He Plays The Guitar

Walking into the room
A gentleman such as he
Would say I wore
A dressing gown.
He didn't see me there,
Touched his sweet guitar,
Played a lonely note
And then an octave higher.
The unison and symmetry
The other half was to be me.

He put the guitar
Outside of the room
"Business stays there,
In here is pleasure."
I brought it back in,
I said to mix both
He poured us red wine,
We had a toast.
The unison and symmetry,
The other half was to be me.

He took my wine,
We both stood up
He took my hands
In them he poured one glass.
He drank from it
Then I did the same,
Our eyes met like
The first time again.
The unison and symmetry,
The other half was to be me.

I touched the guitar,
Still warm from his hands,
I knew what he needed
I felt his demands.
He looked in my eyes
And saw how I saw,
Though we'd kissed times before,
This was our first.
The unison and symmetry,
The other half is now me.

Protector

It's made of what used to be living.
The spirit drums there still
As does the maker's.
Was it worth that rabbit's life
To protect my living space
And to help its companions on my wall
To guard my precious tell tale dreams?
My ancestors thought so.
Could they send it to protect me;
To bundle me in their furs against the biting coldness evil?
It's a different time
But the frame is full circle
It's all symmetrical
And the ocean's centered streak
Is my own creation,
So that I am a part of it,
It is a part of me.
Tresses, wooden beaded ends,
I let it sing.
Note: The above poem was written for my poetry group. The weekly theme was 'an object.' I wrote it about my dreamcatcher and old pictures of the Beatles.
 

Glad To Listen

Don't leave me here
Or play into my fate.
This hour of darkness
Is sooner than late.
Crisp, cold air moves
Around and about.
When I let you in,
You chase it out.
Your muse stuck in meter,
My head stuck in rhyme
Constance eternal,
Love last all time.

For (A very special person!)
I came into the London flat,
He was outside
Seemingly upon the balcony
Romantic balcony
Perhaps awaiting me
Although I was rather early
I did not catch him on unawares
Or at least he did not act so.

Thinking I would find him there,
Stargazing, waiting awaiting something
Away,
I wanted to greet him with a touch.
Looking on the balcony,
Confused and worried
What had happened...
His calm voice called from a ledge
"I'm here."

On the table first I saw
His keys;
Empty glasses waiting to be filled
With uncorked wine.
Following the glare of light
Moon its source
Reflected on the glass into his eyes
He sits on an outcropping brick ledge,
Outstretched legs he watches over the city;
A protector.

Outstretched hand I touch the tips of walking over
In the moonscape
To the streets below I show my fear at which he smiles
And nods to urge me over
Taking hold of my hands then my hips he leads me on
The balance beam of brick
And trust.

At last I rest upon the narrow ledge,
I am safe with him now
And I ask the man of building
Why this ledge was built here.
He says it is because
He would someday sit here with me
But I asked for a more logical explanation
For I answer with poems
And he with musical equations.

"There is a fault line
Seven blocks west.
This house and you,
My treasure,
Shall not buckle within
Upon its hunger."

And for safekeeping,
I am wrapped in his arms
As he overlooks the city.

The following is about my father, but includes a significant, loving contrast.

The Lonely Painter

You have fallen
From the Sky
And your wings fell into a stream
of Poetry running through me out of me to me to you
What you left unfilled in me
Must remain so
Question mark.

You have fallen
For today
And every car door slam
Black Lincoln Continental
Makes me hide in its shadow
Who I am not.
Who am I not?

Every Italian man is precisely
Uncharmingly Unhandsome Unattractive Unreeling
Emotions Unfeeling.

Lyrical being believing in the blond blue
Man of Celtic descent that still puts up
A decent fight
Against you, Roman.

Your vines of wine and fake fine
Artistry
'Lover divine'
Will strangle to death
All that is a part of you
And then some of me
Vindictively
Before whatever comes of the future

This one's just about a working class guy vs. any random famous snobby guy. (or any president we might know). The working class guy was kind of inspired by John ("working class hero") and the actual character somewhat buy Paul in retrospect although I wasn't really thinking about him when I wrote it.

Pulses

He has to feed his children,
The man with a hammer.
His pay is minimal
He is faithful to his wife,
Only she makes him feel special,
Although he is so integral to our worlds-
That's how it should be.
He makes so little
Takes so little,
And finds happiness in simplicity.

We admire men on pedastals
When we should be looking
Amongst ourselves.

He hits the golden spike in place,
(People below
The raised above
What must we do to stay in love?)
And moves his family on.
 

This one was done after i felt the wind blow in my hair at the Dodge Poetry Festival. It's a memory poem I guess:)

Wind

Wind blew in my hair today.
Brushed back to a concert,
Wind blown in black car
Driven by a familial stranger.
Not brushed back by their hands.

Brushed back to what could have been,
What we wish to forget
Theng act was only background music
Tone setting themes setting singe-ing sweet fire
I knew he was different
Not a father
Not a liar.

Wind blew in my hair today
Hippie-long-shining it could be
But strangely untangling
Embracing the wind as a dreamcatcher

Release.
 

Perfect Pitch

You smell like shaving cream
You came late to dinner,
At the mention of sex
You 'sinner'
Feel shamed
For thoughts-
But I care for you
Just the same.

He smokes like a chimney
of sweet smelling waves
From the sea by which he stands.
Song in one ear
Guitar in one hand
He feels regret
"I do..."
Understand.

Hands up behind me
A burning forest
Cannot breathe the air surrounding
A tree, she branches roots reaches
Mutes the pain of fleshy pith away
On the other side of the world-
Who has perfect pitch today?

Raincatcher (lyrics)

There was a ghost in this town
He had a calling
A calling to someone
Somewhere
A Haunt.

There was a lonely old dream in this town
But the ghost caught the dream
And Spirits are everywhere
They are their our own Dreamcatchers.
They played catch with the dream
Caught it like a cold.

There was a Holy Man in this town.
I don't know which religion
Which order
Which sect,
But he was a Holy Man.
He misinterpreted our dreams
He made them into stories
Pressing like lips against
his own God.

Flowers pressing like lips
Moist against the sun.
Fish pressing for survival
Damp against the rain.

Hiking

Life is in a flux
and close wind
Blowing out of the door
Not in.

You are a dream
Passing down a river
Gently luminescent
Sadness in my sleep.

Posted on a wall
On a board
Is a name
And a number
They are not yours
So I will not call.

Camping in a photograph
Atop a pile of ruin in a river,
I am a getaway.
There is a hideaway.

The dwelling is not perfect,
In fact, it is not kind
To look at
To most eyes.
But to yours, it is a gem
Soaring to the sky
In someone's eyes
Someone pretty.

White

Rose
Is my favorite.
Lifeblood seeping into its petals
Damaging it to perfection
Different, like the rest
Like all of them.

Snow
Tainted with dreams
Humanity morphing from its collapsed ruin
Crushing Mr. Snowman into oblivion
A pile among snow piles
Rocks hidden below.

Clouds
Withholding dark ruin rain
A perfect picnic destroyed by deceit
Drenching children with their conforming uniforms:
(Custom tailored to make any child uncomfortable yet inconspicuous)

Before I could smell rain
Or dig bare feet into the mother ground
I was that way
Indoor and out
Outside and in.
 

Noctourne

Deed unforeseen
No action inclined
No sense impaired
Disgraced to hollow
Fallen emaciated empty ending.

Evoking green to sacrifice
For the harvest
The full
Crescent o be that moon swell

On the ocean
Maternal lullabye
Can you sing?

Sleep, precious, sleep.
Motions of the oceans
Columns fallen deep below
Impaling the sands
And all buried there.
Sand smoothing surface
Be this heart rough.
Be my heart kind.