and those that live in it
Scatterbrain
The following is a collection of poems from my personal writing. These range from introspective pieces to poetic jokes I've written.
Flower
This flower doesn't blossom like the others,
There are no petals that will cap this stem,
You see good sir this flower grows forever,
It shoots in spurts and oddly twists and bends.
When faced with rain this flower may recoil,
It needs a gentle push now and again.
But this flower that has seemed to piqued your interest
Is unlike any flower you have met.
​
Go on now sir and take it to your garden.
Give it water and it should be good to go.
This flower is a fighter and I promise
That it will storm the winter's sleet and snow.
You'll be right there by it's side to give it guidance,
And as you give it guidance you will grow,
And within time I'm sure you'll come to notice,
This flower knows that it is not alone.
Minuses
I'm broke,
And though I want for nothing I've discovered the result
Is I've brought a halt to the plans carefully laid until the bills are paid.
Hands upon the window panes.
Though troubling as it may be my predicament spawns not from the impending foreclosure of my innocence but rather from the degradation of my relations, which until today have been a give and take.
But now I've nothing to give, though everything's at stake.
I stake a claim upon the times I have given.
Hoping my future transgressions will have room for some remission.
Apologetic and I beg forgiveness.
For I promise that one day I will have risen,
To look back upon this attack that has plagued my frontal lobe.
Whether it is nobler to suffer doesn't mean much when I don't have clothes to wear,
Or the hope. I'd tell you that I'm scared, that's the underlining.
Take me back to simpler times of diamond mining,
With friends on a voice call muffled by stuffy sinuses.
Today there's nothing in my bank account,
but minuses.
Ptptptptptpt
Propellers sputtered spastic as thick
Plumes of smoke spread skyward, while word
Traveled down the line to hop aboard.
​
Stern and silent was the pilot while it
Rose up to the sky which was a violet
I had never seen before.
​
With wooden wings which rattled that old
Piece of junk we sat on had not
Just begun to fly, it truly soared.
​
Sprinting back we told the others of the
Wonder we recovered, for we swore
That plane would simply fly no more.
​
So Here I Lay Dying
So here I lay dying, though I knew this would be,
I never expected you'd come straight to me.
A bench, in a park, with a sandlot adjacent
in the town I grew up in, how queer a location.
​
I never believed that you'd look quite this way
I thought you'd be older, I thought you'd be grey.
I thought you'd look vengeful, old testament stuff.
But no, you look friendly. I guess that's enough.
​
So here I lay dying, shall we rewind the tapes,
And view my existence, and all it's mistakes?
Or are you just here to inform me it's time,
To walk side by side to your finishing line.
​
But no, you've said nothing—no word of reply.
You sat here beside me to stare at the sky?
The sky you created, the sky you hand-made,
Like me. Oh, I see, you've nothing to say.
​
Or rather, you've no need to say it to me.
I suppose this is all I'm intended to see.
A bench in a park that I've known for some time.
No cosmos of wonder. No finishing line.
​
If you'll answer one question, is this where it stops?
Do I stay in this park till my body just rots?
Do I sit and watch clouds till my mind simply ceases?
Please answer me once, just give me the reason.
​
I'll watch the sky gladly and count every cloud,
I'll lay on this bench as my timer counts down.
If this is my ending I just want to know,
Is this all I get? Is there nowhere to go?
​
Then calming in tone, he said in one breath.
"It's always your first when you sit on this bench.
But many times still we've had this rapport.
The purpose of pain, the reasons for joy.
​
But no single answer will give you your purpose,
And endless discussion is merely disservice.
Next time you arrive and sit on this bench
You'll ask every question you have once again
​
So sit for a while, as long as you please.
Then, once you are ready, take hold of the breeze,
And let it transport you to somewhere that's new,
And live once again. I hope that you do.
​
Then come back and ask me, again and again.
The purpose of living, the reason for ends.
I'll give you my answer, just as I have done,
But I do love to see you, it's always such fun."
​
Then he rose and he left me, alone in my seat,
To contemplate life in its plot incomplete.
Then when I was ready, just as he had said.
I let the breeze take me to start once again.
Summer Breeze
Divide his soul centisimal
And see what you divine.
Trap every moment estival
And run between the pines.
Blind by the moments pessimal
He's lost and left behind.
Though comfortable and sensible
He struggles to unwind.
​
Grasp to the future fruitlessly,
Then paint the walls a grey
Alay the past to euphony,
And float the frames away.
Then stand alone and suitably
Survey a windy sway.
Then delve into a beautifully
Remembered summer's day.
Speaker
Upon a beaten amber floor that twists and knots discordantly,
A garden blossoms thought unto the speaker you've appointed me.
To weave at least a fickle dream of unrequited fantasy
But turns in silence ever more suspicious of its majesty.
For what's this gift of language stretching out into eternity?
Why must I think in paces of the race you've set in front of me?
I struggle to find purchase in the surface of modernity.
I've not been sculpted out of clay I've sculpted out of novelty.
​
The nature you have been bestowed is not for claiming sovereignty
You undermine my graces speaker, lost is your philosophy
You are no wordless wretch or knave, you're cursed with no poverty
I've granted you an angels breath to use at cost of constancy.
Deny this blessing if you wish but do not call this modesty,
You're just a fool unfit for trust if you believe that honestly.
A blade which strikes the folded gates responds to your anomaly
The choice is yours to make dear speaker, thus begins your odyssey.
​
Fort Sparrow
With streaks of lightning stretching skyward
Shrieking winds and creaking plywood
Blanket torn and tarp untieing
Sheltered two are softly crying.
​
Voices crack through walkie-talkies
"Homebase Alpha, do you copy?
Bruce is hurt, we need an evac!"
From the speakers, only feedback.
​
Suddenly there came a knocking
As the hatch began unlocking
Dread and terror broke the quiet
Softened sobs to screaming violent.
​
Panic as the hatch creaks open
Fearful frantics steals all hope and
Soon enough all fears erased
With their father's calming face.
​
To be Divine
Above the stars there sits a bar angelic in creation
Where billiard balls ring whimsical and saints sate their temptations
Where sinners know no entrance but know home in conversations
Of works of art, or broken hearts, and all human sensations.
​
New Perspective
"Now this is what I call a new perspective"
He said while hanging backward off the roof
Where buildings pierced into the sky like daggers
And clouds would roll across a ground of blue.
The sun meandered down beneath the skyline
And washed his face in temple orange glow.
His eyes affixed to all the busy streetcars
And birds that traced their violet roads below.
The hair from off his neck draped up above him
Stood tall like blades of grass upon a lawn.
He stared until the blood rush made his head ache
Till all the stars that dot the roads were gone.
Then swinging up and swaying in confusion
He waited till his balance would allow
To looked upon the view with fresher vision
And live within a world that's upside down.
​
Astral
Astral black, awaiting return.
Call to home with crackling reverb.
Broken console sends me seaward.
Needs repair and needs some teamwork.
​
Hold me tether seize my drifting.
Indicator, cease your blinking.
Oxygen is draining quickly.
Console, will my people miss me?
​
"No dear captain, you are stranded.
Seems no crew has safely landed.
Fuel supply is harshly damaged.
Food and water must be managed.
​
Reconnecting seems unlikely.
Those these stars are shining brightly,
Solar panels charge no lightning.
Captain, rest now, stop your fighting."
​
My Morning View
My morning view
looked less than blue
through crooked branches new.
The clouds hung still
above my 'sill
debating what to do.
For rain they'd need
a filling feed
of April flower's dew.
For sun they must
clear out at once
and let the sunshine through.
The clouds they sat
as pitter-pats
of raindrops drizzled down.
Perhaps considered,
then the pitter-
patter softened sound.
The undecided,
all divided,
sunshine slips around.
Till once again,
the treaties end
and block my view in clouds.