Whisperings

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Willailla
Willailla
64 Followers

WHISPERINGS


A Stone

Once upon a time
A stone was flung across a universe
By a mindless hand

Past rainbow-colored stars
Through a cold and infinite span

Caught on the other side
Flung back the stone
Another mindless hand

After Reading the Fathomless Ashbery, I Wrote

Diablo’s hot Studebaker
roared down the road.
Birds rankled in the
Peachtree.

Roared.
Niagara Falls.
Marilyn Monroe flees
the wetness between
her thighs.

Diablo left no tracks
on his way to the stars.
There was no whiskey
left for dreams.

Weeds bloomed
beneath the mailbox.
Flies buzzed around the oak
where Diablo died
in a cloud of smoke.


Angel Wings

The gentle
breeze
against your cheek:
angel wings
fanning some far away
hell.

APOCALYPTICA IN GRAFFITI

Leroy paints mushroom clouds
On urine smelling walls
Melting fields of tarnished saints
Grown fat deceiving poor.

Munch’s Scream to Guernica.
Leroy sniffs his can,
And sharks patrol a psychedelic land.

A hooker is mounted on her slab,
And jesus prays for more…
Endings in Disneyland.

Too late, my love, you turn these bitter pages,
The doomsday clock has struck.
Somewhere a universe turned us off
And ushered in the dark.

At the Water's Edge

At the water's edge
a lovely shade of red
three leaves that bled
as autumn raised its head

And then came doubt
of all those conforming creeds
that men believed
and had instilled in me

That fairies flew above the trees
and elves drank of honeydew from off the leaves
in Fairyland Queen Mab they knew
lived within a rainbow too

Yet upon the water's edge
all that had been for me was dead
three leaves that bled
truth from mortal beauty led

Dove

My heart was by a wounded dove
with nothing before it.
Gentle and serene it leaned on the breeze
looking down on this ring of earth,
showing its love in a spiral.
Now earthbound as I,
how this innocent would die
confused by some cruelty unforeseen
and yearning for what can never again be.

Dreams

(for Robert Hayden)

if they ask for us
tell them we are out with the dancers
or walking to mars
with our hands in our pockets
or anything
but don't tell them
that here we lie
and that here we'll remain
dust stuffing our heads
and dreams theirs


El
Lamento

I look at my life and I say to my life,
“Life, why have you come to nothing? ”
And my life he look at me and he say to me,
“Because...you fucked up! You fucked up! ”
And I look at my dreams and I say to my dreams,
“Dreams, why have you not come true? ”
And my dreams they look at me and they say to me,
“Because...you fucked up! You fucked up! ”
And I look at my woman and I say to my woman,
“Woman, why do you treat me so badly? ”
And my woman she look at me and she say to me,
“Because...you fucked up! You fucked up! ”
And I look at my mirror and I say to my mirror,
“Mirror, why has my life come to nothing?
And why have my dreams not come true?
And why does my woman treat me so badly?
And why am I talking to you? ”
And my mirror he look at me and he say to me,
“Because...you fucked up! You fucked up! ”


Freedom

the horses
fled down the highway
until they realized
it too was fenced in

In Memory of Gone

You were a gypsy dancing on moonbeams,
smiling like a lantern
swung by a drunken sailor,
a ship storm-tossed and swaying,
a displaced stone from a creek bed.

I didn’t hear what the minister said;
didn’t seek reasons; there aren’t any.
I lowered my hand to let the sky back in
and pieces flow from my head.
Better to remember you
in a warm café sipping a latte,
than gone.

Learning to Ride a Bicycle Without God

You thought you couldn’t ride your bicycle
Without him.
You were always looking behind
To make sure he was holding on.
One day you looked back,
And he wasn’t there.
He was smiling,
Waving goodbye.
You were on your own
And doing fine.

Nocturne in a Purple Bar

I cannot stop
the silent walk of stars
across my forehead
nor see anymore
the faces
under the smoky ceiling
of the purple bar.
Island of strange creatures
locked in clonic dance:
anthem of dust souls
seeking their oblivion
on the rust-colored floors of night.
And remorse
like some brooding shadow
clocks the moments
in misspent ecstasy
and scurries on my thoughts:
postscripts to the glass-filled reflections
of some disjointed world
alien to me.
And as these
beating quick minutes
flee swiftly to their hour,
I become stilled
by the approach
of a terrifying knowledge
of streets
gleaming white
in the dawn.

Pagan Thoughts

I shouted my name through the valley,
but there was no answer.
My name died on my lips.
No stone would consecrate it.

The grass parted no more.
Birds flew where I had been.
Little children vanquished my footprints.
Invisible to the world of matter,
I went after the wind,
but made no rustle among the leaves.

Listen, heart of ebony,
what is it that truly matters?
Our reach is infinite,
yet contains nothing:
A few flowers dying in a vase.
A book or two.
Stills of a vanished life stuffed in a shoe box.
A tea ring left upon a polished table,
reflecting the blinks of sunlight
through slatted shades.
A door opens somewhere;
footfalls on a hardwood floor;
a radio - distant murmurs;
a cool sheet drawn upon a head;
the buzz of a fly that drifts away;
whisperings of this or that;
a closing door,
then nothing more.

Password

Your voice is rustling leaves now
the marble angel praying over you
has cold hands
that give no recompense

So many stones
spread among the trees
like buttons on some vast
computer keyboard

If only I knew the password
could press some magic key
restore what’s been deleted
could bring you back to me

Peanut

Little cocker dog
who silently comes
to lick the cheeks of memory.

Samuel Peffers

In the cave
the water dripped
upon the head
of Samuel Peffers:
fifty years of darkness,
fifty years dead.

She Bought a House

She bought a house in the country,
far from anyone,
and in its tiniest room
she sat by a window
that looked upon
a distant highway
and watched the traffic come and go.

Her only visitor
was the evening sun
which warmed the papered walls.

And when she was gone
dust covered the window
and decay lived alone.

Starlight

you write your poem
by the light of a star

there are many stars

your poem looks up at you
and winks

The Addicts

He tied his tie
in front of morning’s mirror,
where the moving sun lit
the four corners of his being
above the window sill.

His wife rubbed off the cake
and brought forth a butterfly
that flittered about this purse or that.
What would someone think
to see her in that,
last year’s summer dress?

There was in both
antsy anticipation.
For it was Sunday -
and there was church.

There will be gospel singing,
staunch shows of good will and fellowship,
followed by fervent prayers
spurred by some vacant need
to bring on glorious highs and thrills.

There will be the crafted sermon,
the munch of cracker flesh
followed by the drinking
of Christ’s chilled sweetened blood,
and then, always in awkward silence,
the clearing of some one’s throat
as the collection plate begins to float.

But O’ the crash that comes
when Sunday’s gone.
How to fix those two empty days
until Wednesday?
Then - even as going down the steps
out to the parking lot,
subtle, nerves on edge -
creeps in that gnawing feeling,
that need... to score... again.


The Bullet Train

We cannot stop the bullet train.
It speeds along on tracks ordained.
Through fire of day
and fog of night
nothing can deter its might.

It coils around hills of green
snaking by lakes and rivers blue serene.
The cities are but winks;
the tracks iron fashioned links
between a past that always is
and a future that always was.

The Crow

I hear your repeated syllable
of loneliness and despair
come across this ploughed meadow
as I search for arrowheads.
Ancient bird,
watching from your pine perch,
remembering
the campfires
of those who brought us here
and their prayers
that went up like smoke in the wind
leaving only some stone intentions
to survive.

The Frog

(for Robert Hayden)

There was a frog
lying on a log
dreaming that it was a man,
a man eating a frog.

The Funny Farm

Green and yellow
apple orange
this is the way to the funny farm
where people work from break of dawn
and never think they’ve worked too long.
Hoein’ and mowin’,
huffin’ and puffin’,
they work all day for damn little or nothin’.
Green and yellow
apple orange
that’s why it’s called the funny farm.


The Hollywoodland Sign Suicide

she jumped off the H
and fell to the ground

at least that's the story

but what did she think
on the way down

did she change her mind
did she finally shriek
at the brutal reality of it
or did she smile
for the lack of it

poised to jump
did she pause
could something small
glittering
in the corner of her eye
have changed her fate
did she bid farewell,
is the story true

all that's left
a microfilm
of a vanished page

light passing
through shadows
until only shadows
remain

The Insubstantial

How cool would you be
if you couldn't pee
and your asshole didn't work?

How insubstantial we are
like mist on a flower,
the rainbow after a shower.

The Lark

The lark sings
in the willow tree
where the river runs.

Sweetly in tune
(for him nature provides)
so much more than I
this little thing.

Where does he perch in the evening
so silent then,
hiding from those who would
cut short his song?

Is it then
a song he sings
or, for me, a futile cry?

So silent becomes the willow tree
when, like a phantom,
the lark is gone.

The Lilies

The lilies
wait on the wall
for the all-telling
sigh where doves huddle
neath cornices

Only capable
of tears
nodding
my cigarette turns on me

One final time
a fermented scene and
rapprochement
come together
but spilled wine
can no longer reclaim
its bottle

The Magic Show

I looked into
the magician's bag of tricks,
but that was my mistake.
Thereafter, I could not
enjoy the show.

The Little Birds

The little birds
swoop low
across the road
in front of my headlights,
and as they go
they seem to flow
across the meadow
into twilight.
The rain thickens,
and the signs glow,
and the little birds
swoop low
across the road
in front of my headlights.

The Mole

a little mole
lay dead
on the lawn today
his pink claws
sticking out
like tiny hands
from the sleeves
of his fur coat
he lay where the dog
had grown tired of him
un petit solitare
inches from home

The Mountain Climber

What shall I do now?
Follow the sun from its rising
into the valley far below
or shall I climb higher
to better see
how far darkness goes
and how high these rocks have come
from vanished seas?
I come to taste the salt
from ancient floors
and read your shells of silence.
Up here I see so far,
yet never far enough to tell
from which star hung Heaven

The Painting

she spent her life kneading dough
but her heart billowed like a sail as
her eyes followed the gilt-framed eagle
over the windy crest
her stew was praised by all
her blueberry muffins
'mouthwatering'
when she died
they put on her stone
enclosed between two mourning doves
'good wife and mother'
but could they have known the longings
that once simmered in that now still heart
they would have been as amazed as
an explorer finding footprints
on the sands of Mars

The Passing

The wild honeysuckle has taken you
where the rose wraps its cool arms about
the fallen lattice.

Old, gray walls.
Pitched roof.
Myriad voices
once haunted you.

The green, velvet-covered pond is silent,
reflecting your demise.
Weeds taunt you
and vines explore
where spiders hang their silver webs.

And this end,
this quiet death, beneath withered trees,
is the inevitable rejoining of hands that formed you,
whose pride you were.

I alone deplore
this passing,
this brief flashing affirmation
of mutual decay,
here, in the countryside,
you and I.

The Prodigy

Where is that dream time of youth and wonder
when all the waking avenues of life seemed open before me
and bejeweled skies beckoned in that august dawn?

What fabulous kingdoms my lucid mind devised.
What riches beyond wealth compiled.
What beautiful women wondrous beyond desire.
And mine, all mine, for a touch of gold
that came so easily in that dawn.

Ah, Lucifer, how you did then despair,
yet laugh now at my ragged ware
that age has brought so low.

A dreamer dead in a garden fair,
I held council with the worm, the leaf, the stone.
The silent stone always won
without a word, but eloquent.

I threw a host of stars into the air,
and back they came as pale, brown leaves
murmuring with a broken throat
a thistled truth
that time had run
and I, my clever I, was done.

I held a thought in my hand
and squeezed it tightly,
yet it ran,
and when I was done,
night-rushing truth had won
and recognition gave and took,
and I was gone.

The Rain Is Falling

The rain is falling through the leaves.
I open my window to hear the drops.
They say to me that love comes
with a broken heart;
that it comes with a heavy price
and is full of deceit.
But the rain is pure
as it falls through the leaves.
She comes again.
I see her standing in the rain.
She holds her bleeding heart out
in her hands to me with a selfless look
I have seen before.
Less and less she has come through the years,
but still she comes
thinking I will be deceived.
I who have lived so long.
But this time I will take her heart,
bleeding, from the palms of her hands,
and I will bury it in the ground,
in a plain, wooden box - not of gold or silver,
for if someone should dig it up,
I would not want him rejoicing,
thinking that there was something inside
of even greater worth,
instead of worms.

The Tears of Narcissus

Too soft blooming flowers,
Settling tea leaves.
We are not attuned to the nuances of nature.
We would need elephant ears to pick up
Laments strummed on spider webs.
But like Narcissus we think our tears
Should draw attention
Forgetting that galaxies collide in silence.


The Wind

You were there at the beginning.
You saw the seed expand.
You saw the rivers of blood,
the rise of man.

You carried Nero’s song
from the Tower of Maecenas,
The Sack of Ilium,
feeding the flames of Rome.

You gave shape to the wing
that allowed Daedalus to soar
and watched mankind create
a new kind of war.

Good and evil hand in hand
always contending for the heart of man.
Eons upon eons you’ve wandered the land
giving no answer to the fate of man.

Time

A chimera
that takes our dreams
with bloody claws.

War Is a Holy Thing

War is a holy thing.
It comes from God.
He leads the unblemished lambs
to the altar of Christ's blood
and buries silver daggers in their hearts.

Everywhere dead men meet on street corners
and sing hosannas to this God
and his holy war.
Angels rejoice in Heaven.
For it is war that comes from God
and it is a holy thing.

The time for tithing has come.
The children of God must give silver and souls,
for war is a holy thing,
The scythe moves through the land;
the wheat has been placed in shocks;
the time for harvest has come.

Vanquish the infidels,
the heathen hordes of unbelievers.
Return them to the clay;
for the wrath of God is upon them.,
and men of peace you may despise,
for war is a holy thing.

Listen to the singers of songs
and do not be swayed by the peacemakers,
for they are not of the children of God.
Cover your ears and look away.
Shake their dust from your feet.
They are full of lies and seduction,
leading you from the path of righteousness.

Sing hosannas loud into the night,
giving strength to the faltering.
Show them the way with lighted torches
as stars guide men in heaven.
And be not afraid.
For God is love,
and war is a holy thing.

Whisperings

I am the wind whispering of eternity.
I am silence.
I am the junkie on the street corner.
I am the moralist who condemns.
I am the one who stops to help the stranger.
I am the one who looks away.
I am the sick pervert slavering over the dead.
I am the lamb who nails you to the cross.
I am that wild joy that sends you running through the meadow.
I am the rotting corpse that astonishes you on the battlefield.
I am the slaughterhouse of ideals, the apostle of despair.
I am all.
I am all you wish for.
I am all you fear.
I am the worm, the leaf and the stone.
I am every character in every play, in every book.
I am proud, despicable, profound.
I am wise.
I am the prancing fool, the voice of nonsense, the sage of reason.
I am transcendent. I trail worlds behind me.
I am oblivion.
I am the gate to Heaven.
I am truth and
I am hell.

Willailla
Willailla
64 Followers
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bflagsstbflagsstover 14 years ago
it's not likely

that someone's going to read even a quarter of your submission. I happened to stop at "the crow" and it was the best of all the ones I skimmed, so it seems like you can write poems. Submitting one or two at a time pretty much gurantees people will read every word, but there are too many poems in your submission for anyone to take the time to read them all.

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