The stream (all workshops)
BROOM STICK RIDE
You know that witches did not ride
On broomsticks or in any other way
It is just an old wives’ tale you know
Repeated telling doesn’t make it so
There are other theories some do say
That other such activities were tried
Back then a psychoactive ointment
Applied indirectly to various parts
Made visions and stranger thoughts
Feature in the Witchfinder’s reports
And that is how any rumour starts
But always ends in disappointment
There is no sexicity
O child
this place has only dog walkers
trained as kids once
become old enough to ride a horse
siblings take on
I have watched you from a distance
were always shy
could rarely hide a wink
bareness of beauty
hiding within
planted some on these pages
wonder if you ever read me
just now as you passed by
within inches
dog and lovely sweet kids romping...our
eyes pierced deep within
Sixty seven miles per hour
Vulcanized rubber kisses the interstate
A chill afternoon with a taste of fall
Being driven by the ample wind
Whose relentless tickling
Excites the first few maples
Into a premature orgasm of color
Where they stand dancing nervously
Like harvest sweaters hung to dry
Anxiously flittering on a clothesline of nostalgia
A sixteen millimeter reel of film
Flickers in the theater of my memories
Turning out it’s sepia celluloid bouquet
Marvelous moving pictures entitled…
must balance the linear world abstract thought with the biological and work education a scohesion makes better mind bodies and souls after or before work or school go jogging or a walk in a park
too much speculation especially with people that dont talk some could be true but strange
too much food no good or work or school
In the past of hopeful things,
What has this Time to grave?
When I am to look at you...
You see through me only as a Paine.
Foreclosure never mattered.
Though our hearts are not the same,
you deny and say they're compatible.
You'd erase me with my pain.
The dusk rises from heaps of ash,
down from heaven, falling grace.
Without a sound, you whisper long....
You'd killed me with my only trust.
As I watch his frame
ascend each step,
climbing further upward,
I warn my adult son,
"Please, do not fall off the ladder."
There is a satisfying sound
to those words when
spoken all together:
fallofftheladder.
My poetic mind wanders
to zen-like thoughts, and the
possibilities of such a quirky word...
Fallofftheladder, (NC, IA, WI)
has a delightful ring to it,
Pop, 652, 2015 census.
A faded
carefree fancy
faintly flickering
into view .
An ashy
eternal essence
who’s passing
presence
still brightly blooms
out a vulnerable
invigorated voice .
Luring all our
lives together
into the chilled
charred chains
of a choice.
MIND PALACE
The soft piano in the background
Brings deep emotions to the fore
Scattered papers across the floor
Messages that may never be read
Whatever the words may have said
There remains that haunting sound
A voice sings as if in the distance
Yet I hear no discernible melody
Like blurred petals of an anemone
I rise and fall with changing pitch
Without digging any deeper ditch
It’s singularity in just one instance
Strings of steel
The melody flows through my fingers
Vibrating through the hollowed wood
Entrancing and capturing
Messing with notes and phrases
Eyes closed and following naturally
Creating blissful escape
Brushing the well-worn strings
The world seems to halt in moments like these
A wave of peace and tranquillity in my soul
The strength of music - unparalleled
Just listening and strumming
Jack sat in a dark corner all by himself
Everyone he has ever loved has now left
The wax candle light is starting to fade
Like Jack's memories, the wax is melting away
Soon Jack will be in the dark, completely
Soon Jack will no longer be able to see
Jack fell into a deep hole a long time ago
Into a place where light does not flow
Jack sits now in a dark corner, all alone
With a depression, he has always known
Pages
(c) Neopoet.com. No copyright is claimed by Neopoet to original member content.