Brooding, I lay on my bed
Never looking down, evading my frames view
The weights I’ve yet to lift lay under my dangling leg
Not a single thought crossing in this head, I am to just lay here
In my nest
Across the room, the nape of the closet
As if folded like wings, returned to its wrapping
The pressing fabric bought with what little crumbs was scrounged
Not a single glance over there do these eyes give or scout, and there it will lay
In its nest
Turned away, leaning on the wall
Reflective glass, preened yet vapid
Behind the surface, here he chirps out slowly
Not a single sound was heard, and there he will remain
In his nest
It suddenly occurred to me,
in a moment
of rare clarity,
that there are women
who buy cuckoo-clock
puzzles,
and then,
there are women
who assemble them.
I am proudly,
the second type,
even if that makes me
belong inside
the clock.
I feel terrible
for whomever
assembles these
inglorious bastards,
aka lasered wooden
pieces (from H-E-
double toothpicks).
That spells Hell
for the slower
readers following along
at home.
I have already
scrounged around,
twice,
on my hands and knees
looking for pieces
that popped off.
Meanwhile,
I ask myself:
“how did I get here?
Is this life?”
If so, I am happy
and the clock
makes sense,
even if life doesn’t
cuckoo,
or announce the hour
on time.
We scrounged up
Every penny we could
The night the policemen took you.
We had thirteen dollars
For your five hundred dollar bail.
ZAP
POW
Intrinsic
Inside news beyond
Hopes dashed
No pieces left
For times elbow
Holds no crutch
Singularity
ZIP
BAM
Congruent
Feelings enmeshed
Scrounged within
The numbness subsides
Leaving delight
Past the darkest night
Pulsar
WACK
TING
Livid
Singed to the bone
Being lost
Without deaths glow
But hope rings in
Triumphant score
Dynamic
WHAM
BANG
Persevere
Life beyond emptiness
Lures in mindful eyes
Sipping from the eternal cup
Homing into happiness
Leaving pain behind
Enlightened
YING
TAP TAP TAP…
Russell Sivey
The Match-Stick
The patent potential of a match-stick
I saw seething ravagely through the farmland
Crawling conflagration all alike
Beholding the hapless and helpless mind
The power of a match-stick
I knew well when in dire need
Picking up the match-box in shock
Not a single stick could find
Oh the raw rice raucously submerged
While I scrounged for a match-stick
To bring me out of the cataclysm
Before my muscular bag blows in catastrophe
Praise to my extant toils
When on a drifting table
I found a match-stick
Aiding the healing of my excruciating hunger.
With a ragged bag and a sack, I am leaving you to chase a dream…
Dry your tears, my dear; no more wail. No more songs of grief,
No more tired bones and tired soul. Just dry your tears.
How mother died awhile ago and father stayed, and made us howl
Like ghastly wolf, a creature of the night. The food we scrounged on
The floor, when your tummy cried… my eyes cried.
But dry your tears little one… just dry your tears,
I have words in a bag, a dream in a sack. I have stories and novels
Poems and tears. Remember the sweater I gave you, when even fury dogs
Would freeze? I lied when I said ‘I felt heat, I just ate or I just smiled – you missed it.’
Close your eyes, and do not stare at my back, not tattoos, just
Scars on my back, disfigurements I wear.
But dry your tears little one… just dry your tears.
Hold on! Even when wolves are circling, knaves are preying
And God is loping deaf. There are stars and there are blooms that
Even we shall see. Just dry your tears my little one… just dry your tears.
Average intelligence is difficult to know
with running buffoons thinking they are more
in tight skinned pants. The sole lagger
in basketball shorts is trying to keep up with them,
the wind pushing behind them while pounding him hard in front.
They do not understand his plight, they have always
done it right while he was the one trying to find
what was wrong by smoking 20 class A cigarettes out back.
He was never lax.
Kind of gauky with teenaged features and a long nose,
he managed to laugh at the wrong times and turn a certain red
that made him more of a dork.
He at least scrounged an existence on being the coolest
of the uncool.
Anonymity is easy to accept on a road trodden down.
For him it is classical. It is like the rest.
The money goes along with time but it keeps sanity from
being lost to the blinding daylight of midnight frights.
mom loved her china.
her collection grew by the year
and time upon time
i found myself looking upon it.
now there was bare wall
where the proud plates once hung
and an almost-fog covered my vision
as i felt cool air on my cheeks.
quiet sobs drifted through the house
and sirens wailed
the forgotten axe had found itself
embedded into that proud wall
pieces of a proud collection
scattered upon the tile.
mom's dresser was empty.
she held all of our small gifts there
those little tokens of clay
or jewelry we had scrounged to buy.
days of jumping on mom's water bed
flashed through my mind
as the floor squished with my steps
closer, and closer i walked
the plastic material on the frame
had been stabbed, and emptied.
mom loved her china.
the reflections of our failures
could be seen
in the shattered pieces of it.
EYE SAW
eye saw a man minding someone elses business eye saw him homeless
asking me why do you ask me that he had a pack of bedrolled up and dissed me
eye saw a starving artiste showing a lady off his work she asked him what gallery
he hung to he said lady im painting in the desert mabe they pay more here for
them eye saw a freak looking to score some news he was an undercover cop not
fooling anyone they all took off the real dope gone eye saw a lot of robots not
helping anyone eye scrounged a half a cup of coffee and asked one woman if
she was having fun she said no the man was dirty he had blankets on instead of
clothes but what a rap he had he talked them sports he keeps his mind on
games to impress the men that stop he gets his wine and smokes he knoes
while in the meantime the people eye can relate to are all gone
Nervous Wrecked
Author Message
Admin
Admin
Age : 53
Joined : 13 Jun 2007
Posts : 650
Subject: Nervous Wrecked Today at 11:02
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Nervous Wrecked
Nervous Wrecked
The light fixture still lays on the stop sign down two weeks ago in a city ruled by
money lost and found and scrounged the driver must have parked and hidden
car so very well the pavement cracks in every smaller town have grass in them
as well as all the accidents add up and no one rings the bell the city soon so
busy the founding fathers cry the landscaping seems so worthless to mye eye so
unfit to eat eye starved to death eye died in the midst of all this city plenty eye
suffered and eye cried a wishing and a well a nervous wrecked.
Nervous Wrecked
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