Long Untilled Poems
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Listen: The Lyrical Lilt
that lilac
and lavender
lend to our language,
like leased luggage purposefully lost,
unrolls from lifted
tongue
to level the valley
and shallow
the depths of the gorge.
* * *
A full closet of linens,
I oftentimes find
the beach in symphony;
the hour arching shoreline a stable bow
whose melody is fizz of the ocean.
It is there, beneath a balcony of velvet celebrity,
the sand receives the water,
bends at the lunar altar,
and acknowledges a driftwood cloud.
* * *
There is a weed of sadness woven
through untilled soil
in this garden of thorns kept far from their rose,
where, still, I cannot help
but to tap my feet to the hum of this ancient rhythm,
anxious for movements left uncomposed,
my ear tightly pressed to a frail pink shell,
swelling in ghostly lullaby.
7/9/2019
Submitted for: Music Themed Poetry Anthology
Sponsored by: Geraldine Taylor
Gardens
A lovely Tomato, to brighten up my days.
A beautiful Sun Flower, to lighten my ways.
A Rose, of brilliant passions to delight my dreams.
A haunting – nightmare – pain filled thorns – streams
into consciousness on beams of light – acknowledgement
of all that grows in a stark, garden basement.
There is this Fertilizer, - food for growth – for this Garden,
this Gardener needs – the water of life dries up – harden
the soil, leaving it untilled, unseeded, to dust and barren.
This Life, Tomato, Sun Flower, Rose, nourish the dreams,
feeds this Gardeners, old soul’s desire for life beyond, seems
to be beneath this Flower’s, desire, - passions buried asunder.
This Garden’s, heart beats to the rhythms or crashing thunder
praying for lightening to ignite the Spirit, grow out from under.
B. J. “A” 2
April 3rd 2008
Hollow as a crooked pipe conducting waste to the corroded sewer
Vacant and obscure like a Freudian void on a cold lavatory seat
Hollow as a piper’s flute waiting for nimble charming fingers
Vacant like a comatose stare reflecting mindless nothingness
Shallow as a muddy puddle pummelled by boots from wet feet
Superficial like a scratch on a bubble conceding trivial defeat
Shallow as a trickling tributary succumbed to inarticulate drought
Superficial like a crowded scream never leaving mute fears
Fallow as unwanted seeds swirling around into darkness
Dormant like a sleepy reminder of night mares fighting for victory
Fallow as untilled soil longing for cultivated surrender
Dormant like a tired tramp homeless and halting suspense
Mellow as marsh mallows molten on deep cutting sticks
Bitter sweet like a camp fire sending smoke into nowhere
Mellow only in that as it rhymes with bellow and gallows
Sweet bitter and numb like waste in a lone piper’s dream
Garden of a Meager Harvest
By David J Walker
The rusted remains
of the old farm truck
Remain on the untilled patch
of prairie grass plains
as long as I
can remember
The old Farmall tractor
Planted on the southside of a
Long row to hoe
that I know
All too well
A windmill unused for years
Squeals and creeks in a wind
That still tries in vain to
Turn its blades
For a cool drink of water
Monuments held
captive inside a
barbed wire fence
as if to prevent an escape
The trusted truck stands ready
As if it’s rusted out bed could
Carry to market the fruit of
A summers labor
The remains of the old
Pick-up lost its windows
Long ago
Field mice have nested under
The bench seat and eat
Everything that isn’t rusted metal
How long before its tires
Finally expire
exhaling rust
Giving up the ghost
Of a dusty last breath
Of a garden's meager harvest
R.I.P.
Should I even say this?
R.I.P
Do you really want me to spell it out?
Like the literal REST IN PEACE?!
Reaching for ink, this feels like a seal of accepting how real this is.
These imaginations of a field untilled, with scattered papers; blank with stories waiting to be told, yet the heart growing cold.
Death's but a pause, a break, a different kind of rest; the sleep we dread!
It's like a closed book, hidden from this noise called life, where every word within are but secrets its deep sleep keeps.
R.I.P
Return If Possible.
Don't let your thunder shiver out of cold, while these blank pages are eager for your rebirth.
R.I.P
Return If Possible
Though, it's dark, but your dark is kind of bright.
Let it breakforth.
R.I.P
Return If Possible.
Some vacuums are unworthy, unnecessary, un...
While I wait for this silence to end, and this quiet to lose its claim,
I will stand on this field, and where the river bends,
I will stand and wait till you're washed up again, to this side of life, where the ink makes everything beautiful.
But till then,
R.I.P
Return If Possible