from Crowdpleaser
|
New Stuff
HAUNTED
He hoarded who he was In the cluttered corners Of his collapsing home Erected on the edge Of Old County Line Road. Black walnut branches Encased his property. Posted in bold letters On a iron fence Were the forbidding words No trespass allowed. Not that anyone cared To violate his self-imposed seclusion. The boarded up brooding countenance. The spiked palisade. The forbidding gate Repelling any happenstance visitation. And when he spoke Shouting at night into the night Many heard his dark ravings Launching to flight black walnuts That travelled down the tattered shingles, Into the drooping gutters Or pinging off to thud the earth. And in such moments for a moment Remote neighbors became aware Of his forgotten presence Wondering what might be wrong now What might be uncovered Behind the iron pickets and tangled shrubs And twisted walnut limbs. But their wonder was momentary As the pace of day quickened Past the idle property Scooting their spooked interest away. No dancing flashlight to the door. No squinting eyes talk searching Through the darkened windows No chill or shiver. Only indifference. Only the mold and mushrooms Growing thick In the unexplored shadows Of a lonely man. Copyright Marc Kelly Smith 2018 FOR THE LONELY ONES This is for the lonely ones, The older ones, Passed on now Silenced by speeding time Less significant than once before Beleaguered by the goals they did not achieve. Consumed by the failures haunting their final hours, The disappointments, the miscues, the wrongheadedness, The attachment to what never was or ever would be. This is for average folk manipulated by desires Sold to them from the first cry of birth— the innocence of youth Conditioned by institutions, religions, governments, Commerce, and misguided leaders of the same. This is for the heroic middle maintaining as best it can. Sometimes far too far to the right attacking differences Perceived as threats to the lifestyles They have spent lifetimes building. Sometimes far too far to the left ruthlessly unhinging tradition Propagandizing an absolute view of a “should be” humanity, Condemning the injustice of powers not aligned with their own. This for the middle ground, the point of perspective That sees error on both sides, that notes the hypocrisy Of all rhetorical bombast and bias. For those who can and do befriend an enemy For attributes found befriend-able. For those who decline to accept Left or right puritanical thinking. For those who seek and grant repentance, Who forgive. For scientific, observable truths Collaborated by honest investigating minds. For consensus beyond percentage point democracy. For ideals that may be beyond mortal grasp, For hopes that may be no more than mirage, For virtues sung, painted, acted, Cast, forged, danced, preached, doodled, Belabored, bellowed, whispered, Passed down in secrecy, etched on prison walls, Voiced through the choking loop of a gallows’ rope, Prayed for, toiled for, wept over, And perserved. For the possibility that existence Is more than the cynical pursuit of material wealth. For those who might some day give up their miserly ways And spend freely their billions on the betterment of the earth. For those of the far left and the far right That might return to the golden mean Compromising differences for the benefit of all. For a self expanding revolution evolving Into a million million individual souls Enlightened to the prospect that all life can live together as One. For those at risk of being silenced by speeding time Standing and pronouncing and singing and dancing And drawing from the depths of history and knowledge The dreams the older ones, the lonely ones, the silenced ones Died for. Copyright Marc Kelly Smith 2018 |
|
OTHER POEMS
STUTTERING LIGHT
There was a sixteen millimeter emotion machine
Propped up on books in the back of his head
Projecting love onto his late night street wandering teens
Lacing them with music, corny music,
Music that seemed to color each raindrop silver.
Bouncing rhapsodies of raindrops silver.
Bouncing off spring board avenues.
Sparkling stunt man leaps
Into the street lamp light
Down through which he wandered
Trailing the lonely haunting calls of
Could be? Who knows?
I guess he was trapped by that.
By the splash and curl and draw
Of the ocean over a beach
Where he and his love would fall spinning,
Slowly spinning arms entangled
Down to where the water would wet their skin
Warm and colored by the rose red setting sun.
Silhouettes backed by a paramount horizon.
That kind of emotion was pictured in his love
Laced with corny music.
Enchanting, entrapping music.
Music he’d be the first to tell you now
Was ever in his head.
It came from the movies.
From the close up kisses.
From the intent expressions of
What else could the world so right?
His love gripping the arms of the one
He thought he’d hold forever.
Pulling her upward to his descending kiss.
Telling her everything about all there was of him.
Placing his trust perpendicular to the image
He wanted most truly always ever to be his own.
It came from the movies.
The clothed embrace.
The tears welling up.
The violins.
Old movies.
Love without an afterward.
Without explicit definition.
Without technique.
I guess he was trapped by that.
It made a music sing inside his head.
It threw aside reason
And eventually
it snapped
And went flapping
Around and around
On the reel.
White light.
White screen.
It came from the movies.
There was a sixteen millimeter emotion machine
Propped up on books in the back of his head
Projecting love onto his late night street wandering teens
Lacing them with music, corny music,
Music that seemed to color each raindrop silver.
Bouncing rhapsodies of raindrops silver.
Bouncing off spring board avenues.
Sparkling stunt man leaps
Into the street lamp light
Down through which he wandered
Trailing the lonely haunting calls of
Could be? Who knows?
I guess he was trapped by that.
By the splash and curl and draw
Of the ocean over a beach
Where he and his love would fall spinning,
Slowly spinning arms entangled
Down to where the water would wet their skin
Warm and colored by the rose red setting sun.
Silhouettes backed by a paramount horizon.
That kind of emotion was pictured in his love
Laced with corny music.
Enchanting, entrapping music.
Music he’d be the first to tell you now
Was ever in his head.
It came from the movies.
From the close up kisses.
From the intent expressions of
What else could the world so right?
His love gripping the arms of the one
He thought he’d hold forever.
Pulling her upward to his descending kiss.
Telling her everything about all there was of him.
Placing his trust perpendicular to the image
He wanted most truly always ever to be his own.
It came from the movies.
The clothed embrace.
The tears welling up.
The violins.
Old movies.
Love without an afterward.
Without explicit definition.
Without technique.
I guess he was trapped by that.
It made a music sing inside his head.
It threw aside reason
And eventually
it snapped
And went flapping
Around and around
On the reel.
White light.
White screen.
It came from the movies.