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Best Poems Written by Johnathon Souders

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GRAVE RECYCLING

GRAVE RECYCLING

Installed in cargo pockets,
A vivid-glass, a little green bag,
A pod, silverplatted case,
Which Guca-hides, Pallmalls, and a bic.

You're barfoot in tombstones.
You're father, son vulture slumped,
You befor etched letters on rock.

"Him", a glutton of Karma,
Rein ended, your fourteenth year,
Now, belly-heavy, smoking his brand.
On a Drive-by, visit home.

You're showing Gene shooter,
You're an arsenic lane of skin,
You tremble-digits, in belt loops.

                   <>
A trailer in time,
Secluded woods, with pine scent,
Anger stranded from earshot,
Hand-fead, his hate's red attic.

Father giant, yelling lasting filth,
Son flesh  impersonal,
Dark-spotted, and tie-dyed,
From Basketball champ fists.

                  <>

You retreated-rightly to martyr mirth,
You still look for his bold heading,
Still Questing for embrace.

                   <>

Pulling tube and ziplock from Cargo,
Following in bone-bared footsteps,
You spark, away walking,
Keeping his Armageddon.

Copyright © Johnathon Souders | Year Posted 2009



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Conception

Conception

There
In seconds words birth
A phrase laboring me to pen
Anticipation of a perfect offspring
Contraction squint the mind for me
That shudders a intent, until
It flops on the page, kicking
Father critic oversee sternly 
At times pushing me to the side
I separate from a creator
A witness as it breathes 
The air is a  touch of  Intellect,  soft
It’s a raindrop in my lover eye
Or sharp carom in the back
Pain echoes for immortality
Joy wanting the freedoms lounge 
Clarity in the pitch black
Or the divine shine,
Like the lamp beside me.

Copyright © Johnathon Souders | Year Posted 2010

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Untitled

Insufficient, I was.
Her eye's lament.

Avoided as if struck,
Match on last draft,
Liquid flare,
Dripping color,

I Aphrodite friend,
Gave standard statements,
To mortal tears,
Pebbled by stoic quite.

Unfit, this Frankeinstine,
On Iceberg adrift,
black water in motion,
A commute sail,
Cornrow sea,
peppered sweet,
with sunshine daughters.

Then comes Achillies,
(I rumbled low next),
Wanting to force,
His eyes to her  face,
"This is wander because"
Then to all brothers.

Quite protective, for 
MY "shelly" sisters,
Granted taken,
Poetry there wake,
My always companions.

Copyright © Johnathon Souders | Year Posted 2009

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Building a fire

Building a fire 

Had a smirk of sorrowful clarity 
Someone dancing on my grave.
And a artist 
The night was gathering materials.
 Knowing  ambition for pleasure
Would never fill the pit.
The night called for a burn
All the grasped boxes of blankets
Nostalgic wood, Rhapsodies of a ratt-packen
Journals, binders, scraps of thoughts
Nick-knack volumes of prophets
Overdosing on written salvation
Hoping for a instance coffee relief
A always, never the fallow-through
More is pilled, the mix of kindling
Dirty-bits, and old yearnings 
A stone from a beach, of first love
Scrapbooks of holding mortality
Porn mags, and bed follies pics
A secrete place a catholic boy goes
My heap inter-mixed with nature
All of it dead, until  the match
Erupts a fire enjoying feeding
Impermanence is really scarred 
So is observing the flame
Hypnotic destruction is fire at night 
Eyes dance to flares refection
Chaotic colors of visible heat
A calm abiding trance
Warm glowed my garments
In ambers consuming to ash

Copyright © Johnathon Souders | Year Posted 2010

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The Muse

The Muse

She sat on my bed, red mouth scattering.
Drinking my smoke and comfort.
I was dancing diet pill, with ear buds.
Pestering on my shoulder,
was her dead lovely.

I, am smell of sometimes,
Her, a voice of flavor on the tip.
A whisper of fever,
In her caves,of poor light.

Desire is focused in holes in ceiling tiles,
Ear into eyes, unable to divert.
Her wisdom , a days mock frolic,
Shutting down my nervous faculties.

Feeling small in her Uni-verse,
Mime tracing her outline,
Stubbornly secret,in her intent,
The words flint for wanting.

Adaptation the influence,
No one wants to see,
I loving a soul, be for erection.
In the moment stunned by her pristine.

Her works she read,
I realized consumed, 
The famine mentor, critiquing me rightly,
Charring to a birth within.

And to give shine to an apple,
In her decreeing eye,
I became a heroin's lover,
Microsoft Zen for months.

Regretting I wrote weak-soft,
Now to coffee and wanting it bitter black,
Muse subservient to her a speaking fantasy,
As her red mouth scattered.

(for Silva)

Copyright © Johnathon Souders | Year Posted 2009



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Bar Mate

At the "Head Inn' Bar,
I sat with Death.
Drinking the fog,
With my poor-man's "Crown"
Earlyer, In mood,
I called him over, telling
"It can wait, grab a drink".
Quite in my superior,
For just saving thousands.
You see, Him and I have met.

First a teenage drive,
Acid with ambulance,
Flip-rolling, tripping a bad action.
But I saw him.
Then at mid-life, Buhhda-r-us.
Told to sit with him,
He didn't say much.

Death and I ordered again.
I gave him grief,
for ordering a Cran-metropoliton,
He shrugged me off, sipping,
Smiled his cared-for white mug.
Genuine tho, no hidden intent.
I could buzzed gather.

We Chatted the gambit, 
Topics unbound,
He listened as if I had something to say.
It felt like a talk, with a laid back relative.
Glad to see, but good for the go.

Time whispered my leave.
Plus my spirts were many.
I slurred a passing joke-jab.
"were is your cycle, black robe,
Bone pointing finger "
He pierced me with a gaze,
like my dead father would,
Gentaly patting my back,
And by his smiling touch,
I sware, I sobered up.

Copyright © Johnathon Souders | Year Posted 2009

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I'm

I'm singular.
I'm night-driving.
With vibrant hum
of standard speed.
I'm glowing of dashboard.
Utterances of am talk
alien abductees and remote viewing.
Barely diverts my musing.

I night-drive 
periodically. 
A rite of wanting
Control, of the wheel.
Arm out window
night air cooling me.
Headlight on blacktop.
A yellow metronome.

This nights topic , I'm.
A question proposed,
by a small man in robes.
I started the list:

I'm a modern Tom Sawyer
an ebb-and-flow.
I'm this psycho-manic jester.
Dharma junkie, with subjects.
I'm Charlie Brown on acid
but who love the dog.
I'm a skin head hippie.
A guy with no wrist watch.
I'm a independent film critic
speaks religiously of Fight Club.
I'm these and other clever observation.

I stopped at a neon diner for tools of thought:
Coffee, pen, paper, and consumers of isolation.
Filling a page of I'm
looking for a singular
a true answer.
Just finding personas
and learned traits.

It came to me this I'm.
While leaving the tip.
In my wallet a picture of my children
looking full of me.

Copyright © Johnathon Souders | Year Posted 2009

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Break time

"BREAK-TIME"

Orange, the imprisoning one,
Shadow frost's highlights purple,
On outlined clouds , bruise etched,
With the on coming blue.

A industry drain pool,
Ravine's border dusted,
With chaos of wild flowers,
Top water insects,dance the glass.

West trees are tipped the hue,
From center warmth,
Car turf surrounds,
Drought patched, sun squeezed.

A dark monarch on a streetlight perched,
Its black-wings squalls at my intrusion,
Of his black-top pickings,
Gull also waits for my turned back

Copyright © Johnathon Souders | Year Posted 2009

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For Alice Part 1

"The Blue Book of Cookery", was propped by two rolls of duck tape.
The library number viable on its binding.
A Fed-x box contained the "Cava" wine, 
On the unfinished counter top.
Harold broad shoulders loomed over the cook book.
His sun wrinkled eyes Intensly reread the recipe.
The tip of a knife he used to keep his place.
Darting his glance at the stove,
Mouther henning boiling pots.

Harold was preparing a gift for Alice,
And he wanted it to be perfect.
For she was a woman of class, and distinction.
She would know quality on sight.

The Dinning room was just remolded,
The only room done in the house.
Harold smiled thinking of the way it looked,
The Cherry wood table, that was correctly set,
White lace table cloth, brass napkin holders,
Antec candle holders, (on lone from his mom),
Fine china, and polished silver ware, 
Aranged by "Fine Dinning" instruction.
Another library book Harold needed.

This would be Harlods first diner companion,
Since he bought the old colonial mansion.
A house deep with the history of the small Main town.
Who's once occupants were accustom to Harolds try at gourmet,
This endeavor he hoped would lighten Alice's spirt.
Reflecting on the first time he saw her.

It seemed instantly she was before him,
His normal fears quelled by the sight of her,
When she moved towards him, he understood elegant.
Speaking her name, it sounded like a whisper to him,
The stillness in her eyes, soft pale glowing skin,
A smile that warmed his always awkward soul.

Copyright © Johnathon Souders | Year Posted 2009

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For Alice Part 2

Harold told no one about his evening plans.
His construction buddies already thought of him as odd.
Thirty eight, unmarried loner, 
They razzed him on being quite, his house, 
And how he needed to get laid.
But it was in fun, they respected Harold.
When it came to the job, they nick named him
"The Artist"

Harold looked at the clock on the stove,
And went up stairs to get dressed for dinner.
The vintage suit lay, newly pressed, on his single bed.
The tag "Carol's Costums" attached to the hanger.
Harold decided not to wear the Top hat.
Feeling it was over the top.
and as he struggled with the bow tie,
He was trying to remember the name of his prom date.

Dressed, he walked down the long creaky stairs.
His wrist watch telling him "two minutes"
The nervous anticipation quickened his movement,
As he brought out the feast.
The large Grandfather clock began to chime in the living room,
Harold surveyed the dinning room, 
As he would do after a construction job.
He smiled proudly to himself, "The Artist" he playfully said aloud.
Knowing Alice would like the room as it was intended.

As the chime hit its last twelve, 
Harold herd the fimilar sound,
Of Alice's feet stepping on the creaky stairs,
And when she martialized in the dinning room,
Alice looked around at what Harold had done for her,
Harold new the night was what he had planed to build,
As Alice's  ghostly eyes, looked at him lovingly.


(Happy Holloween)

Copyright © Johnathon Souders | Year Posted 2009

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