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David Flynn Poem
I - The dreamer
And dreams gift feelings eternal
in a finite clear real space.
That mountain range is a tidal wave -
land then sea morph as mire.
II - The green an' the dead
Conspicuous conservation,
small-scale grandeur panics
vulgar flaunting of poverty.
The refugees don't do green.
Landscape, geography, ignorance,
recreational-drug agriculture,
dick-heads, dead-heads, state-heads,
dead-ends, blind-bends, in-bed-friends,
piss-poor-politics,
regime-change fanatics.
Hey don't shoot us
we're just moving-target migrants.
Killing us won't change nothin',
not a dust-bust, two-cent, white-flag
god-damned thing.
Bella-Donna, Bella-Donna
toll the bells at shade of night.
And the breeze keeps on blowin'
and the killing keeps on going
and that sad moon keeps on shinin'
and the blood keeps on flowing.
Kill conscience an' tend the dying,
comfort the quiet - pass by the crying.
Bella-Donna, Bella-Donna
clang the bells in dread of night.
Ring the bells, the shape, the noise,
they peel your name.
III - Swan-song
I wish a glimmer of light
might eclipse the darkness ahead.
Curse the gods!
I should turn back
but they've ripped up the road.
Take a crossing through insanity,
mix it with inhumanity.
This road is endless as madness lures us.
Blindly we stumble, our temperatures rising
quicksilver slippery to journey on.
Copyright © David Flynn | Year Posted 2008
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David Flynn Poem
I - Night falls
At death of day long shadows form,
drawn blinds at dusk exclude the world,
tight-shut 'til long past dawn.
Night time is the worst time to want
of sleep, but sleep is host of dreams
and dreams they will not take.
Time is a spiteful conspiracy
with every moment wrest from life,
and every second uncelebrated.
The gift of care is a product
in a cruel market of compassion,
and each transaction, a life.
II - Heightened awareness
Scurrying,
tapping,
impatient footsteps rise
and fade.
Rush of breeze -
an irregular rise and fall.
I'm aware of breathing, loudly -
and every gulp, one less.
Strange familiar sounds
in another difficult night.
III - Joy and despair
Vivid fragments of a reckless memory
bring to mind more wild thoughts
in a rush of sweet-bitter remembrance.
Running - me running!
Through a shimmering golden field,
so quick, so light I nearly stumble,
but fall into your arms,
your strong, safe arms.
The sunlight sparkles in your eyes,
or do they glint for me?
It seems like ancient yesterday,
how I wish it were tomorrow.
Then the magical memory makes me sad.
I close my eyes, pretend to sleep,
and pass the endless night.
IIII - Defiance
My mind?
My mind is active!
Long life and long live aged sanity
in this chamber of insanity.
My will is strong, I must not yield.
I know who I am.
Who are you?
Copyright © David Flynn | Year Posted 2006
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David Flynn Poem
A wave of depression hit me down in Hope Street.
Hair stood up on end, on a shortcut down Barber's Lane.
Got a no-go from a cash machine, brooding in Bank Street.
Bought some pharmaceuticals, trippin' down the High Street.
Caught a nasty virus, browsing down Microsoft Way.
People mean an' nasty - livin' down Friendly Street.
Get a lot of funny looks strollin' down Queen Street.
Just a lot of concrete, nothing grows in Park Lane.
Fell down an' hit my crown - slippery in King Street.
My mind went blank, stumbling down Memory Lane.
Ain't got no soul, the residents of Shoe Lane.
Shops are all closed downtown in Commercial Street.
Couldn't get a Doctor - even down in Doctors Row.
Felt so weak an' powerless, shivering in Strong Street.
Don't know if there's such a thing as Easy Street.
Felt a little lonely, solo down lover's Lane.
Heard a blues band playin', blowin' down Tobacco road.
Carrying a lot of baggage, struggling down Porter's Way.
Barking up the wrong tree, down Chestnut Avenue.
I took a wrong turning, heading down the road to Hell.
Copyright © David Flynn | Year Posted 2006
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David Flynn Poem
Beware of thin ice as you skate through life.
Technique!
Even trickery will not glide you safe.
Learning by error can cause drowning in the final trial.
Failure in this grim syllabus is terminal.
Switch direction with some illusion of control.
Stopping?
Merely slowing is difficult!
Focus on detail and neglect the grand context.
The essentials blur smoothly into trivia.
Reject advice from the nagging voice
that speaks of cowardice, of avarice.
And as you travel, a transitory slice
is cut on the treacherous ice.
Copyright © David Flynn | Year Posted 2006
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