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Will Lovell Poem
Out in that sky, no one sleeps, not even the stars.
We are at the 24-hour late-nite diner
and they’re serving up fruit
from the plants growing out of the floor.
We watch bodies fall to the ground outside
like abyssal creatures surfacing.
I look away from you and close my mouth,
eat the cherries to confuse the blood in there.
It’s too late to stay, but too dark to leave.
Now you’re in the only car in the parking lot at midnight
and you’re watching me throw pebbles at the stars
they hang low in the sky.
Out in that sky, no one sleeps. No one.
The creatures of space sniff and prowl about their dens.
The ethereal lightning bugs will come and change the children who do not dream,
and the brokenhearted fugitives will meet on street corners
they love living their life.
an irresistible pull resting beneath the dark city’s streets..
Some will pretend to rest while incomprehensible thoughts pass overhead.
Others dance in the night-light's glow and listen to the stars’ beautiful melody. Where the colors come alive
Where the sun is glorious, but the moon, magnificent.
Sitting on our green, rusting lawn chairs
Waiting for dawn to arrive like a fiery column of light erupting from the ground. The stars move with a passion that only we can see
Fulfilling the infinity that must be filled
A cosmic wonderland, the sky
A playground for the stars
The dreamers and believers
Wake up they tell me, wake up
But why would I?
Infected with endless pine trees and foxes aimlessly wandering the green haven
the trickle of streams echoing through the woody paradise
Birds chirping enthusiastically
The unreserved emotion pours out through the bitter touch of the cold wind.
After these dreams you wake up to the stars
and wonder where you are.
My tongue is tied with a god-like force.
and silently urged I write this poem.
I wasn’t forced
to pen this unnatural gem.
Metaphorical blackbirds moving around in my metallic birdbath head.
Don’t do that!
Shriek the malevolent connoisseurs of our existence.
If we disobey does that make us anarchists?
The anarchists that disgrace the plain of this world,
We are not them.
Shut down your mind
Unplug it
and throw it in the trash.
It won’t hurt you anymore.
Stay away from the dark spots in the room
Hazardous moments where it could all end.
If we were the monsters of the world,
who would expire first?
Where do we go?
Out in that sky?
Not anymore.
It’s too dark.
They say you don’t like the sadness
But the sadness likes you.
Clinging, like the sticky stain of
raspberry jelly on your kitchen counter.
You give yourself an excuse.
Shining, like slivers of hope in a midnight of melancholy.
Looking at the skyline of the world from
A dewy meadow in the rural parts of your mind
You love the feel of the early morning’s presence
Feeling aware
Feeling found
Feeling there
Feeling proud
The soft, easy touch of the fog
Inhale
Exhale
Relive
Forget
In the night there are of course the seven wonders of the world
and greatness, tragedy and enchantment.
Forests collide with legendary creatures hiding in thickets.
There is you
In the night, the sky is real again
There is you.
In the night, trains and boats move past, dark shapes in the void.
and the fantasy of countries where it's daytime. The last breaths of twilight and the first shivers of dawn.
There is you.
A piano tuning, a shout.
A door slams. A clock.
And not only beings and things and physical sounds.
But also me chasing myself or endlessly going beyond me.
There is you
It is you that I'm waiting for.
Sometimes at the moment of sleep strange figures are born and disappear.
When we don’t bother to investigate what happens in our heads
And we just let the thoughts run away to distant lands
Our magic is gone.
When we become the soot-stained buildings in the crowded, smoky city
We become the crowd. Same and without uniqueness
We must be our own royal palace on the top of the hill.
When we look out in that sky
It tells us where we are.
It tells us where we wish we were
and where we wanted to be so very long ago.
But we know
In the end
We are here.
Copyright © Will Lovell | Year Posted 2016
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Will Lovell Poem
PART THE THIRD
The battle is won,
but the war is far from over.
Still the requirements aren’t met,
and still the fulfillment of inner peace lies motionless in a Chicago gutter.
But the rudiments and metaphysical concepts exist as alive as ever.
Because even after this war, whether it is lost or won, there will still be you, somewhere, someplace.
Because you are here, you exist. Forever, you are permanent.
Like the news you read at the café in the morning
and the wavering smile of the brunette
who pours that wonderful North Dakota blend.
Poetry that offers nothing but callbacks and underlying bullshit.
It’s all still there.
People come, people go.
Sometimes without even looking up.
But they still are somewhere, maybe even lifting their head a little.
Men and women pass by on the sidewalk,
lives just as interesting as your own.
The world turns and turns without a sound.
We never stop and wonder why.
Completion still is laid out on the horizon, it will be a long trip.
But still, the notion of us being more than people – better than people, steers the ship.
The anchor waiting to fall on the sandy shore.
We’ll be there soon,
the waves are rising for this time of year.
The stars to the east may guide you to that island just off on starboard,
but they only inveigle you to a maelstrom of impurity.
If you’re wondering, this isn’t hope.
But it’s somewhere close.
Copyright © Will Lovell | Year Posted 2016
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Will Lovell Poem
PART THE FIRST
black coffee beans
bountiful in Bismarck.
rich provisions for the soul
and succulent dinners for the heart
I met a waitress once
she gave twenty-three reasons to prove to me that God exists.
each one delicately worded with vigor and puissance
it was bittersweet like the coffee she would serve me before work.
Precise like the trill of a piano
Ideas that capture the mind
longing to be heard by a starving ear.
Washed up whales who were transfixed by the promise of a better life
they wanted the land when they did not realize the beauty of the sea.
Overrun by greed and the longing for a break in their chains.
As they give their last breaths, it is then they realize the error of their ways
regret floods their blubbery minds as the giant of the water gives up
How now, mister man in the moon?
On this day we do mourn.
Not for the dead, or the gone, or our dearly departed.
But we do mourn for ourselves.
Yes, we mourn because there’s nothing left.
Our mind has been stripped down to its core intentions
Basic, selfish, feeble, and alone.
This is the day that we sob and pray for ourselves.
A battle raging with the fires of a thousand suns
Internally.
White blood cells as silver as the snow
and as cold and unforgiving as a blizzard
fight the misunderstood and unrepresented bacteria
a merciless battle, fitting for a fight to the death… and beyond.
the outcome predetermined by a higher existence
it would be best if you weren’t involved anyway
you are, ultimately, unnecessary to this process
you are, ultimately, unnecessary.
Copyright © Will Lovell | Year Posted 2016
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Details |
Will Lovell Poem
PART THE SECOND
Bathed in our brother’s blood.
Bearing the bread.
Bearing the bomb.
On we plow, without repentance
without shame nor penance.
Muddy boots filled with determined feet
it ignites
crossfire with the speed of darkness
tap, tap, tap, brrrattaatatattat, kaboom.
legs like molasses,
hold their place
marking that spot with their footprints.
one by one
they fall
tap, tap, tap
yet somewhere in the world there is the sound of Pachelbel’s Canon in D
and the thought of a warm fireplace and pinot noir.
The coffee’s cream rises to the surface
the waitress with her wavering smiles, glances over to the wall where
the television preaches its sermons to the onlookers around
channel 1, channel 2, channel 3…
she tells you about how her mother died last Saturday.
You pretend to listen with the upmost interest.
The monotone shade of the newspaper bores your eyes more than her sob story.
To be frank, the permanence of the world’s activity couldn’t be less stirring.
So you listen, keenly.
You end up crying with her
a pang of despondency creeps down your spine and shutters your feeble frame to your very fingertips.
channel 4, channel 5, channel 6…
rain and moonlight through the shudders
sleeping on the couch and giving in
Adderall and Citalopram
Praying and the lack of Church clothes,
people that don’t quite fit with each other
songs that don’t quite fit with the weather
and light that fits perfectly with a raindrop.
Copyright © Will Lovell | Year Posted 2016
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