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Frank Greene Poem
“I liked how it was a love story, ‘cause love is surreal.”
She sat there, with her shining hair, a blonde glow; blue, streaming like the outdoors.
Her scarf matched her freckles,
her heart matched her jeans.
The pessimism sat in the corner, with wanna-be, profound, unclear, obscure,
shouted comments that clouded the room.
They ruined the magic, halted the streams:
the imagination that kept us all coming back.
Because it was only a few pages long, with
not a lot to go off of, not a whole lot at all.
But we believed in the surrealism, the love story.
The light dimmed away like a winter hat being pulled down over my eyes,
like a surprise, or a metaphorical object of some sorts.
A common thing, a common, talked about,
over-thought, but from a new perspective.
Looking at it all in completely new light,
like it’s shining through clear water.
No one is to blame, it’s just tradition.
Copyright © Frank Greene | Year Posted 2015
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Frank Greene Poem
You wore a green shirt,
as I remember.
It was bright and lit up your eyes.
Your smile scrunched, your eyes narrowed
sweetly, like you knew what you were doing.
You sat to my left, I was scared,
nervous, not brave, but stunned
to a stammer, before I could ask you.
A simple drive, to pass the time;
soft cheeks, funny jokes, it
wasn’t so cold out but
winter hung over us like an outlook.
We hustled along, passed the parked
cars and up the sloped hill.
Honks spilled along the sidewalk’s sill.
I wish it had been you with me, along
the lonely walks I had walked once
alone.
Until you, not showed up, but
rolled in, like the wind does
while the seasons change,
like a green clue subsides to blue
or brown sounds drowning like summer
does to the autumn tides.
The seasons worry me, ‘cause they’re
not the only thing changing, everything
they stand for and bring herds and
burns the sensations left wasting.
They buy tickets and stamps and
long letters that will only get
lost in the translation or the
transition, which brought and formed
at the last meeting.
So I’ll greet you, smile, wave
drop you off, come pick you up,
carry your bags and brush away the
scuffs that you’ll inevitably bring back.
But I’ll be up, sometimes down, by the
corner we walked and talked out loud around.
Your arm over mine in the sun
shine, your face looks timeless like
broken hands snapped off of a clock,
ticking at the reunion that is the
next time we’ll see each other.
Something like one hundred days, nights, weeks,
months, yet less than a year. A
year I could do; without the shouts
we never said.
A year I’ll think about the white sheets
and the love songs, on the window
seat, laughing and writing lyrics with
our hearts. We both say at the same
time we wish it wasn’t happening but
the sad part, not the ending, has us coming
back to the same place, where I’ll see
your face again, walk in and sit to your right.
You’re wearing a green shirt,
as I remember.
Copyright © Frank Greene | Year Posted 2015
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Frank Greene Poem
Time clock,
Baby
Stuck on the inside
out on the black bench,
Baby.
Never going back like the good old days
like the jinxed rinks, cut out
like watersheds.
It’s so obvious,
Baby.
That you want the top shelf
honey, lookin’ like a million bucks.
Those rose pedals for the first time
love, in the attic up top,
Baby.
For the first time, overlook the city
with a new clock.
For hours we sat unlocked,
waiting for the Sun to show up.
Copyright © Frank Greene | Year Posted 2015
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Frank Greene Poem
hell bent on hillsides,
alcohol seeping from my skin come
Monday Morning alarm clock joy.
young, and up all night, drunk, more so than not
and only in love with myself.
narcissistic pessimism: big words overheard in clouded classrooms,
always wanting what I don’t have and horny,
drugged in translucent self reflection methamphetamine at sunrise,
six AM jazz.
but no one listens to jazz anymore, except in cars alone in darkness,
trees forever passing along roadsides,
low hum of distant trains,
hazy moon hanging above two empty bridges,
the choice of only one is troubling.
decisions are gruelling like offices and pay checks.
i’m a mess, the trumpet says, I hate myself, sings
the saxophone riff, my head hurts as
the drums hit, symbols wailing, clashing,
altogether in beautiful harmony.
starlight glow, swaying through meters
of time, roads carve along
sharp edges of thought, clear,
concise, and reliable people going to
work, dreams of offices and pay checks,
and I begin to sing along, off time and out of tune.
imagination of the outdoors and freedom,
never growing up past my bedtime, hide and go seek
I hope I’m never found.
Copyright © Frank Greene | Year Posted 2016
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Frank Greene Poem
Blow a whistle, or write a song, while the white bearded-men of small fishing towns drown the nights away. Try to forget, if only for so long, that the tempted wish bowl rolls; floats like a wing and cries great lies of childish negligence, coming to wish all the best, to each worried-face at the contest.
Broken seats flood empty spaces of the unsaid, whispers sneak about as my heart beats, taking the pain out of what the people on TV finally confessed. The hidden message, the broken bills, hiding, in a black back room, twice locked, twice removed. The rich and the poor, a cousin, but there’s more, where that came from that we choose, or tend, to ignore.
Pick a poison, pick a fruit, like the other one said: I’d rather be dead.
I tend to forget how to relate, sometimes, some such, to each other and a stretched out story passed down from another forgotten tribe. This is what the line allows. There’s a scratch, and a rock, a touch and a match, to keep the time clicking on, like a bomb.
There’s a little liquor, I shiver, wanting to close the blinds. But my mind pounds, counting down the days until I can run sideways or inside, someplace, jumping through hoops if I have to or if it helps.
I know that at one time, they’ve said “One Day” and I still see them sitting all around; a circle is a monstrous thing that keeps them coming back, without missing anything, without a sound. It’s like a stamp; it’s like a message; it’s just a damn thing that they found.
Wondering: the word I hear if there’s a note hit that high every time. I let it simmer, and cut the chord, laying back ever so slightly, waiting, waiting, and finally unwinding.
Another turn twirls on by, the jagged, abrupt tuck, small rocks sticking out; like a pine branch on a path. I think it’s weird and sad and treacherous, and I haven’t told anyone that before. A year older, probably the reason why, passing by the wise, not surprised, uninspired and demoralized.
“Walk the Line,” they say, trying to turn a blind eye. So I’ll shut up and just get in the back, with a worried look, turning my neck, to see it all once more, before it’s over and I have truly tried to cross that fine line.
Copyright © Frank Greene | Year Posted 2015
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