Long Capes Poems
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my generation
is in need of a desperation
a new kind
these days it’s not easy to find
an utter loss of hope
something from which you cannot cope
from which you can’t escape
where can you turn, when all your “heroes” throw down their capes?
desperation
like a fish out of water
choking on air
we breathe it everyday, but how much do we truly care
does it even matter?
can we even sense the urgency?
desperation
come on now wake up it’s an emergency
an utter loss of hope
if you could feel it, could you cope?
alone
and on your own
this desperation is a ravishing hunger
one we recognize when we can’t take it any longer
come wake up, open your eyes, can you now see the situation is dire
desperation
the kind we need in this generation
my generation, is in need of desperation
but hold on now, aren’t we the invicibles
young and full of life
nothing can touch us right
so we take off, we’re in flight
Oh we’re good,so good
we’re so good at at concealing all of our insecurities their almost invisible
behind this facade, lay our secret pains and strife
we’re really paperthin chameleons
a different color for everytime we feel threatened
fragile , at any sign of emotion
can’t you sense the desperation
a lost cause
devoured by desperation
blinded, by questions
where do we go from here?
overwhelmed by out mistakes, we’ve abandoned learned lessons
but it’s so clear
we can’t see it
blinded by our dreams, hopes, and fears
desperation
look behind all the fog of misinterpretation
lets get over what he said or she said
please open your eyes
desperation
and behold the beauty
desperation
now that you can see it clearly
drop your arms and defenses
and get past all false pretenses
be vulnerable
for there’s one who won’t drop in you in his arms
so be desperatley, desperate, in despartation
he’s the one who’s already bought the youth of this nation
so all you others beware cuz we aren’t the lost cause generation
so when you’ve lost all hope
and you just can’t seem to cope
when you’re on your own
and you feel alone
just know this
the desparation you feel
it’s the real deal
cause Christ can use your desperation
and turn it into a new hope, for a new generation
these days it’s not easy to find
a certian kind
a desperation
for my generation
Form:
Ballet of Death
As trumpets prepare emotions
This sordid art knows well
My hooves stomp impatiently
Raising clouds of dust
Enshrouding my entrance
With shouts and whistles
A crowd's tense moments
Engulf this gladiator's arena
Demanding courage and blood
Far away
The grassy hills
Of his Ganaderias estate
Stands my sire
Now out to pasture
Erect and proud
Amidst sadness retirement brings
Once close to arena fame
Determined better as stud
He raises his head
The air has changed
He knows the scent of fear
The distance it can travel
He scrapes the ground
The matador awaits the pageantry
I shoulder my pen bars
Holding back muscled power
Energy primed for destruction
My challenger readies his cape
I squint at the sun through dusty air
A beast's freedom that might have been
Were not this
My first time
Most likely
My last time
Such brutal grandeur awaits
Stage one Banderilleros
Astride proud mounts
Parading to applause
Preparing to tempt my will
Their colorful presence
To test my vision
The picadors await stage two
Armed with lance
Saddled atop padded and blindfolded steeds
Ready to break my will
What will their first piercing feel like?
Will my neck be numb for the rest
Or will it but set afire my zeal to live?
Banderilleros anticipate stage three
Their barbed banderillas
Flag-like with colored local papers
Held ready to weaken my neck further
My loins tremble with hope
Knowing my destiny is to charge
Expend my energy
Then... trample my own blood
As the magnificent matador and I
Perform our finite ballet
This dance of death
My enclosure's bolt is about to be lifted
Soon
Very soon
The matador's flourishing cape
Its crimson and gold tricks of ecstasy
Will swirl about and around
The stoic-faced tempter
Suddenly grinning with anticipation
While soiling himself
The piercing will come
I'll not allow pain any glory
I will drool
Defecate
Urinate
My legs will buckle
The sword now in my neck
The nerves failing my brain
Blood loss weakening my heart
Suffering passing quickly
I'll at last experience
Man's insane pleasure
My fallen passion
Bathed in blood
Dragged away by rope and horse
So many hours
So many training capes
So many horses taunting me
So many chances to fail into freedom
Chances to be respected
Like my father
Faithful father
I will miss you
A Storm is whirling in town this week, as Dragon’s sidekick is on a streak.
Yes, the little Dragoness is here, and its havoc, she does endlessly wreak.
She took her cape with a small “d”, and made it definitely, into a large “B”.
Then she appliquéd butterflies all around, and painted her wings… yes…
With matching abound.
Now, when Super Dragon is called, Madame Butterfly arrives first, all recall.
She invited the Trolls to follow her around, making it a gang of true renown…
Yep! The butterfly gang has come to town with Dragoness wearing the crown.
Super Dragon was following a length behind, because she was faster, by dang!
And she’s fighting crime with a Capital BANG!
Some teenagers were bullying, little kids, of their lunch money, it’s true…
So Madame Butterfly gave them a reverse Mohawk, with her fire that flew!
Then sent them to set up their own rock band, which became the hit of the land!
Now making tons of money, while having a hoot, they send her, a weekly tribute.
So now the Trolls have butterfly capes, too.
Then Dragon was called to save a family caught in a fire, their plight was dire!
Dragon was inside to get them out, Dragoness instructed the Trolls, on how to…
Put the fire, quickly out! She was talking to the Paparazzi when Dragon came out,
Discussing, with them the plans, on how she was instructing the Trolls to build…
Them a bigger, and safer house, and was dutifully signing autographs for her fans.
Then that mugger, that came to our park, she chased him away, and he never again,
Chose here, to embark… Then she finished up, by putting the Trolls to work…
To build a new Butterfly House… as a perk!! Yep, Dragon was soundly forgotten.
As she kept beating him there first, and he was shoved into the background…
For him it was the very, VERY worst!
But her Mama Dragon only allowed her to stay for one single week…
Then the town was given back to Dragons’ Super Duper mystique…
Still the legend of “Madame Butterfly” will always remain, yes, it’s true…
And her stories will be told throughout time, until the end, of this town, it’s true.
Will she return? Or with Super Duper Dragon, will they have to make do?
For that answer… Stay tuned… is all I can say to you…
Written 5-5-2016
i want to write a poem for the women on brown street,
the ones who work at the diner i go to every sunday with my parents,
the ones who keep the dulled butter knives hidden up their sleeves and the cans of mace hidden in their aprons.
i want to write a poem for the women making minimum wage like they drew the short end of the stick,
like they’re trapped in a cycle filled with nothing but cracked plates and wandering hands.
the women on brown street know that the customer is always right, but i’ve found them
wondering when they’ll get their turn.
after all, how can the customer be wrong when you just moved the wrong way, darlin’.
how can the customer be wrong when they leave a hearty tip and a vulgar message on the receipt?
how can the customer be wrong when they’ve never been given a chance to be proven right?
the women at the diner on the corner of brown street and an avenue where nothing bad ever happens keep their purses clutched so close to them they become a second skin when they walk to their cars at night, to their bus stops, to their train stations.
these women mold themselves into their bags because that’s where safety lies, hidden in
the can of mace or the switchblade they felt too silly to order online but can’t help finding useful more times than should be normal -
more times than they can count.
i want to write a poem about the women at the rinky diner because they are the unsung heroes,
folding their capes down to fit around their waists,
snug enough that the regular at table eight can’t force his sticky fingers under there again,
tight enough that he feels the safety click and the thump thump thump of their hearts falling into their stomachs when someone gets too close,
when someone forgets that the hunted can flip the script in a split second.
i want to write this poem for debra and connie and margerie and erica, who greet every guest with a watery smile and a tightened grip around the coffee pot,
because lately, filling the coffee cup up to the brim never gets past half-full.
on the corner of brown street and an avenue where nothing like this ever happens,
they call it half-empty.
- on the corner of brown street and twenty broken avenues
...so to the red rose grows the passion in the Enchanted Gate and Garden there
Whenever you call me friend and I believe I've come to understand that I'm the
Kind of woman with for whom you don't blame for having a Wild heart but you
know that you can always Talk to me you can set your secrets free you have given
me your Leather and you have taken from me my Lace I am stronger than you
know it all comes down to you lighting strikes maybe once maybe twice and you
see your Gyspy but you have to Stop draggin' my heart around because baby you
could never look me in the eye and say you didn't love me you buckled with the
weight of the words and looking at Rhiannon who is like a cat in the dark and
then she is the darkness and knowing that even in Dreams when the rain
washes you clean Sometimes it's a witch and no matter what they say Love's a
hard game to play you may need to Stand back in the middle of my room my
Bella Donna riding high a top her pony cause not everyone has Crystal visions
nor will everyone with their capes pulled around them tight cry for the Nightbird
some will see their refection in the snow covered hills until the Landslide brings
them down and even the Gold dust woman with her heartless challenge will pick
her path and for her we pray although on the Edge of seventeen things may Rock
a little and sadly enough Some will become strangers you will always have My
heart I never again want to Fall from grace even if time cast a spell on you never
will you forget me and in years past I tried to love you before but you would not let
me I am ready now to be your Silver spring blue green colors flashing and yes
I'm Strong enough remember I'm your Beauty and you are my Beast poet priest of
nothing Has anyone ever written anything for you in all your darkest hours did you
ever hear me sing listen to me now I sing for the things money can't buy me and
long After the glitter fades I will still be here you said If anyone falls in love it will
be done to us most of all I have to know when I can see you again because I
can't wait yes I know you though we've been out of touch...
...this is a collaboration of written words inspired by
Stevie Nicks...
Basement
Occupied of dirty laundry
Comic books
And Chuck Palahniuk
This grungy fume
Smells of coffee beans
Stirred with cigarette butts
And dirty feet
Neutral Milk Hotel is singing
Through that dirty old stereo of yours
On top is a stack of
Scratched up mixes I created
Elliott Smith
Built to Spill
And Leslie Feist
Scribbled with my sharpies
24 pack purchased at Costco
This scene
Is all too familiar
And this room reeks
Of the late Saturday nights
Spent watching Spiderman one and two
Not three
Those summer days
Full of slices at Dream
And rooftop adventures
The miles soaked
In that dark maroon truck
Where your baby brother’s safety chair
Always got tangled up with the seat belt
You got frustrated
And I just laughed
Those kitchen afternoons
Full of Honey Bunches of Oats
And mouth-watering sandwiches
Light on the mayo
And heavy on the mustard
The lazy Sundays
Keeping our hands warm
With a cup of English Breakfast
Find us downtown
Wondering around Second Street
Notes left on the counter
Don’t forget to water the plants
And absolutely no guests
With an examination mark at the end
Love, Mom
You never did forget to water the plants
Hand in hand
With a zip lock bag full of trail mix
Extra M&M’s
With the world at our feet
That smile of yours
Takes me back
Seventh grade
Three seats ahead of me
A small frame
With a big head
Abnormally long arms
A devious smile
From ear to ear
No braces provided
Massive hands
And uneven bangs
A deep voice
For a little man
Stuck inside
A supernatural world
Full of villains
And superhero capes
Plaid jacket
Everyday
Snatched from Goodwill
Cheated the soda machine
And smacked lockers
Just to hear the magnetic mirrors
Crash
The face is so familiar
And the past is vivid
But I know nothing about you
How are you?
How is she?
Do you remember that
One time we
Raced in the dark
Till our insides almost exploded
That night I almost fell
Off your rooftop
Pointing out the Big Dipper
These times
Float through my mind
Vividly
By the way
Your hideous attempt
To draw a triceratops
Is still hanging on my wall
Thanks for that
The rise of the moon charges the air and calls out to the undead. My eyes open to
see only darkness in my resting place.
I stir slowly as the desire of hunger courses through my body.
I feel like I must feed.
I exit the catacomb of my cardboard hideout.
Gone are the days of myths and coffins. Capes and curses. And a prince to rule our
likes.
What prince would live in the alleys and shadows of society while feeding on the
destitute.
Their blood is thin and vile, but it has sustainance.
Tonight the moon calls. It begs. It howls. It's power is beyond my control.
I place myself beneath the stars and stand before the orb that beckons me to rise
from my sleep.
I envision a bat and I am airborn. With fluttering wings I dart beneath the
streetlights. I grasp the limb of a tree near a well traveled path.
The city park is quiet on this Autumn eve. I watch as the creatures of the night
begin to stir below me.
The smell of human flesh invades my nostrils, even before I hear the approaching
footsteps. Anticipation builds as the hope of rich, healthy blood presents itself.
I see the form of a female as she jogs along the dimly lit path.
Ahh yes. A woman. The sweetest nectar of all the living souls.
I wait until she passes beneath me. Then I drop to the ground and land in human
form.
I envision the wolf. I am running through the brush to get ahead of my prey. I linger
just off the path matching her stride. I see a small clearing ahead so I race to be
there first.
I find a shadow beside the path where I crouch and wait.
Again the smell of flesh approaches. The footsteps are like thunder in my ears.
Here she comes.
I leap from the shadows and I see her startled eyes as she raises her hand to fend
me off.
GARRRRR!!!
Suddenly my eyes are burning.
DAMMIT!!! Why do these women carry mace? That wasn't a problem in the old days.
I retreat into the darkness gasping and coughing and rubbing my eyes.
I'm going back to the alley to find a bum to feed on so I can get back to sleep.
I'll try again next moon.
Rockman :-)
Submitted to the "Poems From A Vampire" contest.
fo'c·'sle /'fohksel/ noun deriv: forecastle
1. the forward part of a ship below the deck, traditionally used as the crew's living quarters.
2. historical: a raised deck at the front of a ship.
With the equinox illuminating a fortnight of recovery
On pelts spread like Ionian jars left askew,
My flame-keep sparked alight against the doldrums of
Greed. Stagnant and fetid.
My bark beats out a call stretched
Skin-tight over the sea’s virgin core
And sets trust aflame.
Ashes collected into the collated casks and
Corked with animus, Moon Girl pounded on.
Drumming a dirge on the tanner's own flesh.
Pounding the seed of echoing hope.
Pounding the corpus beat of life anew.
Those echoed my own harmony and emptied my ears.
My tunes would now be true and crisp.
My struggle to syncopate the middle eight
Was like on the saltchuck the time before.
Before we crossed the bar,
Breakers chasing, pounding aft of stern.
Now in the glow of the coal oil lamp
Sat The Dane who came to trade.
He mumbled a Chinookian curse and winced.
He sensed my mariner's cred, how I lit my smoke;
Muscle memory and addiction married in my subconscious.
But His eyes would never sense the venomous flow
Of the seabreak distant,
Like hounds baying to the highway of stars
And up to the dunes ran with phosphorescent faces
Fermenting the blackness.
Hell-hounds bounding.
Lungs pounding.
Driving on.
River may lick Disappointment’s shanks
But Drake’s gold remains unfound.
The cavities carved along the capes
Echo an emptied ethos and sapped spirit
Which salal and sage cannot clense.
Walk with me now Sister Ilchee.
Beat your dirge
Along the pock-marked ports of plunder
Laid before the flattened corpse of
Ebbing freedom found.
They said we were equal
That is what they made us believe
However they acted different
Responded with greed
He laid out the rules
For all of us to read
Pretending to us
That he will do good deeds
He pretends to be kind
Loving and care
A natural leader
That many could bare
We chose him to lead us
Guide us the right path
And so he did
Until one day at last
We observed the rules
That he had laid out
They had been improvised
Twisted and in doubt
He had changed them
Without our consent
Forgotten their meaning
He left a large dent
They were disloyal to us all
Except him and his helpers
They were based on greed
Not the people and others
He is so selfish
Inconsiderate, a fool
We realized then
We can’t stand to his rule
He stepped over us
Didn’t care for our food
He took control
And acted very rude
He always spoiled himself
Being a jerk
He threatened with the military
To keep us at work
We tried to rebel
But his armies too great
Working without food
Our lives were at stake
I had a good friend
Who had injured himself
We told him the story
He set my friend on the shelf
My friend couldn’t work
He said he would get help
But help never came
And my friend died in pain
that’s the last straw
We had to escape
So we snuck out at night
And put on our capes
He remained alone
With no one to rule
He had been forgotten
Because his rules were to cruel
He had an empty heart
That’s what set him apart
For it was spoiled and rotten
And that is why he was forgotten
We waited and waited
In the cold wet rain
We had only realized
What more could we gain
We were finally free
To work for ourselves
Not worry about him
What more could we need
And so my friends
I hope you understand
That achievements can be accomplished
By work not demand
I have not told you
Who he might be
He is man
Very selfish and greedy
Form:
The House On The Hill
Bleak, the naked
windswept lanes,
Lashing skin,
unforgiving rains
Drenching tatty,
flapping drapes
In a flurry
of flightless capes.
And aged eyes
of darts and stares
Catch new lovers
unawares,
Flitting from sky
to window frame,
Dashing with
their hearts aflame.
Inside, outside
and under eaves,
Upturned collars
and soaken sleeves,
Seeking shelter
from heaven's spill,
Beckoned by
the house on the hill.
Warmly wafts
to welcome them
With lamplit porch
and lacey hem,
Wry smiles
and buttered toast,
Courtesy of
the resident ghost.
Old lady, with your
heart that bleeds,
Dweller in your
loveless needs,
Lonely in your
shadowy niche,
What trickery will your
soul unleash?
Jealous shadows,
creaking floors
Opening windows
and slamming doors,
Trapped young hearts
lay at your feet,
To beat no more
their wreckless beat.
Seething, writhing,
crimson drips,
Sweetly tasted
on bitter lips,
Beside their lifeless
essence rise
With mouths aghast
and fading eyes.
The clock ticks,
the hours pass,
Silence befalls,
in dreams, at last,
No murderous widow,
their lives, could take
Nor break their hearts
before they wake.
Stretching limbs
and sunkissed yawn
A sigh of relief,
a welcomed dawn,
To wander life
as wise old fools,
To knock death's door
before death calls.
Frail, in cumbersome,
aging skin,
Where no more passion
beats within
A little old couple,
with time to kill
Make their home
in the house on the hill.
© RJVHorton2015