If you could fight the storm
And sail the angry sea
If you saw a figure right in front of ye
Would you stall out
Or would you call out
Would you lock out
Or would you walk out
If you could fight the crowd
And brush the cloth of He
If you could hear Him call to you “who touched me?”
Would you stall out
Or would you call out
Would you lock out
Or would you walk out
If you would rather die
And feel the need to flee
If you knew He’s the only way to be free
Would you stall out
Or would you call out
Would you lock out
Or would you walk out
Midst the flit wandered mist of lame Autumn
tethered vestige suns, seas a riverbed
failed wanton seasons a whole third it saved
absence to course unforgiving outcome
to no avail, tooth and nail have they none
in favored sway Summer's full weight reversed
subtle eve of Earth's slumbered leaves embraced
whilst silhouette's danse, scales seized near bottom.
The flicker of light dew quench the needy
flora and fauna famished and focused
tour past the befallen qualm in despair
flits a blue, grey encumbered white-knotty,
the beaten lain quietude art dye cast
Wicket's Gate, windswept free ... Winter is here.
if you are finicky or squeamish at all
do not crawl under that locked bathroom stall.
You never know what you will find on the ugly floor
crusty dried feces and urine, other awful stuff galore
if you are the one who locked it and slid out of the way
know that we custodians kind of despise you today.
Stuck in a stall? Two options beckon.
But only one I deem correct.
You can just sit there or decide to...
reflect.
To stall
On a concept
Is to be
Trapped..
The flow of
What is happening
Seems interrupted
And the concept
Pedestal's itself..
Fundamentally
Setting a filter
For what is
Happening...
Winters Stall
Written: by Tom Wright
10-18-2019
Silently shifting directions,
Migrant winds arrived without an entry pass,
dispensing a dose of shivers.
Wind chimes become agitated, and chatter on our patio,
disrupting the stillness and hindering my thought process.
Leaving me consumed by haunts of another time,
When I was “as confused as a goat on Astroturf”
unable to determine “if I’d found a rope or lost my mule”
Chimes are supposed to sound like Amazing Grace,
but always they’re just velvety noise.
I remember the thaw
when I headed South to crawl
through Carnegie's tunnels
in a Saab that would stall
in the mist or the rain
Spring, Winter, and Fall--
O I remember the thaw
and the chance of a change
if I could move what I did
from New York's north grid
down through the range
filled with hard blue coal
where I'd run as a foal--
O I remember that thaw
and the chance-of a job
in a town near the Mon
named for the General
George Washington
who'd surveyed the vast land
and survived the deft French
and I felt my fists clench
on the wheel of that Saab
as I drove through each trench
in a car that might stall
while I attempted to crawl
over the P A Turnpike
to a job I would like
and knew I could do
with less snow, ice, and flu
and a new car in the Fall
one inclined not to stall
if the weather turned raw--
O I remember the thaw!
I see them clearly, although they try to remain hidden.
They laugh, and talk, flirting with each other.
Why can they not see I would like some alone time?
I never get that any more.
This new foreman is a great guy, but there is always music now
Or talking or a pretty girl, visiting, bringing muffins.
I liked the blonde one last week; she brought me an apple.
I stand here, silently, not making fun of them, but wanting to.
Seeing them clearly is my favorite thing to do.
She is not making headway; I know because of his stance.
He is a great guy, but should not play poker.
He has so many tells, I will be able to get an apple.
I stand and wait for the blithering and blathering to stop.
He is too polite. He needs to get rid of them faster.
Plus, he is my man. I do not share easily.
I wish I could step on her foot. I really do.
Shall Stall Tall Wall Which Should Sprawl
What seems to happen is they shall stall,
What is supposed to have been tall wall;
Better yet,
What we get,
Is us being stuck with more urban sprawl.
Jim Horn
Showe, shower stall
I really like you
Easy to get in and out
Shower, shower stall
Shower, shower stall
No matter what i do
Adjust shower head
the floor has puddles
I really don't know why
the repais are done
Now the floor is dry
then again its wet
Shower,showerstall
I see the wet floor
You were fixed before
Now the floor is wet
once more
Sigh! I wish I knew why
I'm here tonight
to stand in the ache.
The ache of hollow,
the empty of the not
simply empty; rather,
the empty of the
recently full.
The silent ache of
missingness, of quiet.
Before the ghosts have
risen, before the
memorial stones are
set. Before the cards arrive.
Before the flowers
are vased to wilt.
I'm here tonight
to stand in the ache.
Of what so recently had
been.
Of who was.
I'm here tonight
to stand and weep
and shudder. I'm here
tonight because
you
are not.
There's a movement down South
where sound comes creeping
from beneath our feet, emptying
pockets which never had much.
You can see what we've written-
our bathroom stalls read
'Do something for the hell of it... anything...'
The messages are clustered around depictions
of stick-figures having gay intercourse.
Money- the ways they lied to us
unintentionally, believing
just like we do it’s a means to safety
or luxury cars with ass-warming seats.
But it's just an enhancer of methods
for questioning, down with the pill,
all cost and no lasting.
What gives weight to the want
for lingering? Beauty was,
and thus she is, now
and *** tomorrows.
Today, though form
and seasons change,
we have the means for loving.
‘Til the presently mysterious fabric
of time collapses, returning
to whatever it was
that caused it to begin.
Tonight I'm a bathroom stall poetry critic
let's see what we have here
I LOVE TRANNYS
DIVE AND LISA 4EVER
SUCK MY F*CKIN DICK
Golly, do the kids these days
ever love the
liberal use of profanity.
Certainly the reference to
Transvestites
(with a key
and very tact
misspelling)
is indicative
of the poets love
of the unknown,
and his relishing
of diving into
the unknown,
especially when
the unknown
is not what he
thought it was.
Who is Dive?
It's obvious that
Dive is called Dive
because he likes
to hang out in
Dives.
Maybe that third line isn't poetry
after all.
The memories are still fresh in my mind.
I'd walk around that old corner and happiness is what I would find.
I remember the conversations we had that didn't consist of a word,
the time you got scared by a bird,
the times we laughed and cried,
and the times we failed but we went back and tried.
We were inseparable but not vulnerable.
There was a happy face every time I opened that old wooden door.
I couldn't have asked for anything more.
Your eating habits made a mess, but that's what made our fun times the best.
Yeah you were moody at times, and you didn't want to work with me.
But we fixed that problem didn't we??
Yeah I was rough, but it was to benefit you and to make you tough.
Breath taking moments, now turned to heartbreaking news...
it had to happen they said...my heart felt dead.
The thought of us having to separate, made me feel desperate.
Here we stand saying goodbye, but I refuse to cry this time.
I walk around that corner once more, I find nothing but an empty stall and that old wooden door.
There's nothing left but some left over grain,
I hoped that you'd take our memories with you so only I would have to feel the pain.
He sought all the mystery
As well as the blistery
With some of the grim
And the not-so-prim
In the city's ironic history
A story he would perceive
Seldom easy to believe
But always would back up
What came from the Cup
Of Cornucopia he would weave
He would oft-times humor
An unconfirmed rumor
Then blow it away
When he would say
A quip of his humor
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