Lead Balloon

There . it  . sat

unyielding, unswerving in

its definance against the air;

my balloon.

I painted it red

I, gathered up its edges where

the rope gingerly hangs on

I, blew, I threw, I even kicked

it a few times…

but still

it goes nowhere;

my balloon.

The people passing by are

starting to stare.

The boy on the see saw

the girl on the swing

even the mothers who usually

say nothing to me

are now intensely investigating

me;

my balloon.

I thought it’d be grand,

a design

to prevent storms from taking it

winds from breaking it

birds from popping it,

to make the world

see differently,

to convince the  inconvincible

of my genius.

Every detail painstakingly thought

every solution and method

from wood to corrugated box

but lead just seemed the most

malleable and freeing.

Ancients used it in curses and

blessings, why even now it

protects from all kinds of il- ‘adiations

our scientific curiosities run us into,

so why not from other

‘nations of curiosities albeit

feathered and tempestuous in origin?

But, alas, here it sits, unwilling and un-obliging,

unwavering obtuse in its weightless

determination to not float, this

dripping in red acrylic and cotton;

my balloon.

{{Thank you to sonofwalt at dadpoet.wordpress.com/ .  I think I am going to do a few more of these Cliche’ poems. 🙂  }}

Worthmont High

It stands

beneath the limbs and

merriments

the canter call of

time

its bricks reach up towards

multi memoried

skies

as intrepid feet

lean forward

push onward

skuttle backwards

laugh and mingle tears

within its soul;

It stands.

It stands

amongts the triumph

and struggle

its cold stone veins

leading the just and

the mightly defeated

in ordered hours

and lingered speeches

in the pursuit of

knowledge

the pursuit of gain;

it stands.

It stands

in silence

a witness to her shuffle

his hesitation

her fixation

his motivation

her courage

his redemtion

to Monday callings

and thursday maulings

to Tuesdays lastness

and Friday’s madness

it stands.

It stands

as its voice goes unnoticed

its brick notes and

roof top melodies

linger a testiment

unspoken to the fortitude

of perserverance

and the suppliment of

faith

For in these halls

little souls stand

and she makes sure

she never falters

never gives sway

for all the comings

and goings of a day

the black the blue

colbalt and shrew

madness and

due of tears

she stands.

For someday

when hands stop lingering

over plastered walls

and paint stops mending

the cracks and fall

ing spaces

when voices stop

and doors weld shut

she will be remembered

for the words

emblazoned on her skin

 

“Knowleldge is found

with open hearts, clasped hands,

and couragous spirits”

 

and

She stands.

I AM

Cerulean peace

mascarading verimuei of

persian plum bing

echoing in mind’s sky

like a gypsy moth

motorcycle gang,

looking for lightswitch

raves and hued

tinboxes of marmalade

memory

speaking with

coquelicot tails of truth

and shipwrecked words

hung on springtail

shiz ogg ony’s

orange weighted thoughts.

I am stones set against the hills

Aztec black

achromatic

pirate motorcades

worming through

otherworld roads

pillaging ghost hall verbiage

turbid mocking bird calls

in the hopes electric violet

dreams

glow brighter there.

There were my Oak tall darker

self waits patiently plotting

to feast on the Elder silver sung

failures

of a golden aluminum mind.

Mint mingled with meaning

tangled

forks pushing straw braiding

creepping vines of

mental loops retracting and

reacting to the envolope

of time marching backwards

and spell crafted lines.

I am rythem

I am rhyme

I am london calling

Bell tower mourning

the loss of porcelian

knowledge

book covered middles

and shoes sole mustered glory

I am walking low

and hiding uninvisible

fae almanac verses

I am color me chrystal

tranglewreck borders

laughing at the horders

of words in head

that bears a sign

flashing Red

open for business

but I

I having nothing to sell.

I am sour pill bitten

snakeless tooth smitten

electric force cork drumming

mental note strumbingover

Moroccan pyrogen

seducing ubiquitously

like a neruotoxin

in silky perfection

a glue tin ation

verilent in

the prusuit of

faith

and calling the mice of fortunate

ransom to

stationary spilled out on

earthen green tables

laid to rest and memorialized

on sombre ink and ivory paper.

Lazy Days of Hope

Lazy days of hope

are on parade today

walking by with butterflies

and sipping cherry coke

they linger at the coffee shop

sit and pass the day in shade

these lazy days of hope go by

in morning risen haze.

They slip underneath hearths

and warm themselves by fires

cozy up with drifting dreams

and linger on with desires

they carry with favors

and promises of lighter scenes

smiling when you ask them

exactly what they mean

oh these Lazy Days of Hope

when the road is brilliant

bright and brave

I sit on this porch and ponder

them as they walk by

and wave.

{{just a silly little poem to get my day off to a poetic start. been a bit poetically challenged the last few days!}}

Lines of In-Between

Lines of in-between

pixel painted perfections

precariously perch

above the door way

in an effort to ambush

thoughts with raven

accuracy

dooming any sense of

reason

in the mad mad mind

called me.

The Canvas

Naked to the point of disastrous longing
for ink to shade in letters of understanding
brushes to stroke in hues
bold and courageous
so my skin
won’t be see through
– for all this transparency
is deceptively solid;
canvas.

Evan’s Reprieve

He twists

shifts and sifts

through sheets

newly laundered

as if he is swimming

in a sea of solitude

comfort and relief;

today is Saturday.

today is

saturday.

The only day

left unmolested

by the comings and goings

of school yard antics

sideshow panics

where his face is

made up as

beautiful as his

lineage has imposed.

Where every girl he

knows throws

and throttles to be

the hand upon his knee

the

one wearing his letter

fetter and ring

because he is

king,

of nothing.

He twists more

realizing the mental

images

the soulful onslaught

of wearing an unwanted

crown

is creeping into his world

and it is Saturday!

Sifting tighter.

Stop

door bell.

What now?!

Evan…. EVan

EVAN! Come down!

And so the play begins

the drop down

dive and bend

to the will of the

money makers and

game gang bangers

of his ‘sophisticated’ life

Meet Mr. CEO

and his queen

meet the paster and

his dreams

we gave money to

the church and the

charity

our boy will be

known be

seen

and all he

really wants is to be

back in bed

because it is

Saturday.

But here they come

the Duke and his wife

with dutchess in tow

because the wheels of

torture must continue to

pull tug and tow

his line into the future

but its not

his future

its not his

 

because it is Saturday

he longs to sneak off to the waters

edge

to dip his toes into the sound of

nothing

and dream of warmer hands

and a life he will never have

because all he hears is

expectation

the drive and motivation

the grandchildren he will

be making

the woman he must bed

because he must wed

his life to the vices of his

father

and be the ‘Man’

and they will sing

great is the king

but damn it

it is Saturday

Evan isn’t listening

he is out of his mind

he is running out of time

the court is adjourning

and he is turning into

the very thing he hates

the Football jock instead

of the boy who sings

the Frat man on campus

instead of with the man

on campus

…. and it seems

hopeless

to know all this

as he stares out the window

and dreams

Saturday

is a reprieve…

unless you

are the son

of a king.

Kissing Danielle

She keeps to herself

the days linger over

each other in series

of rises and sets

of studies and tests

she is never

really sure if she

is giving her best

and while ‘friends’ gather

near lockers and rooms

she looms

in the background

while she

smiles in the forground

watching

the other pass by

the worn out clothes

slothing shoes

revolving door ways

made for breaking

black and blues

and knows

if they ever

found out

if

ever found

out

She would be

hurrled into a

world of shattering words

shattering bones

shattering this visage

so carefully wrought

thought and messaged

even she wasn’t sure

it wasn’t the truth

it wasn’t the

truth

truth is

every day she sees her

softly walking

talking and meandering

through the blurs of

faces her face is clear

and when she gets near

the

summer sun finds

no shadow

sound finds no

rafters to

beat from

it’s as if the entire

world has fastforwarded

into a slow down

and the camera

is souly devoted

to a downward spiral

until the only image

is her brown eyes

and

then

she

sees

……. for a heart beat

crap! did everyone see?

did everyone know?

they say it gets better

but she is no so sure

because all she wants

to do is scream

I AM NOT WHO I

PRETEND TO BE!

No

she wants

to linger in the follow

of her hearts content

play with a force

of first loves commitment

stand on the precipice of

prom in two dresses

hold hands in the court

of dramaless masses

and be free from

this resereved

stagnated and barely controled

lung forward and speak out

compel

and just not be

afraid

of kissing Danielle

but

if they knew

if they

knew

like brown eyes

did

everything would

be over.

so she

keeps to herself

the days linger over

each other in series

of rises and sets

of studies and tests

she is never

really sure if she

is giving her best

and while ‘friends’ gather

near lockers and rooms

she looms

in the background

while she

smiles in the forground

watching

the other pass by

watching

the other

pass

by.

Charlie’s smile

He mumbles

when he talks

the

wound of his voice

barely reaches the floor

as he searches for

escapes out

on his way down the hall

in too high jeans

and a belt

anchoring him to self

so he doesn’t slip

out of

place.

His hands grip books

covers and shields

deflecting the

pushes, punches

and wielded words

sharper than edges

of the door way

he often finds

himself greeting

every Monday

and Wednesday

at 8:05.

He is brilliant

in his mental

meanderings

of geometry

calculus

and science

his

mind sees puzzles like

diamonds to be

polished

clear and bright

as the bruises he

hides from the

inevitable trip

to the bathroom

trip

to the bathroom

trip in the bathroom

he just tripped

and

he doesn’t complain

he keeps up appearances

as the soles of his feet

keep account of

the days till

he can stand

straighter

be handsome…er

be

important

because

his mother says

he will be

and right now he

still believes her

even as the waves

of every suck the wind

you don’t get in today

you must be gay

because no girl

would want you

lingers at the gate

of his educational

hell

the bell

is

ringing

in his ears on the way

home and if

he walks a little faster

if he

catches the right

canter, carry and case

the Thursday Crew

won’t give chase

the

Thursday crew won’t

chase

wont

chase…

He just tripped in

the bathroom…

And His eyes are blue

like the ocean

in berm-u-da

so

his mother says

as she asks

him each morning

to keep his

head up

and smile,

the world will smile

back

but…

she doesn’t

know…

today is Monday.

It’s Monday…

and

He”ll just trip

in the bathroom.

The Life of Bea

She walks with shuffle

cuffle and flop

in worn out shoes

and worn out tops

her hands are small

pale porcelin envy

eyes of dew drop gray

dream of anything

but life today

She lingers in the back

most hours

clinging to shade

and inconsequential hue

praying to gods

spit, spite, and throttle

forget she exists

as she dreams of anything

but this

Her hair is neat

her glasses new

ish, through which the

world is viewed

in shades of black

purple and blue

her ears are revolving doors

of not good enough

four eyes and hell-bound troll

stupid fucker and

filthy mole who should

NEVER have been born

but

…. there are days

when hands reach out

when voices confront

shove, bite, and anguish

and words of

it will be ok, you are loved

come out to play

be with me and

you ARE beautiful…

when you smile,

whisper on her behalf.

In those moments

she is alive

and reminded

hope exists somedays

though most days

she dreams life is

not today

this is the life of Bea.

this is the life of bea

this is the life of

…..