Poetry for Regular People Volume 1 Read online

  KATHLEEN DANCES

  In the night, I saw her dancing,

  though, she has never danced before.

  Fluid and solid, her feet patterned the floor,

  movements mapped by moonlight tracings.

  She saw me watching and I witnessed her laughing,

  as though, she has never laughed before.

  I almost cried, I almost cheered, I almost became no more;

  nothing, but a pulse in her melodic trance.

  Again, dawn came to separate us,

  but, during the night we dance.

  LICK YOUR FROST

  Your cold steals the warmth from me

  as you touch my face with your fingers.

  I shiver

  with adrenaline.

  Weary of the chill

  I kiss your neck and lick your frost.

  My exhales visible,

  short smoky puffs of anticipation.

  My body fights to bring yours heat,

  hot skin against chilled flesh.

  But the friction

  only brings a storm.

  Like small breaths in a blizzard,

  I inhale you into my nose.

  I smell your snow

  whenever we embrace.

  LONGING FOR LIQUID

  Sweat filled her

  belly button, like a salty sea,

  in which I longed to swim.

  Stomach upon stomach,

  I felt her surface tremble

  and tried to wade in.

  Again, again,

  she tried to pull me in,

  pulled, pushed, pulled.

  Again, again,

  I failed her skin,

  as I pushed, pushed, pulled, pushed.

  Wanting to dive into her perspiration,

  needing the sensation of liquid,

  physics denied me again and again.

  Every woman is an ocean,

  for a dry man to find,

  but he will remain on the shore

  to never fully enter her.

  MUCKED

  Phantoms of feelings

  From the muck of my mind

  Dug and then drug

  To the dawn of a dream

  Faults forgotten

  Failures and vague figures

  Resurrected and returned

  To a slowly slumbering head

  Figments of feelings

  Regrettably returning

  Forced and then fleeting

  To haunt while fading once more

  MY LIFE BE STILL

  My life be still

  and let the air linger

  within my lungs,

  so I may enjoy

  the oxygen

  of this day,

  this hour,

  this minute,

  this second.

  Moments, like breaths,

  are taken in

  through the nose

  and released by way of

  forgiveness.

  I shall inhale

  and exhale

  with conviction,

  knowing that my intakes

  are limited,

  and I’ll eventually

  become breathless.

  NOW AND AGAIN

  Occasionally now

  and sometimes again

  I stumble upon a cloud

  in which to swim.

  A puff of white

  among blue,

  and a rare flight

  to dive into.

  I’ll flow throughout

  the moist piece of sky

  until my arms give out

  and it passes me by.

  OHIO SNOW

  Footprints in the dirt

  along a ghetto street,

  a ghostly imprint in the earth,

  a pair of forgotten feet.

  What the wind won’t hide,

  Ohio snow will.

  The walker and the walk

  dealer, doper, or child,

  high in grass or deep under rock,

  hidden forever in the wild.

  What the wind won’t hide,

  Ohio snow will.

  Spring green and Autumn brown

  will only change the trees,

  the falling, the falling, the falling down,

  hopes and dreams and leaves.

  What the wind won’t hide,

  Ohio snow will.

  PIPER OR PRISONER?

  Are my words

  like the notes

  of a piper,

  crisp

  yet strong,

  guiding youthful

  and naïve

  thoughts away

  from safety?

  Or will each line

  and rhyme

  become bars

  to a prison

  I am compelled

  to create

  in an attempt

  at excusing

  my own reality?

  PUDDLE AT MY FEET

  Stuttering and stumbling

  with words, I’m fumbling,

  trying to release, converse

  and spill thoughts into terms.

  Ideas unexpressed

  slowly fill my head and chest.

  A hidden lake forming within,

  rising with every drop held in.

  My head shall crack one day,

  as the damn gives way,

  and a waterfall shall flow,

  down my face and onto the floor.

  Hidden expressions, waters blue,

  and all the swimming I’ll never do,

  is now a puddle deep,

  forming rapidly at my feet.

  RETURN TO OZ

  Oblivious

  to the realm

  of maturity,

  I live by the fictitious,

  false, and fantastic,

  where levitation

  is possible

  for the grown and gray,

  and every age

  can fly,

  and at the end of their tale

  all may return,

  by faith or fake

  or childish wisdom,

  to Oz.

  RIVAL THE SUN

  Fueling my twinkle,

  the glimmer within,

  with ambition

  and faith,

  I’ll create a flame

  to set myself

  on fire.

  A brilliantly

  growing

  glowing burn,

  engulfing the world

  to become

  a star

  that will rival the sun.

  SEX AND LOVE

  Explosion

  Implosion

  Everything

  Nothing

  Epiphany

  Idiocy

  Loving

  Lusting

  Taking

  Giving

  Hating

  Needing

  Finished

  Started

  Over

  Never

  SHINY AND NEW

  I always did think

  that I would do something wrong

  to make you leave me,

  but I never realized

  I will be the one

  who says goodbye to you.

  Your love was not a gift,

  only something shiny and new

  to blind me

  from the dark colors of my life

  that painted my self-portrait.

  The gold grew dull

  and the love turned hateful

  and the trinket was returned.

  Although I have opened my eyes,

  I still hope to find a jewel

  that will blind me forever

  from the oil based picture of myself.

  SHINY COINS

  Money, money, money

  Into paradise you try to bribe

  But shiny coins fail to buy

  And death is always free

  Cannot pay off
the reaper

  He’ll take you rich or poor

  The shiniest of coins turn dull

  Six feet in the dirt.

  When the ferryman reaches

  To take your last shiny coin

  All your worth be gone

  And eternal debt remains

  SLOW WISDOM

  To my final moment I untimely wandered

  for I could be patient no longer,

  and yet I was still surprised

  that, in the end, I could die;

  quick release always came to others

  and in misery I would live forever.

  Slow with life, but swift with my death,

  realizing, with one ending minute left,

  the reaper takes the tortoise and the hare;

  at the finish of the race, everyone arrives here.

  Am I late to wonder if I am damned,

  or could I be forgiven for hurried hands?

  SOBRIETY

  Her breath tastes like ash and booze

  as the morning peeks,

  it is a shame how quickly hangovers

  and shadows set.

  An alcohol-created night

  had intoxicated me with a friend,

  and I knew the high could be mine

  if she would love me.

  But sobriety will let her forget

  the spilled emotions,

  and how, eager and willing,

  we drank them.

  The unexpected taste,

  which I will never have again,

  leaves me slightly satisfied,

  yet thirsty for another.

  Once she wakes, tired and confused,

  after dancing in a fog,

  she will smile at me,

  before rising to meet her husband.

  SOUNDS OF BREAKING

  A smack and then a crash

  as promises smash

  onto the rug and across the floor

  into pieces that matter no more

  Like the slaps and the swears

  that fall on deaf ears

  too busy with the hating

  to know that a life is ripping

  Because words are words are words

  and they all sound absurd

  below the anger and the lies

  and the apologies and the cries

  And only as everything breaks

  do we understand the stakes

  but the echo of the shatter

  will be all that will ever matter

  SPEAK

  I wish I could speak the truth.

  I wish I could speak at all.

  Speak and speak

  until the words are raw.

  I need to find a voice

  to stun my audience

  and kill all expectations of me;

  of who they think I should be.

  Scream and scream

  nasty things;

  shock and awe for everyone.

  If they expect silence,

  I’ll give them noise

  fueled by pressure and rage.

  I will not shut up.

  I will not be silent.

  I will not repress at all.

  I will rant and rave

  and speak and speak,

  even while in the grave;

  death will not quiet me.

  STAMPEDE

  Slow the stampeding hours

  Hooves of the coming day

  Keep the thunder to a distance

  I’m not quite ready to ride

  The maddening march

  Will go on without my horse

  Boots and rifle by the bed

  I’ll linger a little longer

  Before merging with the struggle

  Weary to rise and fight

  I move to dress

  Ready for the stampede to cease

  STANDING BEFORE SEA AND SKY

  Standing at the ledge

  at the edge of it all,

  I was a small speck

  before sea

  and sky.

  The water was black

  and congested

  with the floating damned,

  and the swimming souls

  wanted me to dive in.

  The sky was blue,

  and filled with the flutter

  of angels and feathers,

  they asked me to fly

  but gave me no wings.

 

  Remaining even

  with the horizon,

  where the up and down

  met and blurred,

  I stood among the mesh.

  STILL AS STONE

  Love! Her gaze has fallen on me,

  solidifying my earthly desires.

  With marble flesh and a granite heart,

  I am a statue in her flower garden;

  a new seat for pigeons.

  My face frozen in contorted bliss, I watch

  dear Love wander amongst her decorations,

  Caressing those favored then pulling away.

  Thoughts move toward Freedom, but

  are frightened of that place.

  A willing prisoner to my dearest,

  or a man seduced by seduction;

  Either, or, I am here

  and still as stone I will be.

  STORMY

  Furious trickle

  becomes an aggressive drizzle,

  as mortality empties

  through my pores,

  in sweat

  like rain.

  Steps crash,

  eyes flash,

  a subtle echo

  and short lived light,

  effecting only those beneath

  or nearby.

  Choices and actions swirl,

  calmly or wildly,

  around a moralistic middle,

  a sole center,

  circled by salt and water,

  with an occasional drop entering the eye.

  Youthful thrust

  until final gust,

  my wind will build and blow

  and rustle a few hairs

  before dispersing

  into the sky.

  Powerful or weakened,

  a storm among storms

  may go unseen,

  like gray within gray,

  leaving lingering effects

  down a narrow and direct path of destruction.

  SWEET WINE

  First time I tasted blood,

  thick with copper and skin,

  I knew I had found

  love.

  When she exposed

  her veins to me

  I hesitated,

  fearing the possible gore.

  I simply nibbled,

  never taking anything in,

  no swallowing,

  I wouldn’t break her flesh.

  But then her liquids began to spill,

  deeply red emotions,

  which I chose to lick

  and then drink.

 

  Drunk.

  Her desire filled me,

  and it flowed

  like sweet wine.

  THE PULL

  Remembering

  when everything was solid

  and gravity

  affected me,

  I watch myself float

  life to dream to life to dream,

  sometimes without knowing

  in which I live.

  If I stop questioning the pull,

  will the pull resume?

  Or am I matterless,

  beyond physical touch?

  TO BE A GOD

  My world revolves around me

  And no one else shall care,

  Whether I live or die,

  Or if I dream or ride.

  I am God of my world

  And no one else is.

  To be a God is to kill

  Everything I love,

  So I can live

  Live

  Live

  Witho
ut fear.

  I am nothing, only myself

  And no one else,

  Whether I live or die.

  I am God of myself,

  Not a God myself.

  No one is

  Or should they be.

  To be a God myself

  I must die

  Die

  Die

  Without fear.

  TOO HEAVY AM I

  I cannot imagine when

  I’ll ever fly again

  gravity holds too tight

  for me to take flight

  Once I soared as a child

  winds were strong and wild

  never wanting to come down

  nothing for me on the ground

  With my youth snipped

  and innocence clipped

  too heavy am I

  for my wings to fly

  WAITING FOR GOD

  On a rusty bench within a woodland park,

  I still wait for God.

  Dressed in blue on a seat of brown;

  my thoughts are wandering

  throughout a poetic rhyme.

  In spoken style I said out loud,

  “…my faith was a rock,

  a stone to throw,

  my arm I cock

  and into a pond its goes…”

  A bright midday lights my lyrical mingling,

  as I squirm patiently.

  Down a paved path that parted the trees,

  the forgotten daughters play.

  Three sparkling spirits jump rope;

  their dresses fluffed like clouds.

  Every beat of the rope in perfect time

  with the song they sang for me,

  “It’s raining!

  It’s pouring!

  The young boy is snoring!

  Clear his nose!

  And pat his head!

  So he can sleep comfy in his bed!”

  A late eve breeze caught the souls,

  to send them on their way.

  I was left to hum.

  Nearby my bench is a lifeless lake

  where the wealthy fishermen hunt.

  Hooks of money and hooks of blood,

  yet they wonder why they fail.

  On the bank I see a tired gray man

  and overhear his conversation with himself,

  “To me,

  this can’t be

  that I’m not dead

  instead

  of alive and well

  to survive in Hell…”

  The lovely dusk leaves

  and so does he.

  This man is unable to wait like me.

  A train station sits deep within the trees;