It is 1:38am. I had slept a bit during the day, but is that why my eyes are wide open again? I need to sleep.
I wrote these poems as a way to escape the boredom that comes from
staring at my thoughts in the darkness. Enjoy.
The man of deep pockets,
Of ten wives and fifteen children.
There he goes with his gold and his bulge
And his garlic stinking breath,
Staining the world with his waddle,
With his grating voice,
With his empty noise.
There is our father indeed.
On the feet of chalked toes.
He gives his tales like cherished gifts
To strangers after a bottle or two.
He dances with the little girls,
In pinafores who hang on street corners
Hoping to find love in the dark chilly night.
And his words are tainted with spittle,
Ashes and dust;
He is my father but he is lost.
He is my father but he is dust,
Blowing naked in the wind.
The stolen lips
That shutter thoughts
Between grinning teeth.
The painting of truth with blood,
Of fear with the desperate color of hate,
Of God with the fallacy of knowledge,
Of death with silence.
Living beneath the bridge,
Bathing in the sea
And praying for the sun to come, to heal.
Waiting and waiting for something to happen,
Then try to be happy
When it does happen to someone else.
The orchestra had the last line
Within the guitar string,
A pluck and it whined again and
The crowd screamed for more.
The orchestra dropped the silence
Of a concluded concerto
And the hall caught it
In awed whispers muttering
From seat to seat, then
The guitar grinned and a solo
Slid into the limelight;
Riffs after riffs of immense gifts
Spilled between the soft tinkling melody
Of a triangle pausing and starting
Each frayed riff at the end of string.
Two reefers burned to keep the lights on
As bars after bars fell between
Each plucked note, each story, each key
Each music.
Let us breathe the salty sea,
Let us wriggle our toes
With the warm gritty sand.
Give us a minute
To catch our breath,
To catch a smile, a laugh
Between a tale of life.
With old pain and tears
Have dug runnels
Into the soil of our hearts,
breeding coarse bodies
That hold no love within
Just the scent of death.
To fall in love,
To dream and see the future
Brightly etched on the skin of time.
Let us feel the dew on our eyelids
And pick seaweeds from between
Seashells, old rudders and dead things.
I hope you find something here to assist you on your journey through life.
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These are so real, so alive, I don't know how to describe it, other than: thank you, from the bottom of my heart - I am so grateful that I read this - I have read many poems in my life but these are full of juice, so alive - all of them are. My favorite is My Father for sure, not only does it taste of life's breath - it educates me - and that - is priceless! Absolutely thumbs up, thank you for sharing! This inspires me to work even harder on my poetry.
I am glad my words touched you. I hope you find your voice and truth within your poetry. When your poetry comes to life for you, then you have created something.
Thanks for stopping by. Do come again.
I am very fond of the fruits of your sleepless night :)
The Father might be my favorite, such an uncompromising portrait and also full of love. And that last one, Give us a minute, it is like watching a sun withering. Truly graceful and morbid at the same time.
Thank you @chaosreignstv. I don't sleep much, so I write. It helps to ease my mind and then sleep comes.
Thank you for stopping by. Please do come again.
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You gave us such gifts. I hope sleep returned the favor for us all.
I hope so too. Thanks for stopping by.
My favorite is the father
It is mine too. Thank you @nationall
Amazing work, I love the way you paint a picture with your words very evocative. Resteemed following and upvoted.
Thank you. I love those words;
For me that is a vital part of writing. I try to paint pictures with words, so one can immerse oneself in a piece of my writing and truly see what I say.
This post has been voted on from MSP3K courtesy of @isaria from the Minnow Support Project ( @minnowsupport ).
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