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Ian Be Poem
blueberries are not an option
oversize strawberries, maybe.
16 pack
of pop-tarts
the workers look worried
or weary
worn down by the woman who taps on her wrist-watch
with her forefinger
her painted mask forms a frown
her eyebrows are more aggressive
flashing lights
spilled onto the glossy floor tiles
the shelves are soaked in strange
i am invisible
avoiding intentional eye-contact
content to be
a casual observer
unnoticed by an acquaintance
out of context
unaccustomed to our bodies without barriers
beside the cereal boxes i wonder
if i look different behind bullet-proof glass
fat-free or chocolate 2%
there is no middle-ground
but i prefer the color blue to brown
so the choice is made easier
by arbitrary affections
this is where college students
collect the contents of their refrigerators
this is where bananas
are available after midnight
on a thursday
or is it friday?
all i can say is that it doesn’t matter much
in this fluorescent fantasy land
everything is affordable
especially time
because wages are waning
and the hunger will never cease.
Copyright © Ian Be | Year Posted 2016
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Ian Be Poem
SHE IS BEAUTIFUL
when she walked in
I didn't look up
when I turned to my right
she appeared
the first thing I noticed
was her left cheek
and in that small glimpse
I saw her in psychic fantasy
vibrant waves flowing toward me
and I knew
SHE IS BEAUTIFUL
when I looked again
she was dancing
and
I stared at her
the second thing I noticed
was her face
wearing the wealth of years
and I thought
she is not as young
as I had imagined
when I looked again
she was staring at me
the third thing I noticed
was her mind
spilling insecurity
across the bar
and I thought
how sad it is
to listen to her doubts
wounding her natural grace
so I told her
that I knew
SHE IS BEAUTIFUL
the next thing I noticed
was my body
rising flush
with blood warm skin
and I felt desire
tempered by prudence
confidence
blended with anxiety
she asked for a glass of wine
and I gave it to her
she asked for my name
and I gave it to her
she asked for my name again
but I had no more to give
when she said goodnight
I kissed her left cheek
she seemed confused
and I wonder
what story
she will tell
to herself
to others
but I hope
she will know
SHE IS BEAUTIFUL
Copyright © Ian Be | Year Posted 2016
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Ian Be Poem
dust off these weary wings
leave the hungry faces to fall empty and howling
all the fear
and frightened men groping for a fist
something to make you appear to them
desperate for anything
just some way to push a ghost
to convince themselves
because they know
when they turn around
the mirror is laughing
hollow men smile so well
but i refuse to be
involved in that scene
it doesn't stop them
faster, they insist
waving their arms
enter my world
intruders
the walls are hollow
and the floors and ceilings
and the mirror is still laughing.
6 NOV 2010
1:27 AM
BFLO NY
Copyright © Ian Be | Year Posted 2016
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Ian Be Poem
glassy eyed wonder
I see you wasted because this world
is not what we were promised
you are a mirror
and I am a black veil
seeking a flame to guide me
somber night song
your voice is a mist among the trees
unknowing nurturer
unseen and held close
I am the root blindly begging
to be drowned when you descend
so we may be joined forever
and together free from waiting
hand in hand we pull each pebble
and walk until the desert ends
your touch is autumn
turning strength to gold
and I am only here
to strike the wind against your grace
Copyright © Ian Be | Year Posted 2016
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Ian Be Poem
dreaming the poets dream of purity
dissolving civilized rituals of society
into the light of pure being
unifying all humanity in truth
which is a timeless retelling of ancient knowledge
only reflected separately as identity
viewing life through a peculiar lens
which honors the glorious balance
of undisturbed country
curiosity driving the poet
to sing with the rarest bird
unseen in the wild night
and though he renders all in loving detail
he finds his world swiftly disappearing
and so driven he drives his pen
to catch a draught of time
offering to future generations
a sincere survey of their origins
Copyright © Ian Be | Year Posted 2016
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Ian Be Poem
i found this place by accident
a little bird told me without telling me
but sang a song of such singing that the melody moved me
and so there i was
here i am
sitting in a state of bliss
content to soak in the joy of all that is
while the oak trees watch over me
society may not be at peace like unto the living wood
but that peace is a goal to be kept internally
that peace means you are the oak tree growing continuously
regardless of the flag hoisted above your branches
and if a man can master himself
the whole world may crumble
and the rabid gangs of hatred may tear his flesh
and he will remain as strong as his serenity
these oak trees inspire me to weep
because they survive a span of human history
accepting the obvious truth that war is not won or lost
only pursued
or abandoned
because the man of clay falls back into the earth
and the glittering things he collected will scatter
into the hands of another who will suffer the same fate
and the old oak tree sits at peace
unconcerned with creatures who believe
they can conquer and enslave the soil
Copyright © Ian Be | Year Posted 2016
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Ian Be Poem
speaking to a dark current
in my own rhythm
the droning wash of tones
calling to all anxiety as kindred
collected here
to revel in exceptional acceptance
a rare platform for difficult emotions
fingering the feelings which words
are inadequate to describe
in this space
i am free to roam
unashamed
there are no wrong answers
because there are no questions
no questioner
only the endurance
of the un-involved observer
25 MAR 2016
PCOLA FL
Copyright © Ian Be | Year Posted 2016
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Ian Be Poem
streaks of pale yellow
a hollow chuckle
what to do
what to say
tremolo hummingbird
sounds redundant
too many
too few
observing a picture painted
shards of green
porcelain fast cracking
into dust powder
underfoot altitude
compressed into silence
uncertain mystery
is safer than
what?
nothing is mysterious
judging the judgments
fearing the best case scenario
telling the same story
endless listening
hearing little
rocks in a foamy wave of noise
standing up and recognizing
puddles instead of oceans
placing pinholes into
blue black
frame fitted for discomfort
infinite identification
purple window
to grain mountain
hill crest
spattered with honey
crumpled newspaper
tumbling down
then up
then down
whistle the circus song
pretend
it will all be over soon
pensacola fl
5 dec 2015
Copyright © Ian Be | Year Posted 2016
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Ian Be Poem
watching snow fall in the city
i think about the soldiers
that fought in world war two
dying every day.
i think about the homeless
and where they might find warmth.
i think about death, slowly
with calculation.
i think about greed, insulated excess.
about subliminal messages.
a wave of soaking paranoia.
anxious.
fear.
unnecessary.
i think jazz piano fingers speak
with dynamic voice of god.
jack kerouac was right
to believe what he saw.
i think these stories are all true.
i think about listening closely.
can you hear it?
raging silent.
silence.
science.
vibrant.
smiling.
Copyright © Ian Be | Year Posted 2016
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Ian Be Poem
I have eaten kings and bishops
washed them down with blackened waves
I have knelt among the vines of passion
found them twined with crawling thorns
I have held the rain inside my feet
walking slow with tender grace
I have embraced friends and strangers
knowing them as unacknowledged kin
I have spoken to the mountains
felt their laughter in my heart
I have whistled with the songbird
shining humble as the dawn
I have swallowed timeless oceans
flowing swiftly in the flood
I have journeyed to the sunset
and found myself as everyone
Copyright © Ian Be | Year Posted 2016
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