Nonexistent Party

poor man’s wake
she’s forced to eat dirty crumbs off a
table where people have mourned
and she’ll suddenly remember what her first conversations with him were like,
and how he made a great impression,
showing off his words like toys,
smiles like remember-later momentos, the hidden interest like a skiddish moth
and how the progression of events was not
what she had hoped or thought.

the people have all already gone
their clothes strewn about like some strange
orgiastic afterthought;
only their memoried loss
nothing on the interior
the people are still dead to the grounds they are in only.

the house is empty
at this nonexistant party
your own kin
sings like him,
and looks a bit
like him.
it was long over
by the time
someone was dead.
it was long over when
you longed for somebody
that looked like him.

Copyright 2016 Golden Star Poetry 

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Literal/Figurative

figuratively
your dog could have been run over that day
by the heat wave that was threatening the gloom
and maybe she could be
contemplating last night’s supper
and his face stained in her memory
she was contemplating
putting it to an end,
all over and done with.
(figuratively)

literally
she’s choking,
as lightening thunders to be
the special middle child
he’s the one with the napoleon complex
you saw him with flame throwers
setting the acre of macintosh apples on fire
and you lost the house
but the boys still got their christmas presents
wrapped up in a nice tidy bow
(they gave them what they really wanted)
and they never seemed to grow up
they stood by the porch
begging for food with their wives at their side
lapping up milk like cats from the saucer
lazy but doubtful,
easfully resting in the garden
still giving grandmother
the share of what she wanted
even though she was dying
(literally)

Copyright 2015 Golden Star Poetry

Letter to the Lost Girl

go to the cemetary
by the privacy of which
you will find a trundle of papers
by the gravestone;
each of them
was an unsent letter
addressed to you.

You may find it strange
that I had no courage
to speak to you directly
after inking into the
endless paper void,
that i was afraid
somehow,
but
(I loved you).

please don’t forget
how i
walked
endlessly
with you
through the back
house acres
like we were
schoolchildren.

please don’t remember
the silent graveyard days
when i sat impenetrable
not speaking or sleeping.

please forgive the
sporadic bursts of
anger.

and even though
i was a terrible writer
i made you a story
even though
i was a terrible speaker
i told you i was waiting for you.

so go to the cemetary
and find the trundle of papers
by your gravestone;
each of them
was an unsent letter
addressed to you.

You may find it strange
that I had no courage
to speak to you in person
after inking into the
endless paper void,
that i was afraid
somehow,
but
I loved you,

and all i can see
are your smiling eyes
by my windowsille
when i try to look outside
to the world
that seems as dull
and senseless
as the rotting earth

Copyright 2014 Golden Star Poetry

ps. sorry if this reads more like prose than poetry!

Cigarettes

The train leaves at a quarter to four
The air still making itself visible
and my breath is white smoke
and
I am reminded of the time
smoke
escaped from your lungs
and I didn’t know
if it was you dying
or trying to tell me I was loved.

Copyright 2014 Golden Star Poetry

Innocent Birds

It was so

like hamlet

the way I spun and darted

and

had she not been

so mad I would not have

wielded the pointed

edge of a sword

to her neck

against the cries of the wind

and the chorus of innocent birds

who take up residence in the cool pools

of tears,

and:

one year later,

as my comrades lie sleeping

on the tables in the tavern,

soaking in their

sweat and wine

I thought suddenly

of her.

and the wooden doors burst open

running past the streets

which are covered in her locks

and hum the endless sound of her name

which no one

could distinguish

from mine

and whose crime

was kept horribly

still.

Copyright 2014 Golden Star Poetry

Prometheus

I am a cave among dwellings
surrounded by boulders.

Watch
as they sauntered down
jauntily
(I might fall)
falling like an dusty angels

I want to stutter and shake in defiance
but I am forced into silence.
The rocks drop on me, birds fly Jauntily
lifting me vainly
back to the ledge where I have fallen over thousands of times with the rocks.
Birds,
are you still trying to help?

Might I ask, birds, if the wind has ever lifted you up on bubbles
and you heard a swift voice through the air
or felt the angels ?
I’m just wondering
just wondering if maybe the rocks aren’t really falling.
Maybe I’m just being reborn,
again and again.

Copyright 2013 Golden Star Poetry

Stream of Consciousness #7

Stream of Consciousness #7

likely she stood out

her silhouette  was my shadow

I lied in a company of two instead of five

I lived for one light fine and the voracious  beauty  which lied in my kin

i liked the manner in which she spoke

she was the woman of the Canadian wilderness

and second only to me,

I was the first in command

I held the rocks which by a sea she drove

and did not care what happened to me

long as I was free and held onto a part of myself that was undoubtedly me

and you kept it

you never let it go

you kept it in the palm of my hand

oh god who helps me

do you see me very foolish to want the same things for you  as I do for her?

x  x  x x  x  x  x  x x  x x x x  x x x x x

likely, she said, it was likely very likely. I will get back to you mister Morison  I love you mister Morrison give me that back mister Morrison mister Morrison call me Alexander misses,  alright call me Alexander .she says call me Aleka Alexander call me Aleka. I will call you says Alexander, I will call you by that name and that name only.

why does she muse about herself in another person’s shoes? she has nothing else to do, says her friend  it makes her cry, undoubtedly, it does. I love you mister Morrison do you want some coffee?

x x x  x x  x x  x  x  x  x  x  x  x

she listens to four classical stations

and her favorite tune

this one is his  theme song

it is derived from the word “Pig” in Latin

and it means the root of all evil lies within the soul of meat.

eat it now

or starve she says

why does his hair be perfectly combed

but he looks away and starts laughing

she laughs

she pulls the comb she pulls the trigger

she likes life, she likes it.

Copyright 2013 Golden Star Poetry

Stream of consciousness #6

I suppose you could say the village grave poem and this one are loosely related to Romeo and Juliet  since that’s what we’re studying in English class right now…

Stream of consciousness #6 

at the foot of my door sits a wench

whose legs are bent

and doesn’t speak a word to me

even when I whisper hello to her.

she minds her own business, I think, or at lest I think that’s what I think

you left me, like a wilted flower,

did I look like the woman there?

disheveled hair?

or was I a bundle of wilts

lying like a mung-root, crying my eyes out

simple, pleading, desperation?

x  x  x  x  x   x x  x x  x x x x  x  x  x x

where the devil’s head are you? I plead, I scream and struggle to hold onto a mung-root that beetroot still stuck in the soil. Howling, touching the innermost fibers of the ground. I see the sky unfold, I think, or I think that’s what I think, It lies there, like a lilting summer facade, you touched it, it melts almost instantly. and it hurts. “WHY YOU DID THAT?” lying in pain, I howl, yelling, looking at her face, which is also scarred from a charred facade late years ago. I whimper to her, but I see only kind eyes, and an understanding smile: she is my mother I realize, she is my mother.

 x x  x  x  x  x  x  x  x  x  x  x  x  x  x

light as a feather you are, light as a feather.

you lift up only one finger, and come crashing down.

you swore on the seedling

that it would lift you up

and temporarily

you were a smart girl-

you did not kiss boys in the street

and neel at their feet

like kristabella whose eyes have tempted everyone and anyone

you keep your distance girl

you stay safe

you be the girl the girl that people say

“wasn’t that  who got stuck in a tractor wheel last summer last

I remember her poor lass she was my best pal”

and they take you away to the cemetery-

they all say it was death!

it wasn’t death, you say,

lifting your finger,

it was suicide.

Copyright 2013 Golden Star Poetry

Sonnet # 6

I don’t know why, but some of my poems have been getting quite gory and gruesome, and I hate it. I am also an official hypocrite now, because I absolutely HATE edgy, jumbled, gory prose.  In fact, I often find myself picking up a New Yorker Magazine  and mocking the tasteless poems they showcase. I think I just want to fit in…oh well. Darn stupid poet-pressure!

Another gory poem coming your way…

Sonnet #6 

The loneliness is stooped upon the grass

A touch of tatter’d longing where was none

And now  the world spins long and light and fast

A thousand moons have shown though be but one.

I whisper to an empty  face that dies

That leaves without goodbye to last alone

Your heart does melt like wax before my eyes

I grasp it’s void of closeness that has grown,

And slip away unnoticed through the cracks

With you to lead my way that spans quite far

I loose myself in blood and blues and blacks

We both are torn from life that leaves it’s scar:

I wake, the morning quiet, still,and warm

And breathe relieving breathes when you ne’er form.

 

Copyright 2013 Golden Star Poetry