The artist is absent, i guess i killed her off. Built her, just to break her- like a ceramic cup in the decor. A sway and the pieces fall, broken down in chunks of her pain. In the story of everything, the art suffers- tight ship, bad weather- nothing helps. There's no shore to go to. You stay with the wind, flock with the waves like a clueless bird, hoping someday you'll reach a comfort of a place you get to call home. I didn't feed her soul- with words full of love, hate, sad, happy- all she can feel is a hole, in her life where the content used to be. Where the quill-and-ink rested along with a page, ready to be scribbled, ready to be filled with her mind's rage. The ink bleeds once or not at all. It's tiring, having to walk in the spring season, fresh air, new hopes different dreams and yet feeling like the fall.
Every step she takes, every mistake she makes, all the roadblocks that make her feel nothing at all. Carnations over her gazettes, no scriptures, no memories to recall. It has faded into nothing yet she bleeds it somehow. The writer is absent, I think I've killed her off. Clueless in her own world somehow.
This poem is honed alone,
Lined and timed for the Lozer Zone...
Prone to be prose if it grows like Pinocchio’s nose,
Yet, as far as that goes...
Who knows?
I felt like just another and I knew it,
Hated myself but was forced to go through it.
I knew illness and self-disgust were the forces making me do it,
Leaving me with negative feelings and emotions to prove it.
Constantly wondering why I was making myself do it,
Yet here I was, allowing my person to resuscitate but I blew it.
I TAKE A BREATH
I’d be quickly reassured by my thoughts it’s because I’m a monster,
Edibl-y consumed, I’m an imposter.
Forcing my beat and bruised body to no longer halter,
I will continue to give in to life’s disgusting consumptions faulter.
You've cut down your visits
They are so rare and brief
Either you are too busy
Or it is my belief
Makes a fool out of me
Of the most common kind
A fool that waits for thee
Who cannot find the time
So let me guess what’s wrong
You didn’t come because
I didn’t call you for so long
Just couldn’t find the words.
A word one doesn’t here much these days is ‘pummeled’
as in boxer A pummeled boxer B into submission
Or World Leader A pummeled World Leader B into admission
that he, B, was once a full-time clown and musician
at birth, my grandson Jack’s eyes were amber like a wolves
his hair had a tinge of ginger that gave him a look of mischief
I had never seen such eyes, but the hair was familiar
My mother was a McCormick; the Irish have lots of redheads
People commented on the hair but not the eyes
Did they not notice those wolf-like orbs? I could not believe it
I guess redheads are rare, that is the impression I had.
I now dye my hair a red shade called burgundy; I adore it.
I wish it would grow out the right color, but alas,
It is growing out white, so I look like a skunk when it is time to dye
My grandson’s eyes have changed to a darker brown,
but he still has that lovely tinge that people marvel about.
it is June, the humidity is a mess
Kansas thinks it is August, I guess
reported to be a hundred degrees all week
by three o’clock, it is relief we all seek
summer is only two days in
everything is burnt, including our skin
It is June, the humidity is a mess
Kansas thinks it is August, I guess
I wonder how the trees feel when their leaves finally blow away,
Or when the baby birds nesting there grow old enough to give their mothers chase?
Sitting under her shade,
Do old trees feel pride when they’ve reached their resting age?
Patiently waiting paladins,
There’s thunder in my mind that contemplates,
Why is it that you can’t help but be selfless for all the rest of your days?
Maybe I could learn something from the trees as I hide from the Sun’s rays,
A slumber under your protection,
I wish I could thank you to your face.
I’m thankful for your creation,
I’m thankful you’ve never asked for your thanks.
I’m thankful for your patience,
I apologise for your brothers,
Memorialisised in the planks.
Tranquil,
I humbly offer libation.
I’m grateful for you,
Thanks.
cold water swimmers
have got a VERY apt name
they're called 'The BlueTits'
It's been a year now
And I'm still hooked up
With the one who'll never know
But let's cross this small ramp
Truth be told
I never liked you
Others might say I'm quite cold
But I was trying something new
I guess I'm sorry though
As you where there so I called you a distraction
Pull me out of the dark but I was still in the blue
A heart once broken beyond compare
While you where there to pick up and care
I guess I'm sorry though
Yes,I used you as my muse
But my heart never fell in your hands
I took you as my happiness, a new beginning , the one I could use
Thought it was better to flee from the land
I guess I'm sorry though
For going with the flow
Letting my imagination run wild
My mind be filled with lies even though I knew the truth
I couldn't help it though
As the thought of being in your hands made me feel mild
Hiding the sadness of my life I pretended to be blind
Not by love , but by what you offered
Something I cannot explain
I guess I'm sorry though
But I want you to know
Yes, I like you just not enough to love you
I don’t dream often, but I dream of Jeanie,
the only one who ever touched my Nadi.
I met her bathing in the Irrawaddy.
You’d classify her as an in-betweenie,
but looking pretty hot in that bikini!
She got me going when she called me ‘daddy’!
Jean self-identified as “thorough baddie,”
but never let me see her Kundalini.
I couldn’t leave her working in that paddy,
so whisked her off to Venice. Like Houdini,
she made the transformation: loved linguini:
but part-time jobs (a waiter, then a caddy)
meant I could not afford her. One bellini
cost forty bucks! Forget the Lamborghini!
Like the eye of a hurricane
the epicenter of the storm
Every day in some way
at risk for harm
A face like granite
commanding the planet
Squeezed into the middle
~ it’s hot on the griddle
Speak me your songs
and I'll reply with your bone's deepest chills,
your blood's chilling boiling point,
and your hearts shrilling aches
Oh, just be my guest, I pray
Come to my humble home, I say
I am eager to serve you, please
Everything from pottage to cheese.
A full-course dinner, no ifs or buts
The entire gamut – soup to nuts!
Cooking from nose-to-tail dishes
Granting all your gourmet wishes.
Dress for the occasion, head to toe
Come hungry, oh, you’ll love it so,
From crabs, caviar, champagne to cake ...
So, is it Tom, Terri, Jasmine or Jake?
Guess Who?
Charles Johnson
Unwritten poems thirst and ache for love.
In the still, a heart takes flight--Guess who?
For one, a sweet besotted flame-- Guess who?
One finds the mind adrift with dreams of love.
x
With every glance, a secret spark of love.
For one, each stolen glance a fire--Guess who?
A silent lust sullies a heart—Guess who?
Rejection does not count to one in love.
x
There are but nights with whispers of your name.
Soft whispers cruise on breezes light and shy.
For one, a fancied love, an eager flame,
For one, your doting eyes hold love's disguise.
Rebuff means naught —if bound by love’s stout chains.
For one, the love persists, like sighs at twilight.
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