?”
“what about me?”

Copyright 2014 Golden Star Poetry

Substitute Jewel

i have finally
mastered the art
of descovering
buried treasure.

when i was young
i was told not to go out
so i found myself in pieces
measure by measure

don’t ask me how
but it takes
a lot
of skill,
and now im mining in my own backyard
conjuring rubies at will.
my mother tells me its a joy
to find jewels when you don’t have any

but most people think its strange
all the boys in town talk me around
when im dressing down
sultry
parading this town.
the boys in town will talk of trade
and the mess i made
in the garden
shoveling dirt
at velocity of speed
never ceasing
always digging away
at the rotting
metallic
earth.
i gave in to :that’s what i was meant for as no answer you agreed
you almost agreed
but you kept taking back your words
so i keep on mining
until the day is through
and im no longer me
you, no longer you
just the faint aftertaste
of the summer dune
lolling on the tongues
of the late
monsoon—

rain.

rain is
washing away
and finally
I see it’s strange
and i look at myself back when i was 16
and think i was dreaming
and you look at me
sublime
I see it was strange
but its better
now
not scouring earth
to find the substitute
for your time.

Copyright 2014 Golden Star Poetry

But I Wasn’t So Sure About Me

i.

mango tree

soft and gentle

apple on the apple mantle

garish night

a lightening strike
and the tree falls swiftly down

(only
a
whisper
on the
lawn)

ii.

I grew up
on a little -advantaged farm
where all we had to spool
was threaded yarn
but i wasn’t so sure about me

the timetable tango was a
schooling method
the lights switched on when least expected,
and in the morning sun
you abandoned me
but I’m just a lonely child of Serendipity
the stories always end with peace
but I’m not so sure about me

iii.

Mango tree
Soft and gentle
Apple on the apple mantle

Garish night
Lightening strike
And the tree falls swiftly down

(only a whisper on the lawn)

Copyright 2014 Golden Star Poetry

Painting by Childe Hassam

Abandon

maybe I’m only a small stone in your hand
that you hold
while you walk
through the rustle of trees and the streets in the summer
pick me up
put me down
that’s what I”m for.

Im for throwing ‘cross smooth lakes and during storms
cause thats the times you can’t hear your own self screaming
Im for tossing down balcony windows
cause thats the times you can tell yourself you’re only dreaming
she’s waiting by the door
that lonely woman
you can tell she’s been waiting
so long.

You left me,
pebble
on an asphalt road.

how do you expect me
to get myself home?

Copyright 2014 Golden Star Poetry

Moon-Silver

and up on the slope
where the moon-silver hides
the rain,
the rise
the pause between
the eyes

and up upon the slope
is winter on the run
and as she grips my hand
i feel
so nearly undone

the battling wind,
the groping cries
the rain
the rise
the intimate sighs

(and we begin,
and the stars we barely reach….)

~~~~~~

I laugh, we laugh
I and you and me laugh
strangely and unforced laugh
fine for spring and day laugh

gold on string and squirrel laugh
wakes up coat and shoe laugh
world is waking
frost is breaking
feeling for
the dreamer
that’s rising and running,
the rest, almost
unseener

Copyright 2014 Golden Star Poetry

Under the Foam

You, on the back porch,

smelling like soap.

I have been married to you for fourteen years.

I am all stain, all hush, all quiet and mussed.

I never hurt you

because I was faithful.

I held god’s hand through your pockets

Like a dreamer,

and I drifted like sand.

On the beach

your eyes will play a darting maneuver,

the fierce crashing against rocks  like the sea waves to shore

closing into a submissive

hush.

Like a sorcerer, the sea splits.

All too soon I’m watering up,

but your hands are suddenly closing

and for defense, you say

“What did I do?

What the hell did I do?”

Some smile!

Some Mistake!

Some Apology!

Some rough Explanation!

This feels like mud

This night feels like wind

against the stifling bed sheet,

and I’m dreaming of you

tasting the salt of you,

licking my lips to dive under the foam.

 

The lamp turns off

The lamp turns on.

Who are you?

 

DISCLAIMER-

I hope you like a busty woman

because that’s who I am.

The sides of my hips

grow to the edge of the blankets.

I am bloated with weeds,

with gross, sickly weeds.

At first, though, I was a garden-

touched, then untouched.

The first day that I met you, you were by the stables, laughing.

You were made of muscles,

then mouths,

then lastly eyes, filled with stern

competition.

“Might we duel? Me seeking you?

Seeking the sun? Seeking the old green devil?”

I wonder where you came from…

 

I bustle, and my new dress sparkles.

I bustle, and wear it till worn.

And the sequins fall like shards of glass (MAZAL TOV!)

And the sequins fly, sworn off like a swarm of bees

and I know that I am she, in the sunlit beach

smashing a seashell.

I thought I was laughing at our life,

or, what I thought it was.

Copyright 2013 Golden Star Poetry.

 

Her hands on the table

let me out!!
let me out!!!
cry the fingers.
her hands are like chickens
jostling in their pens.
and a few times over
her hands are dancing
her hands are company,
her hands are embers
her hands are the river to the river to the wave.
how madrid would like
to write essays
on her hands, and
play fiery castanets.

her hands on the lift
make a breath seem like forever.
her hands on the table
make the quiet moments
feel like symbols crashing on dry ears.

bring your hands to me-
all quiet tears:
madrid will write essays on your hands
spain will write novels on your palm
and i will sit on the road
begging for the memory of
something like a kiss
looking for a lost alm.

Copyright 2013 Golden Star Poetry