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Ian Chandler Poem
look Out your window.
By Ian Van D. Chandler
We all look for infinities,
In this artichoke world.
Above mistaken me.
There are pleasant humming bees.
settled to watch so far up,
yet, I’m here. Just away.
we had walked between the gardens,
finding a following foot print,
to where we’d been.
Though here I go.
At the waves, I looked both ways,
these nowheres, leave everyone alone.
Look and see, as I stand here with my chisel.
I swim for the largest tide, floating to the deepest hole.
But reminded of all the scars,
every itch,
all the splinters,
etched on all driftwood.
in the walls, I know they’re always there.
Losing what I’d known, stepping on every flower.
It’s losing the child in the rustic play ground,
to the crying for the bark. When you run away,
when the grass welds to the shaking hand,
for a moment every bugs’ awake,
think for the tree branch, that sheltered you in the rain.
Utter to scratches on the glass. Smudging over my only clouds.
between the forth, so passed gone, together I’ll be,
so follow me gone.
The letters where, no matter what I’d be:
A sketched boy,
the erasing man,
together apart, left for more.
There oh’ there.
Beyond the sill,
is
Copyright © Ian Chandler | Year Posted 2014
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Ian Chandler Poem
Manic Dancing.
By Ian Van D. Chandler
(The closing line:)
The boy with glasses always tries to see further
no matter where the satellite flies.
Like the girl that found his wings upon the loudest factory.
Never show a horizon before the sun rise,
Cause they never let the groom see the bride.
The angry girl beats the flowers with rusted knives.
she finds pleasure in the lightning strike,
But cries
At the
Thunder
Clap.
Beyond the house she knew, the statues she followed,
the windmill sung her favorite song.
(La
La
La)
Before photos,
I drew her picture,
And painted her pretty.
Like fiction.
We all wander, and pander
Thoughts of the manic dancer.
And the smallest objects sit,
In the largest fields. spinning.
Changing which way the wind blows:
(La
La
La)
she waits for the lightning.
(The opening line:)
The boy watches.
Copyright © Ian Chandler | Year Posted 2014
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Ian Chandler Poem
When she was reading a novel a moth fluttered around her head.
This season, her favorite season,
Moth season.
What scares the school yard are the tip toes in dark corners;
the undertone, the whisper’s whisper:
Moths. They like to crawl, where she can’t see.
But as any abused child will come to love, the light switch
always illuminates a musty basement.
Lighting an the wick to this grey amusement,
just so she may admire, what its like,
to escape the light.
Moth’s mean summer.
A season that showers a concoction of sentience, reflecting
external perfection, creating the forgotten butterfly.
And she came mismatched home from school,
picking up the pieces of a broken mug,
finding no one home,
and as usual, the doors where unlocked.
Stuck in rays of lights, bouncing off the cut wholes in the wall,
there played a pair of mystic flutters.
She did not swat, but rather stood beneath.
Feeling the unwanted happy accidents yelp so quietly,
needing to be set free,
wanting to once again sit in a dark, dark place,
and stay as art work,
in a room that nobody knows.
She remained underneath the scattered play, only to sit,
and close her eyes.
Cross her legs, placing her favorite novel upon her lap.
Her empty room, of miss-guarded memories, felt so still
to the pitter-patter.
As a bird may forget to fly, the moth crashed like a wounded soldier
upon the pages of her book.
It didn’t look hurt, in fact it crawled, fluttering its wings
with any sense of a breeze coming through the
broken windows.
As she knew, moths where summer,
and with loud steps approaching the door.
A burly hand pushing through a previously broken door,
she closed her book,
feeling the crunch and the crack squishing between the pages.
That’s where moth’s are meant to be.
So that is where it will remain, where she cannot see.
In a dark, dark place.
Copyright © Ian Chandler | Year Posted 2015
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Ian Chandler Poem
Comic Collecting
By Ian Van D. Chandler
I have this comic.
It’s the scariest comic I’ve ever read.
Nothing tells me anything like these telling pictures.
Sketched to action and tale.
It’s the scariest comic I’ve ever read.
I found it in a house I broke into.
Sketched to action and tale.
Speaking to the reader about being found.
I found it in a house I broke into.
Turning it’s own pages, all the way to the end.
Speaking to the reader about being found.
It tells me, I’m a lost dog.
Turning it’s own pages, all the way to the end.
I have to read it, I have to.
It tells me, I’m a lost dog.
And where I’m gunna go.
I have to read it, I have to.
So I get to the end.
And where I’m gunna go.
Because it’s horrific.
So I get to the end.
Where I’m supposed to be found.
And where I’m gunna go.
As if I need to draw another picture.
Where I’m supposed to be found.
Sitting on the porch, right before the sunrises.
As if I need to draw another picture.
Of what happens right before the horror.
Sitting on the porch, right before the sunrises.
Waiting to be found, with a broke arm and a bloody hand.
Of what happens right before the horror.
When I broke your window.
Waiting to be found, with a broke arm and a bloody hand.
With my eyes open like blinds.
When I broke your window.
And found the scariest comic I’ve ever read.
With my eyes open like blinds.
Nothing tells me anything like these telling pictures.
When I broke your window.
and now, I have this comic.
Copyright © Ian Chandler | Year Posted 2016
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Ian Chandler Poem
Come to the point where I am on an old roof top,
sharing a cigarette with you, wishing for the grandfather tree. The age I’ve found myself in is one where I reminisce over what use to be.
There’s a place inside me that feels like the ashtray of an old writer; I’m looking for something spooky
to remember. Those doe eyes nibble the apple core left by the orchard, while I watch from a porch. And the branches are sketched into a cloud of feathers, scaring the deer away, while a black cat wipes its lives off on my shoulder. Remaining alive.
Will the scarecrow become a profit again? Or am I left to watch the corn fall over, and be stepped into a pulp.
Or will I be left to a forest with a nervous girlfriend, who can’t hear the breaking sticks on the mountainside.
Sitting by myself in a rolling creek makes the water rinse over my pants, and clean my legs. Noticing there is an eye carved into the side of a tree trunk, through the bark,
I stumble to walk over to it. Tripping here,
falling between, eventually there.
Finding myself here after so, so long.
Admiring you, closer eventually deeper,
I light another cigarette and burn the cool air.
Resting my back against the one eyed being, I leave the cigarette to burn between the branches
so you’d remember me.
Copyright © Ian Chandler | Year Posted 2014
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Ian Chandler Poem
When I take long walks at night, the streets are lit.
Tonight the night will be orange as if we are always celebrating Halloween,
feeling like whiskey with each paced breathe.
I stare at houses each time I walk, to see what may take place.
I’ve seen a woman yell,
a birthday party sing, young man smoke, a dog howl,
and a cat stare back.
Though faithfully some nights are different. I stroll through a different road, when the street is split by a stretch of grass and trees directly in the middle. Here I have my hands in my pocket.
My jeans are worn as any member of todays middle class, and my eyes are wide for what ever may be at night. My jacket will by a small crinkle through the dark of the night, often because I’m cold.
This walkway stops for where cars may cross, and begins not twenty-five feet later.
A car will roll by on one side, and another on the other, and I will not stray from the middle.
I walk to imagine what may happens in a lit night. But here I find the houses are getting darker, shade is coming over. My watching self continues on the middle path.
A porch light may flicker and a deer may wander by, but I remain in a place where I can think.
The houses get darker once more. How these street lights remain to let me see in this venturous walk; all that lurks within the night.
What a place to get away, out the door, away from solitude.
How silent everything is, with this still night. Though how these houses have become a canvas to my walk. Black smudges, creeping along side.
The windows remain empty, though I do not fray from the middle path.
I do not question beyond my lit path.
But now that I can no longer see those who live aside my walks,
do they watch?
Do they know?
Who truly walks through the dark?
Copyright © Ian Chandler | Year Posted 2015
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