At the End of the Day

just before we begine, meditation:

uncharted island
of somewhere in-between the
right and wrong

where can I find you,
queen mystery of it all
that hides, unseen?

don’t find me a fire
a berating sun-drenched love
who follows my tracks

don’t find me the steel
or windy night time blue,
but some cool temperate:

I think I’ll just bathe
in the medicinal sway
of unfailing breath.

xxx x x x x x

an afterthought

yes, that’s it
she eases into a chair
her bones ache and she
finds that the view is not as lovely
as she thought it would
be.

A ticket or the house key
is misplaced
but the train station still finds a way
to make it’s contents drip in an empty thickness
depositing the worker and civillian,
the unceasing drama that
plays at the day like a child with baloons,
too soon bought then let out of grasp
floating higher and higher
and up to the sky:
watch it fly
watch it fly
watch it fly
watch it fly
At the end of the day,
And it passed me by

Copyright 2014 Golden Star Poetry

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Not your average day, Police Claim — a fictional story by me, golden star poetry

dear readers: “not your average day police claim” is NOT a true story, despite the fact that the places i mention do exist.

Kirsten had always dreamed of working at the post office or the county jail. Daily living and house chores were her bread and butter, and she craved it with a passion. Everything that was banal seemed to sing to her with an effervescent joy, and even the prospect of brushing her teeth filled her with a strange sort of wonder. Today was a Monday, and her school was having a taste of danger.
Wanted serial killer number twelve had just escaped from the Terre Haute Federal Correctional Complex and was passing through the small town. Kirsten did not like the sound of it at all- and not because she was afraid of menacing criminals, but simply because it was disrupting her average Monday drone.At the moment, she was fumbling around in the dark, musty classroom of Mr. Bingler’s English class, trying vainly to whisper a conversation to her friend, Nora.  Nora suffered from over twelve different illnesses, none of which Kirsten could pronounce or differentiate from one another, and all of which seemed perfectly plausible at any given moment. Nora’s favorite of the twelve was the piercingly white hair she acquired from living with Waardenburg syndrome.

Unfortunately, this ailment also left Nora with a very bad left ear, and blurry vision, which bore Kirsten’s whispering attempts quite fruitless. As mentioned previously, Kirsten also had the inability to remember all of the diseases Nora suffered from, and so she carried on whispering, unfazed by her friend’s lack of response. Andrew Klein, who sat next to Kirsten, was enjoying the awkward exchange between his fellow pupils. Most of the school knew of this unusual friendship, but had failed to communicate this knowledge to their peers, for fear that it would be considered unthinkable to speak of such lowly peasants, or-as they were affectionately called by the rest of the student body -“nerds”. This label, oddly enough, was not quite accurate in this case, despite The girls’ nebbishy outward appearances. Kirsten was failing three of her classes, and Nora was quite unable to work in the school environment at all. The disabled program at the school was unable to find a suitable category in which to place her, and had no option but to file her under the title of “hopeless case”.
Of course, in order to resume this saga of unusual proportions, one must be reminded of the horrors awaiting Kirsten and Nora’s hometown. As the students sat cramped and sweaty in the dank unlit classrooms of Alpine Mountain high school, the Wanted serial Killer (whose name was Artie) was sweeping across the city in a frantic rage. Fortunately, the townsfolk knew how to carry out the mandated precautions like the backs of their hands. They had all been trained at early ages on how to prepare for all types of disasters, due to the hard work and effort of the late Martha James Brawn (1875-1960), a nurse and educator at St. Mary-Of-The-woods College, and the pride and Joy of Terre Haute city.
Artie the serial killer was not that surprised to see that the place was in a state of great angst. He had escaped from prison on a dare. He spoke in a strange dialect not known to most city dwellers and was having a hard time communicating his situation to people. In reality, Artie was not trying to pose as a threat to anyone. The act of looting and thieving was second nature to him, almost the same as an impulsive reflex. No, on the contrary, he had been forced into most of his earlier gang activity and found it quite unfair for the government to rule him out as a real danger to anyone.
Or, as Artie would have put it “I had more friends nutted up than me most times. The whole thing is just a load of bum beef. All I got was a case of broke weak when they called me a cracker. They just made me do shit cause all I had was drag and they said they heard it a thousand times already. I put it on my skin!” The killer took the rest of the day committing crimes until he was captured fisherman named Gregory Ipswich, and was sent back to the Terre Haute Federal Correctional Complex, safe and sound. Kirsten could have sworn she had never been so happy.
Copyright 2013 Golden Star Poetry

Another Long Breath, Another Long day

Not my usual style, but it’s cool. I wanted to experiment with repeating ideas, images, or lines in a poem. I think it’s pretty cool, even if the meaning is kind of obscure. Tell me how you interpreted it!

 

Another Long Breath, Another Long day

her capacity for silence

was admirable. The cobblestone

streets spin like unwound essays about

unexpected pleasures, words spinning.

 

She draws out another long breath

from her lungs. Another long day,

she feels, she knows,

she knows it without ever thinking it.

 

And beneath the dark steps to her

shotgun house, mirror to mirror

a box encrusted in diamonds

is broken and the ghost knows that he broke it.

 

Her capacity for silence is haunting

she has been still for several days, feeling the minutes

crawl like lovejuice up and down her spine,

feeling and knowing without ever thinking  it.

 

She draws out another lung from her breast.

the shapes of the farmyards blur into

green and pink mesh when she tries to remember

because she looks down at her shoes when she walks.

 

And beneath the dark steps to her shotgun house,

mirror to mirror,a box encrusted of fairy breaths

breathes in her perfume-from-a-jar, and only

the ghost who broke it knows that he did it.

 

her capacity for silence

and ghost ships

was hauntingly breathless

thrilling

no, no, says the poet

don’t leave me Susanna.

 

Stay until my typewriter resets

and the sun repeats it’s hanging

and the moon repeats her execution

while waking

we will dismiss the countryside

half of the time forgetting that it is there.

Copyright 2013 Golden Star Poetry