Scene in a City With You in It

Childhood Expectation Versus the Real Life;

when you were still young,
you’d see a pastel forest in her,
that weak-in-the-knees beauty
or share a little smile,
a little tangible gift.

when you entered the scene
though a bit distraught,
you were caught
in a dead dream of never-tomorrow
and the smooth dark wool blanket dreams
you’d prepared for so long only to have them

smothered out by some smaller
little pet part of your heart,
bubbling slowly along with her-
you thought you could wait it out
you thought you could wait it out

you were living under a fear-cloud
singed by romantic off-yellow lights and the city around you dark
you were huddled in an
oversized dark wool coat, yours or someone else’s
because you had never tried,
even though you had.

winter-bitten, you saw the man
who should have been waiting up for you
who lacked the good mystique
who lacked everything,
who tasted of bitter mellon and
two vermilion cheeks,
and you knew it, just as you did when you
held her hand
those many years before,
that love was a long way’d around,
love was a long, long, long way’d round
and long still yet:

too late to show up, too late to care
you say, as you cradle your own arms
drink in your own breath,
sigh in your own poetry
sing your own nighttime lullaby.

(the chilly air seems cozy,
you say
it’s time at last, to rest,)
and you are a small dot on the park bench
in the snowy city, alone.

Copyright 2015 Golden Star Poetry

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The Empty Ears of a Stranger

The first musing

Finally, a door opens on a busy city street,
and the faint sound of a billowing streetcar on the run
leaves my hands
a sweaty mess
and a picture of you
steps into my quivering mind.

It appears as no man might see it
lips there,
eyes a set frame
from there to the strand of hair that lies
so precariously on your cheek
mirroring the things you say
offhand
out of the blue
and as bold as the day is new.

In a dream

(She is the camera’s dark-eyed ghost,
faded and half-captured before the lens could flash.
I see all of her
and yet
I can’t
describe her.

She’s a winning horse eh?
I’d bet on her yet, had I even an ounce of courage
which
so far
has been the only thing
I seem to lack.
yes, she is the camera’s dark-eyed ghost
she is the camera’s dark-eyed ghost
she is the camera’s dark-eyed ghost…),

the second musing

Then there is also that strange fascination I have with
WORDS
WORDS
WHICH WE SEEM TO HAVE
A LOT OF.
Tell me, dear,
why you seem to lack the ability
to keep your promises to the other side?
I can certainly stand the game
but not if you weren’t even allowed to play.
If something held you back that
didn’t even have to do with me, I mean
What of it then? Would it be any fun?
Would I even
laugh like it was some sort of taunting joke,
a rhetorical question which you so obviously know the answer to?
no, no….
I’ll answer, in my own good time,
but-
the answer’s not the point, is it?
The answer, perhaps,
is
to lie in your arms
while somewhere in the distance
my insides let out a scream so well muffled
that it’s vibration would only cause a slight tremor
in the ripples of the air.
Now you bat at it,
and the sound of me wafts through the open window.
take a look at it, you say
that is the true
you.
but In reality
the only sound we can emit
is stone cold
silent
electricity.

the third musing

Perhaps I can deceive myself into believing
that when the music sings of you
you were simply
whispering a song
into the empty ears of a stranger
or to me
as I lie thinking
in the late, late abandoned hours of the night.

Copyright 2014 Golden Star Poetry

Unspoken

June, 17, and Walter, 18. are outside the school campus after the last day of high school. It’s a sunny day, but It’s going to become overcast soon. June is always trying to avoid sticky situations and tends to steer to the sidelines. She’s been through so much in life that she doesn’t like to put herself into bad situations. Walter is a bit of a loner but has an outgoing, philosophical mind that is always moving and imagining. Walter And june have been friends for nearly five years.

 

June: Hey walter.

Walter: (to himself) You saw me at the corner of the street yesterday, I saw you. I was there and you looked at me.

June: What the hell are you talking about?

Walter: (under his breath, still talking to himself) It just seemed so odd, I mean you always go on about Jeremy so it seemed like…it could happen to me, but it did. I saw you there. It was one of those looks….you never forget.

June: Hey, Walt. Walt. Walter!

Walter snaps out of his daze

Walter: oh hey.

June: Walter?

Walter : yeah?

June: What was that?

Walter: huh?

June: What was that just now? What did you mean?

Walter: Oh my god June, it’s you.

June: I know it is.

Walter: Don’t you remember yesterday? when I nearly bumped into you at the bus stop? you were there, you were so…vacant. But then I saw you and you were just filled…

June: I was alone.

Walter: Uh -huh

they come closer in to each other.

June: I was tired, you know? the day goes on, you need to rest, I don’t know-

Walter: But the way you looked at me then. You were telling me something.

June: Was I?

Walter: Yeah, you were.

June: (now realizing, starting to tear up) I guess you’re right.

Walter: And if I think I’m right, you were going to say…..

June: (sarcastically, through tears) ‘Does this bus stop at Bakersfield?’ (pause) .
Have a nice day Walter. (June exits)

Walter: Don’t forget me, June.

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