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Sam Gillespie Poem
A Fool now stands before me.
He also stands a side a cliff that sprouts dripping orchids and noisy dogs.
My voice has been cut out, like paper Marché dolls, my vocals are laid out in a strand
of folded stars, and they no longer work. The cliff is the only one speaking, in a soft
whisper; it gently urges the fool to jump. The Fool and I can see pieces of what the
jump would undertow. We see no trails or signs, just jagged rocks and a vicious
sea. The Fool moves one foot closer to the cliff, one foot away from me. My breath
feels sharp now, jagged rocks have possibly taking room in my lungs as well. And I
wondered what my lungs would feel like if this Fool would jump. His eyes are
focused on mine, and they flicker. Candles are lit in them and the wind of that
vicious ocean below is stirring the flame wild. This Fool is much smarter then I
thought, his eyes explain it all. This Fool wants me to go in after him. He knows that
with each step he takes, I’ll take one too. What if I followed the footsteps over the
cliff, let them fall downwards towards a man eating sea? What would my
consequences entitle? Death? Broken spine and ligaments? As of now my voice is
mute and apparently my free will is in mobile. So I stand before a fool that is my
ruler, and I can only contemplate jumping or staying a shore. What have my
ancestors done in the past, when they were up against decisions much like mine?
Do I know any predicaments where they have jumped like an eye- gutted sheep
over edge to lead a life of inactive living or no life at all? I think back to my great
uncles and great, great grandmothers…and no…I can’t say they ever jumped. I can
say when they have reached this point…they’ve fought. They’ve held their breath
until their blood boils and allowed it to over flow, waking up the spirits of war.
They’d slaughter the sheep before ever becoming it. And walked away for the fool
to be its own man and take his steps in solitude. Yet, I can not hold my breath in
front of the fool, and my blood still cooks at 98 degrees. The war Gods are still
perched upon their clouds looking down at me like they do to the rest of the frozen
few. And if this were to be a dream, would I wake up to a feeling any better. I
would hope. My father would tell me to pray, my mother would tell me to let go, and
I would stand still and pretend to know what to do.
Copyright © Sam Gillespie | Year Posted 2011
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Sam Gillespie Poem
Heartache is my Dirty Laundry:
Heartache is a wrinkled, white tee-shirt used to mop up the leaked water from my
shower. It lies on the floor obedient and rejected. It is ignored for two weeks and
resented every time I step pass it to take another shower.
Yet, I miss you.
Yet, I wish things didn’t turn into a sobbing, molding tee-shirts.
I am fine though. I paint pictures of flying, green hearts. And buy cappuccinos before
browsing the blues section in the music stores.
Just yesterday I went to the used book shop on Pacific. I went downstairs to the
poetry section and grabbed the first C.B. book I could find. I sat on a step stool,
read his poem in a secret whisper and almost started to cry. Like a misused, rotting
tee-shirt would if it head a face with eyes.
Recall: recall the time I took you to that same bookshop. To that same pathetic
poetry section and read you my favorite poem. We were good people then and
carried so much hope that I bet we glowed in the dark like newly born stars.
Now I am a hungry lion and you are a second-hand clown. I am left with the bed
and the couch. You took my best one- liners and three smacks to the face. Most
people will tell us it’s because we were young. But we both know better than that.
It’s because we are both addicted to the dream.
Copyright © Sam Gillespie | Year Posted 2011
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Sam Gillespie Poem
Waiting with the Cats:
The alley cats are playing their tune tonight;
I can hear them outside of my front door.
They sing into the biting air,
And the wind carries their voices like foreign objects in mid flight.
They fascinate me.
And not because they are feline,
But rather because they sing to my soul.
They resurrect the dying art that feeds me.
Like Muddy Waters, and his sliding guitar,
They both make beauty out of licking their wounds.
I fear that by letting myself fall into their trance,
I may never come back alive.
I will be a zombie wandering into the dead of the night.
I will cover my heartbeat with a worn pair of shoes,
And wait for him,
Wait for him,
As if that’s all there’s to do.
Copyright © Sam Gillespie | Year Posted 2011
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Details |
Sam Gillespie Poem
Midnight Walks:
At midnight I wander into a different world. And the ancestors that I’ve followed
speak to me in my dreams. Their voices are unified in an uncut language that’s hard
to identify. But the message is clear. I am told, time and again, to keep searching.
They sooth the uncertainty in me. They calm the fear that creeps and haunts in the
dead of the night. And when the tears start in, and my breath chops at my lungs like
an African machete, they are there armed and ready with 12 foot shields and
poisoned darts. I can retreat to safe grounds, sanctuaries where Mozart plays and
memories of rose gardens flood the entities of my mind. And I can reside with out
granting a “thank you” or a “Can I..”. It’s just me and my purpose that holds the
entire space.
Copyright © Sam Gillespie | Year Posted 2011
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