Poem | |
Sunrise against my neck
that no cheap tan booth could ever match.
I ring the doorbell in anticipation of joy’s injection.
I needed it.
Because I left my cell phone in the car,
as I didn’t want to hear any chimed email
or text annoyances.
And the car just got cleaned,
only for the birds to have their way
on its waxy shine.
Time to grab the flamethrower from my trunk!
But, before I could scream in Braveheart declaration,
there she was.
Her 6 yr old smile,
made of 1/4 inch gaps between innocence enamel,
captured me like no other could.
“Tio”, she preached in angelica sonata.
As she held me,
with puppy love warmth.
Even the rainbows fell to its knees.
She took off my jacket with ferret-like perkiness and
asked me to sit on the floor with her.
But, not before offering to toast me some Eggo waffles
with a big glass of Ovaltine…
…in her Little Mermaid glass,
proudly made in North Korea.
It even had the dictator’s initials and a bucktooth smiley face stamp, signed in glitter
Thank God I just took my online course in Child Safety.
I was ready!
As I sip on Little Mermaid’s curves,
shaped in plastic, swirly straw weirdness,
a sound blasts off from a Barbie radio.
My 2 yr old angel galloped into this heart of mine,
with Tinnitus piercing scream & laughter,
tackling me in Incredible Hulk lunge.
“Hi Tio”, she whispered, before she hopped back upstairs,
laughing maniacally with rapid head tilts, left to right to left.
Boys will fear her.
And I couldn’t be more proud.
After two moments of silence,
my 6 yr old angel places her Dr. Seuss book on my lap,
as she sits in front of me.
“I can r-r-read
with my eye-s
She carefully completed the sentence,
as my eyes instantly fill with leaky pride
and an ingrained smile.
10 minutes later, she shut her book and asked me how she did.
“I am so proud of you my angel.”
“You have come so far.”
I had to hold back tears because I didn’t want to throw her off.
Yet I think she knew,
because she kept her head down and smiled with gentle starburst.
And it was then where I heard her say,
“Those who matter don’t mind,
those who mind don’t matter.”
But she was quiet, looking at me with tilted head & smile.
For it was my inner child,
© Drake J. Eszes
Poem | |
It has been 9 months since your sudden disappearance.
That Hallowed night when your 5’11” nerd aura
Handed me my early birthday gift
A cold shoulder wrapped in a velvet bow
Made in Sri Lanka, sold exclusively at the Dollar Store
That was your appraised value.
But, today, revival’s whisper enters my gently waxed earlobes.
Candy coated revelations
For my allergic blood
“I said yes!”, as she flashed Cracker Jack ring
Filled with Monopoly dollar signs and “Go directly to Jail” Chance cards
I almost applauded, my hands sarcastically never connected
While my eyeballs rolled in epileptic banter
We scream in misguided nerd joy
As if we witnessed Monty Python & Darth Vader having a make-out session
Sudden urges to watch movies about Traveling Pants & Sisterhood
And PSing my I Love You
While we eat Dark Chocolate Klondike bars and Chipwich Ice Cream Cookies
My ovaries were bursting with INSANITY’S JOY!
But, WAIT, I quickly realized I didn’t have such parts!
It was then, reality crashed
As if Spider Man ran out of web during mid-air leap
My essence now halts at crossroads’ throat.
To my left, “celebration”
To my right, “other”
I chose to be a human this night.
Current time- 9:15pm
Current location- Reception Hall
A 5 course meal,
Including dinosaur shaped chicken nuggets
Smiley face French fries
And 3 glasses of Tang
Surrounded my space on the dinner table
Heavenly echoes of forks & glass,
Ringing in ignorant unison,
Give birth to Tinnitus in my drums
In their 9 months of togetherness,
They kiss with forcible ease,
Frogs refusing to show their true form
It is then, ignoring listless stares from guests,
I stood up holding my half-empty Tang glass
Which MIGHT have contained a smidge of Grey Goose
At the TOP of my LUNGS,
“Friend, I should be so proud of you. I would. I could.
You never responded to my open-hearted palm.
You left my vulnerabilities dangling at half-mast, as if I lost our final game of Hang Man.
But, TONIGHT, it is I & this delicious Dinosaur nugget that will HAVE a final say!
You are impeccably flawed, like I. But, I still wanted you to be a part of my tomorrows.
Yet, you turned me into a muted yesterday.
So, I will wish congratulations on your new slav…um, husband,
Pouring this glass of yummy Tang onto this stapled dance floor in a straight line
Each drop will be a symbol of how many tears he will shed, before that line is crossed.”
As silence slapped each other in its face
Across candle flame blanketed, marble dance hall,
With children pointing & laughing hysterically,
“Security” enters the room
As I hold hands with Cuban female rent-a-cop, her head warming my shoulder,
“Thank you for these 9 months. For now, I have given birth to a new me.
The Best Man that you will never hold again.”
©Drake J. Eszes
Poem | |
I am the wind
You cannot see me but you can feel me
breezing gently through your hair
brushing lightly across your cheek
whistling softly 'neath your ear
I am the wind ,whirling,howling,roaring
blowing fiercely 'gainst the desert sand
which sifts in the hourglass of your soul
I will not fail you,nor leave your side
till you smell fresh rain again
and soak under cascading waterfalls
I am the wind,extinguishing wild fire
which burns and scars the lifeline of your palm
I am the sweetened fragrance of each meadow
where you lay, beneath a half sun
I am the wind breathing my warmth
where your numb fingertips
gather forget-me-not petals
that fall ever so slow
with every whisper of my flutish tapping sound
I am the wind,I will carry you to places, far
I'd tickle your lips with fluttering feathers
of silent doves soaring above your past
I'd strip your thought bare till I touch your heart
I am the wind wafting by your pillowcase
I play within your dreams
with each seductive move
Capturing each hour of a star
I linger in the deepest of the dark
Your night becomes my night
and our moons would never part
I am the wind.
Poem | |
If I had a pretentious brain
which acts faster than my heart
Maybe then,I would abhore this soul
which spreads freely through each verse
Maybe then I would impress you
with my intellectual grammar
and sophisticated words
I would scrutunize
each and every coma
dot and exclamationmark
believing I know best
But I would never let that happen
I'd rather stay at bay
Writing firstly with my mind
and not my heart
leads only to an asylium
within the being of myself
Poetry is my voice,my shadow
The sacred shrine of great escape
Each stored emotion processed
within a yesterday
Poetry is the inner of my existence
breathing softly,bleeding deeply
exploding in death,love
passion and romance
In every verse a whisper
a thought that I would scribe of
a silent cry expressed
Maybe in a tomorrow
you might pass by me
Tread your footstep on my ink
and spit saliva in my face
But maybe in a today
a broken -hearted fool stops by
to find comfort in my world
Maybe a prisoner,a tramp
an insane soul or outcast
would pick these scattered scribbles
and gather them as whole
Maybe through each criss-crossed puzzle
finds a narrow passage
which leads his faith to home
Maybe a little child
whose blissful giggles
depends on little words
would turn the dusty pages
of silly rhymes I penned
Rhymes which know the moons
stars,faries,and the magic land
Rhymes which know each fantasy
and how to be a friend
And maybe He would smile
Maybe He would laugh
Maybe He would dream
Maybe He would grow up to write
the most eloquent sonnet
there has ever been
Or maybe He would grow up
to write simple words
just like me
about daises or dandelions
and expressions to be free
Poem | |
It was a rainy day so I flipped through a stack of comics
My Amazing Poet series
Finally I picked the fabulous Five
I liked the picture on the front
Yanny the Zen Master with long black hair
Becca the Creative and Beautiful with her mythical pen
One of my favorites sultry Eileen known as the Emotionator
Anne the Philosopher was right there beside Eileen with her magical smile
Then to round out this team was Vicky Victorious calling from the wilderness
In this edition they were battling the Poet Destroyer and Joker Jack
who had kidnapped Newbie Timothy Hicks
As I read their words I was in awe of my Heros
They made me cry
They brought me to new worlds
Filled with adventures
Sexy had new meaning
Tears became diamonds
Winds swirled inside my head
All the emotions of the rainbow
I longed to write with such clarity and strength
I tried to flex my poetic Muscles
Worked out every day
Then on the back of the comic
A scrawny poet sat on a beach
Beside the girl of his dreams
He is writing for her when along comes a muscular poet
The big poet kicks metaphorical sand in his face
The the scrawny poets girl is whisked away
Underneath it says
Are you tired of having Metaphorical sand kicked in your face?
Are other Poets getting the girl?
All that can change
Join the Andrea Dietrich School of Creative Poetry
She will have you writing like The Fabulous Five
You will never be afraid to flex those poetic muscles again
So I cut out the back page and sent my five dollars
The address is PO Box 88888 Inspiration California
Now all I can do is wait
What will the future Hold?
Note there are many Poets here who would appear in my vast Amazing poet series.
Poet Destroyer and Joker Jack are not Evil nemeses they were chosen for the roll
because of their names( also I love their work.) I hope you enjoyed my little tale.
Some of the younger poets may not be familiar with the Charles Atlas ads that used
to be on the back of comics, the rest of you I am sure will get the joke.
Poem | |
I came to visit the old baseball field in the dying town where I grew up. It was less than a whisper of what it once was. My first steps on the dirt sent my chest to thumping, and the still wind held the scent of chalk and nachoes. I could see the shadows of my youth running the bases, and I wondered if those steps had ever taken me anywhere. I made my way to the scraps of homeplate and dug my feet into the same ruts I'd stood in over twenty years ago. The decayed plate was like bones of forgotten friends, and I gave it a tap with a bat I would never hold again. My vision narrowed to see a pitch that would never come. I swung. Somewhere in the distance of my memory, I heard a crack. I looked to the dugout at the ghosts of my teammates and grinned. I looked behind to the empty bleachers and gave a nod to my grandfather. The pride in his ancient eyes was as bright then as it ever had been. In the silence, the crowds roar was like magic. Then, for what I knew to be the last time, I ran. I ran with all the thunder of a thousand feet, kicking up the dust of a thousand games. I ran with all the joy and speed of summers past. I ran with heartache and wishes, and echoes ... of a hollow sound.
Caleb A. Smith
Poem | |
Travelling to a foreign land,
engaging in a cause not rightfully yours to join,
illegally taking up arms
with a desperate desire to save baby orphans
(only to dig them into the ground anyway);
is a life-altering experience.
There is an old line which goes something like:
"A part of my soul died on that cold, November morn."
But, such an experience can have the opposite effect entirely.
Yes! An experience such as this
can re-kindle a passion within,
so that every single particle,
every minute of each passing hour,
feels like a sacred gift -
the most sacred gift imaginable.
Yet upon returning home from such an experience,
after being grilled by Internal Affairs,
threatened with charges of International Treason,
Subterfuge and Espionage(but in the end,
you were only trying to save baby orphans
that you had to dig into the ground anyway,
so Internal Affairs drops the charges, telling you to scram),
you are inevitably slapped across the face
with an inescapable new reality....
....everyone appears to be whining and complaining
about the most trivial things,
as if everyone simultaneously feels wronged.
And this is wot you feel compelled to do:
you want to take these whiners,
transport them one-by-one
back to the foreign land with you.
After they see living skeletons
drag themselves across the dirt,
moaning, groaning, pleading for a drop of clean water,
a miniscule morsel of food,
you hand the whiner a gun,
point toward an ominous dust-cloud on the horizon,
and this is wot you say:
"See the dust-cloud moving closer towards us.
It is filled with psychopathic horsemen.
These psychopathic butchers are wielding bayonets, machetes and Kalashnikovs.
If you and I do not successfully kill these mad horsemen,
they are going to chop apart all of the baby orphans
congregated in the courtyard over there.
Do you see the beautiful baby orphans in the courtyard?
Yes, those are the orphans.
And if we do not successfully defend this camp,
yet somehow survive with our lives,
we are going to spend the rest of the night
digging the baby orphans into the ground.
So, it best be high time you wipe the tears from your face,
stop worrying about how so-and-so called you a loser or wotever,
how your retirement funds appear to be shrinking
and so you won't be able to play as many games
of hitting the little white ball across a course
fed with enough water to run an entire city.
Forget about your little boo-boo.
Pull-up your chin, straighten that spine,
and start squeezing the trigger like there's no tomorrow."
September 25th, 2011
Poem | |
Under 65 degree starry, onyx blanket
Containment of quarter moon identity
A whimsically soothing song exuded
In muffled taps & Prohibition era lyric
In the distance,
Snow-capped mountains reflecting lunar clarity
Off its tips of freedom
As we lay on recycled steel hood,
Made in 1950s USA, when it mattered,
Her silhouetted fingertips released from my right arm
While insistently looking towards stratosphere’s vocal chord
“Can’t it be like this forever?
Oh, how I want to just make love to the stars.
Become one with Orion while riding
On Sagittarius’s arrow”
“What about our stars?”, he softly questioned.
“I’d like to be your never-ending shooting star.
To ride on blue moon’s comet, by your side”
Cricket whispers manhandled his romantic clef
Mother Nature’s afterglow, upon her ears, fallen deaf
Inherent waxy build-up from illicit tongue,
She pat his shoulders like a dog
Being taught his first lesson
Her eyes, still sky high.
“Sigh, I like how you think.
You’re such a nice friend.
You’re going to make a woman so happy one day.
I hope to meet a guy just like you.”
As her eyes sighed with a powerful lack of substance
Into the arms of Leo,
A slammed car door supplants the reverberation of the car’s V8 engine.
He confidently turns back the hands of time.
Reversal gears become his new tune
“If you get lost going home, follow the stars.”
As he pulls away with majestic, amplified lyrics
Of Whitesnake’s “Here I go Again”
Going down the only road he’s ever known
While she stands in fraudulent gasps of shock,
Looking back up to the stars in blank wonder
As he accelerates into a new page in his book
Closing his chapter with wondrous questions
“Why would I taste your starlight?
When you never believed in our constellation?”
©Drake J. Eszes
It’s good to gaze at the stars and make wishes. But, be careful what you wish for. For Earth has its own gifts…
Poem | |
I come to the garden along, while the dew is still fresh
on the meadows. Early in the morning do the bird's sing
praises of roses and peddles. I cry, because there is no
refuge finally from the pain.
Yet long ago, a child was born, to become king, and yes
there is hope, just for believing in his name. Where is this King!
when I'm hurting and alone? He's just a prayer away, don't give
up, for he's Alpha and Omega, which means, just be strong!.
So they sent me to a place, to turn my life around. I cry, be-
cause, I am somebody no longer am I bound.
Now I know that Jesus is my refuge and no more drugs is
there for I. Thank you Lord, for the method, that's "Why Must
Poem | |
I have little tolerance for tolerant people.
Those that will endure the corruption of
the truth, the erosion of meaning. While at
the same time being intolerant of your
opinions, thoughts, and level of tolerance.
There is a quote attributed to Voltaire:
“I disapprove of what you say, but I will
defend to the death your right to say it.”
How many of the “tolerant” would be willing
to fight for our right to “disapprove of what
they say”? Hush the crowd so that we might
be heard? Unblock their ears and hearts and listen?
Does the present day “tolerance”
lack tolerance, lack understanding,
lack the ability to endure a voice that
is not in tune, does not sing the same
song, does not pray the same prayer?
Or do they tolerate, put up with, the “fool”,
while denying acceptance of his opinions,
his beliefs. Perhaps the fool is more tolerant than they.
Listening to what they say, watching how they
carry themselves, interact with those “different”
For they think him a “fool”, because they do
not know that he thinks, what he thinks,
and most sadly, they do not care to know.
They will tolerate his presence but not allow
him to be present, listen to his voice yet hear
nothing, speak of equality while lauding their
position, education, power over him.
For they are tolerant only of themselves,
of their ideas, their thoughts, their peers,
their alleged - equals.
They disapprove of us, and what we say,
and will defend their right to keep it so.
John G. Lawless – 6/9/2014