...but I am not the rain
I am the  smooth red clay molded into
an imperfect pot
With perfect cracks that leak the soil
Back into the love saturated earth 
That filters and perfectly renders the
Ancient foundation beneath and around
The stones which embrace the skull
at the foot of the cross 
and I am the tides and the moon
and I am the son of shadows casting
In the bright glare of the sun
And breathless golden slumbers
I wear dark clouds over my shoulders 
Until the rain is so heavy
That it drapes over my entire world
And my teary reunion with hope
For deliverance from the cold

And warming the sun
Married the flowers
To earth the clay
To stones the time
And colors the wind
All for one and over
Again children
Come up and bloom 
Again
 

 Antigone wrote: 
aw c'mon you guys...

 miamizsun wrote: 

 oldviolin wrote: 
that's so bad it's good

wait, it's much worse than that, it's great

Bad Poetry Sells Itself

I saw you looking
Now look at you sawing
Cutting off your nose
In spite of what you face
Thinking that the hole in the floor
Will lead to open space

I see you smiling
Safety in numbers under corpses piling
Cadaverous caverns wind over and through
That hole in the carpet is obviously new
Escape will not go undetected
Chances be acts of courage

I'm at the door now, may I sell you the word?
Perhaps that motor whining is not what you heard
Watch closely now and do remain alert
Vacuum and bag even microscopic dirt
Surely such innovation sells itself
An offer you can't refuse

Next your sofa cushion is in the bag
Don't look away now the magic won't drag
Watch as it becomes an embodied wafer
The seat in this feat will make you feel safer
Be so kind as to sell your secrets
And buy my considerable connections

Now death is oh so fascinating
We can market this thing from cradle to grave
Clean up on isle three! Buy now and save!
How do you be, and your family?
Even in dying you're still a slave
Simple as it never was

Good night all you pilgrims.
All you words.
All you laughs, and all you tears.
Good night you mysteries.
With your Avatars.
With your reaches for stars.
All you devotional purses and pockets.
Buttoned and clasped and furrowed...
Good night all.
Meet me tomorrow in Paradise.
And dream another day into the blue.
Good night. Sleep tight.
Midnight calls for a snooze.
I am glad you all came today.
Remember our friends in sorrow and need.
Good night.

More scars than there are spaces
Some leavened, some risen...
More candles lit in darkest places
Catchers catching light the heart has bidden...

Will the sun come up
When i go down
Will my smile be
A beaten frown
A child's cry
A piercing sound
An outstretched hand
A beggar's want
The look of love
My heart's daunt

I'd rather live alone
But then again
Can i trust my demons
More than friends

SECRETS

Secrets
infesting my half-sleep...
did you enter my wound from another wound
brushing mine in a crowd...
or did I snare you on my sharper edges
as a bird flying through cobwebbed trees at sun-up
carries off spiders on its wings?

Secrets,
running over my soul without sound,
only when dawn comes tip-toeing
ushered by a suave wind,
and dreams disintegrate
like breath shapes in frosty air,
I shall overhear you, bare-foot,
scatting off into the darkness...
I shall know you, secrets
by the litter you have left
and by your bloody foot-prints.

Lola Ridge

 oldviolin wrote: 
All righty, then...

From deep within, a notion of dissonance
a timbre qualm
a parched motif
salty drops of rain to quench the latent ego
floundering like a flat fish on rocky bottom
the beady eye of reason
squandered pearl of worldly sight
Mother of daylight, Father of night...

One dark night on a dusty dirt road
I saw a tall cross burn
I saw hooded figures huddle and chant and raise their torches as if the light was anything
but tears in white fabric
Anything but tears running down black faces peering through ramshackle windows
Everything except mercy in the red dirt field between meaning and melody
I heard music in my soul when some years later
A charred splinter post empty of fire and meaning stood sentinel
Guarding the red mud where hatred made it's perfect stand
And a boy parred the light from darkness...

Tender and meek her gaze
At once at one with the approaching night
Little did love convince her
Burnished, a reflection in setting sunlight
Golden and fleeting

Breakfast
Lunch
Diner
Sorry, no checks

For every bullet, a bomb
For every bomb, a beast

For every bruise; a purple skinned child
Less the last; but not the least

We beseech thee Lord, our better selves stead
Compass out hearts, deliver our dead

Breathe your design through torn counter weaves
Harvest our hearts; deliver our sheaves

Red and yellow and black and white
For they are kindred in your far sight

Then leave us to our sins, our evil nether
Those scorn filled winds and common tether

If lasts these few days when time stands still
Bring love at last, against our will

Yet profit us through the cold hard night
Feast on our fears, and bind our flight

Lest the dawn come too late to release
The path of shame, the dove of peace

Amen

The voices my ears
Construct from musical winds
Whispering my soul

 Antigone wrote: 
The boy has talent, there's no doubt about it.

 miamizsun wrote: 
Ah yes, Pony Boy. I'm sure he was an outsider amongst outsiders. Somebody had to tell the tale. I didn't participate in any gang fights though, or even see any unless you count the race riots and curfews in the late 60's. A confusing time to grow up, sort of like now. Odd how the wheels spin and then spin again isn't it? People fighting over the same old things.; kids there witnessing it all the way to oblivion. The future is out there, though, every so often showing us a bloody lip...

 oldviolin wrote: 
yeah i can relate to it

and yes dead or in jail

and was pony boy really an outsider?

perspective