Last Chance

as a big sun wanders out of a sky
i wonder,
if the the people we imagine
mightn’t fly,
flit past our shoulders and say
“well, you’ve done it again, love
one more night like this and we
call it quits”
yeah, the ground is more inviting
when it echoes as it hits.

i’m not sure where it’s gone,
that touchstone i built,
(built like a fortress and i
die like a fortress)
built in the sand
my own thoughts in every gram.

(burn,
as the flames licked a
navy blue.
i was stuck with your
fingertip eyes
as we made love to 
a mind
and a deep dark hue)

all things considered,
i shouldn’t even be able to
speak a cogent sentence anymore,
only stare at the wall and
grin,
thinking
are you sure they’re on their way?
cuz mommy promised,
and daddy promised–
aw look! the man on tee vee looks just like daddy!
pray for daddy!
take away the telly,
make him happy!

the touchstones are all fuzzy now—
—dangerously close to distortion
and when they’re—touched
the hand goes straight through them
—like a knife
much for reality, i say,
old lover!
—-so much for your
razor straightened teeth and your
strange byronic nights!

Copyright 2016 Golden Star Poetry 

Advertisement

On Epiphanies

16
Bright as a daisy, ready;
Somerset Maugham would have
liked this day,
he picks up thorns from your ashes
and says you could have been happy,
once.

17
tailor made, new shave;
you return to the daily grind
you begin stripping maple trees for
syrup,
rubber trees for sap

18
they won’t let me see, and I’m still drowning
I’m still in the bathtub and I’m blaming my stubbornness
I’m held in a circle that is your arms and I said it was nothing
and feeling, like acorn to seed, small and give feed
you said hush and gave me your shoulder and I said that’s all I really ever asked for

Copyright 2015 Golden Star Poetry

Jasmine

The first breath in the morning,

and oh,

how that smile

which so seemed

jasmine

to a broken eye.

Myself, and the water above my head

singing of the only song

that was,

a face.

a rainfall monsoon spread to india today.

A girl was seen rushing up the street

soaking her dress,

and i thought

of myself

when,

dragged beneath the sea comb of the beach

my hair dragged and rippled up in knots

you were my first love

and now her eyes stare into mine

that girl,

tossed inside the waves of rain

whispered

“he is gone,

and a jasmine blossom

now drowns in the river”.

Copyright 2014 Golden Star Poetry

Acrostic Number 2: Pitch Tar Room

Prologue
it was
number five now
to cry in the pitch tar
room, the words
to a melody
fragment
mirroring me,
and my throttling thoughts
assuring me
some
sanity.

1.

Bespoke
Leather
And
Creamy
Konversation

x xx x x
2.

Suffering
Ardor
Lilts,
Trembles

X x x x
3.

Red
Ammunition,
Grinding
Emotion

Copyright 2014 Golden Star Poetry

I do not own these photographs

The Other Window

When that glass window is my friend

so too, hers

and both of us lost

both of us engaged

in that uncertain drama,

in something so vile it turned our stomachs and guts into

piles of squeamish liquid:

 

When that music in my ears is my lover

so too, hers

and both of us separately entranced

both of us “some other where”

in that lost lost place

we call

home.

 

Sometimes I will try to coax her out, while

the days pass by

all in place, the city glare

and the hanging humid air…

 

sometimes this small age of uncertainty

is the age of vulnerability,

as the gentle days go by

without a warm embrace

I  enter the world where

the one man makes the other man feel

ashamed for being himself,

while telling the world

he needs to be himself,

and pressing upon you

the urge to be like him

making you forget

you were just normal

to begin with.

 

now, eight days later in the rocking  bus

enshrouded in my own solitude

I think of  the girl I didn’t really love

and the boys I never really knew

but practically died trying to:

 

I look back through the window

and I am trying to be alone with  myself

without her prim-rosy face

which is turned the other way

to face the other window,

 

and as the day slowly fades

she is losing herself in herself–

but I couldn’t be her,

and I couldn’t blame her.

 

Copyright 2014 Golden Star Poetry

 

 

PS.

I do not own this picture–I should probably start saying that, since I did get a camera. Unless this is a photography post, or I specifically state it, I do not own the pictures I use in my posts. Okay, Bye!

Despondency- A Poem For My Friend’s Birthday

Despondancy

a landsacpe repeatedly seen
not to be drawn
but to be wondered on

the glass window was her quiet companion
and from her ledge she saw two lovers
who were shyly agreeing on nothing.
(her dress billows, she sees, yes, a nice girl having a nice time-
a fire and a cloudy day rounding out the appetite. I like fires when I can share a fire
when clouds make the milk for my tea and the red leaves spread out in warm blankets)
moments pass, it seems, now she eyes
the second orange sunset rise.

Nostalgia was the gut feeling.
She wanted to be herself at seven
carrying the oval sky in her pockets
in handfuls of cloud
leaning on her mother’s skirt
Looking out at the green plains
crying but not knowing she was crying.

a flock of Ewes go down the mountain
and now the nightwatchman carries his torch to the river, to drown himself.

she opens up a bright scarlet box
(come, hold the cold jeweled nest, and feel something inhibited)
“it needs care,” she says as she looks at it
“it needs to hold an emptiness”

Copyright 2013 Golden Star Poetry