An edited version up till chapter 8 of 16
Originally written 2012
Cold grass sways their bold necks,
indifferent to the season's grim tale,
too short to be told more than once
a long, unsteady night.
The sounding drums of war.
Bleeding, bleeding...
The reckoning of days.
The hollow eye.
A bird above the barren froth
sings of grass in crystal silence,
calling no more.
Families and trees, all gone.
Fathers long before us
waited for their turn to fill the gap.
The sun in a sea of salt.
Seep through weeping autumn
with gales and gusts,
with weird tools of dark mystery.
The old man hears bells of sunken ships
calling in a weeping mist called memory
if there only was a book of codes.
Thrusts of pain spear the old man's hope
of ever joining joy's magical
master switch
with its ascendance
into a clear cerulean forever.
"Speak you bloody tongue
of all that matters;
speak of all things unsaid,
unheard of amongst beasts,
hovering in halls as yet
unmeasured by eyes."
Leaves and old age fold,
as they should and must,
the soaked soil
knows the downward direction,
the falling spells his name.
This he knows,
that in between this
and what really goes on
there are eyes
dying to get closer.
Driven by a heavy toll
chimney sweeps might allow,
the old man forges day's insanity
into the one true sword
cold nights insist upon.
Never promised by tomorrow,
his scarecrow fingers beckon.
Mortally wounded
he falls short at midnight.
Once milky skin
embraced his dreams
with warm anxiety,
gulls hung above the sea.
He is bruised remains,
eyes falling, leaves.
Earth's dark, exhausted bowl
carries his tenderness.
Dreams fill his days,
sleep erases all hope;
a sullen mound, even more so.
The wind crawls
like a quiet sarcoma patient
over grassy hills in desperation,
hollering at midnight
with an intent beyond the stars:
"Leave me not to time's device,
to the sound of seashells on slabs;
let gentle perish be my hollow mass,
all my broken feet will know."
Measuring all dark hills
a cerulean horizon commences.
The old man purges the passing
with one simple word
and leaps at wind's revision from trees
that take and give him different eyes.
Memories of an old town
move through the wet woods
of bare November's gaze.
Supple ice rolls across hills,
dares the thought to see
hidden memory waves
of lost childhood summers.
Clean, white water once
ran transparent
under these stones;
feathery ferns called
for a viridian indulgence;
birds hid in green, soporific shadows.
Bright chlorophyll
rolled like dark thunder.
2
Saturated in a circular perfection,
not yet pale in a perfect winter sky,
the determined moon wages
yet another way to inherit.
Sparrows fold their day in merit,
there are tales of feathery fames.
Once the grass was tall and free,
slow nights carried windy messages
across a perfectly curved sky.
Now the grass is hurriedly trimmed short
for the final, concave hour
with its mercury motion down.
Bold, defying cries of departing birds
roll across still roadside tombs.
The old man finds no plea.
Never again shall his prayers
fall in love so easily
with crude saxophones on the radio.
Regal rises above hushed trees,
bare with a dark, stiff tongued itching
in a night was belonging.
He has known that coming
long before these words.
Wild wings, a floating elegance,
ride dark water's slow goodbye;
songs of the grave jelly fish
break in long time coming.
Abandoned ferries ruptures,
expecting snow's illumination.
He waits for darkness
in leaps and recoils,
unprepared for the sound
bass players can make;
there are stiff remembrance reeds
in a sea of horns.
The eye, heavy with night,
colors all that might be;
I rises, yet falls heavily
where many an I walks,
continuing the warped distance
from the here to another now.
Tall night fallen with dervish snow.
Green grass groomed in the white,
in an icy tell tale spell grandeur,
beckoning to sparrows in bushes,
cringing in I dark suspension.
When darkness toll in rooms of surgery
he discovers a new see saw syllable,
his hands are signs in a timeless tale.
Slow shadows lost to opportunity;
crossroads transmute, wither and leave.
There are winds that can mold a heart of snow;
white birches can bow, twig strung,
to sky's dark encounter with no more.
Suburbia, evening's dark companion,
abandons misery and runs for lost causes.
Children's voices frozen in formalin
over bedsides where dead visions call
for pale stories to continue
with wintry fantasies and laughter.
A breath of irrevocability
cloaks the dying of the day;
images of ancient ships
sail into a long goodbye sun.
Are there new pages to turn?
A man in the city
howls into the heedless night.
There is a old shortage of cedar.
Dog tired man bones
slowly rot into a mire mass,
a hollow perpetuation.
Smug charlatans hide
in dark deeds of pain,
behind stiff cloths demanding
a silly ceremony.
3
Whirling within limited existence, aroused,
crawling across weathered city centers,
the old man foresees all he is not
and dares the rest to find its own peace
with what no longer is possible.
Itchy, incorrigible ways cringes
at the touch of the one word,
pointing at him. He is lost.
His defiant smile breaks,
his intentions are hung
on long silent considerations.
The sky is a sea-fading fish bone,
a struggle amongst wiry clouds
for winds to interpret or change
the fate of lost men calling
with their pockets full of images,
grinning over dark, watery graves.
Tangled in a warm hide,
breathing softly beneath contortions,
the old man dares not to fall
into night's justified wrath,
he dares not invoke origin
when darkness sieges all ending days.
Overlapping moments of slow now rolling
fall unexpectedly into his lap.
The old man's love is a merry icon,
a slow dissolve into soft cries
prying into the delving;
a muted call, fading into dawn,
when there is no other.
His story is a bony tail,
a symphonic patriot at play.
He disbands and displays dark glory.
It is time he moulds,
time that will not play
with crude clay.
Who will dare dark incitements,
flights no hidden man can heed?
The old man feeds no flare, no fight,
nor what bare needs can prey upon
in nights that bleed for no more.
Thus he calls the pending year
by all fear night concludes in cries;
abandoned kites run with small stars,
soar in a wondrous wake.
It is nothing more than a glimpse,
a voyage of no consequence,
winding its way from here
to a potential said so
and all the way back again.
Drab stories of delusion fall short at dusk.
Frenzied voices from sub zero continents
slide down dark moon's pale matter
in utter looking for
to meet what does not come.
Colliding carelessly with
salty wood-words of winter,
black crows, with feathery bets,
beat collectors to the meltdown.
Food is the final curtain call.
Old predator blinds
that hang broken and vicious
in ways of time's neglect,
in chains and no peace.
Oxygen is more
than just a lethal breath.
Tuition so much more
than just coercion.
4
Old man of war and solitude
finds himself armed and ready
with old righteous howls
and recently dried bones.
The power of money
makes for a long term claim
of all that tags along.
Hypochondriac men
claim dominance by default.
Glossy shadows of power
feed on pain's illusion,
focuses on self imported
aspects of visibility.
Daring is a glorious move
with no need for blood
or religious fervor
to defy the order of deeds.
Old man walking
sees flaws at the fundament,
a keep safe illusion
and mind's complication.
A tumbling today, no direction.
A melting-point leaping
as he, as it were, hoped to canalize
the potential of a lame future
into pools of consideration.
Old man is wild intention
bleeding weary night goodbye,
he is too bold to be daft or even stale,
too rapt to pale or fold.
He is shift change from cruel tears
into one more Good night.
The sound of sirens echoes
with fractal consideration
in halls where danger falls short
at mercury midnight's
bright titan call for moderation.
Never before did a whispered moon
rip at the core of mortal serendipity
with such a definite intent,
never before had it occurred to him
that the haste of days is hereditary.
The waning moon has spent
all expensive emissions
on cellular mass calls for dawn.
Bright nimbus of winter distortion
warps distance into a frosty glass,
where drops softly freeze
into subtle oblivion.
At the dull hour of leaving,
when the light of other days
imbues all he can see,
when being breaks into longing
and matter makes a million goodbyes,
each a sweet bead in a lost rosary,
it is then defeat is bearable.
Parting is a billion suns
bursting into flames
in a single piece of dry wood;
conceding is to swell in that light
with each breath of air.
Cause has no other origin.
Old man turns in his sleep
just before next day
beckons at new horizon.
5
Old man downs cloaked severity
at daybreak's first call
on his way to close his heart and tale
a cold, flawless, winter day.
Burning all bold forever's
beneath a cold private sky
he cries for the lost children,
burning in books lost.
Bushes are etched in winter nudity,
exuding bright flittering clouds
of warm, feathery life.
Tears of irrevocability
ices a cold sea
where the mighty mackerel hums.
He must forego all masters of oblivion
on his way to the sea.
A billion tears have flowed in vain.
Old man's final call will soon
roll fatal life's condition
and nothing but broken tail lights
will guide him concluding his day.
Slandering seas will die,
– before breakfast –
in a temporal disgust, lust
and a slow burning;
jelly fish in contempt.
It is persistence
that holds him fretting
and falling.
The falling could have kept him
from staring at the end.
"Good night weary wisdom's fading.
Tonight no one can play elusive
with a smile of pale stars.
Shadows will not play."
Death has no further say
when it falls into broken night;
haunting rites and intangible ends
give wind to voices lost in blame,
lament and salt.
Time is cruel at midnight's falling.
Water puts shanty towns to sleep
with shimmering waves
and moonlit skeletons dancing.
Theft is located somewhere
between the third and forth vertebra,
signaling a lost tail.
Prostitution goes for money
while translucent skin
tells another tale.
Codes of conduct define what he is
as he materializes in what he sees.
It is time to sleep.
6
Elevators rising far beyond
the wanted floor
turn into blue subways
with female drivers
shifting into new tracks
every time you look.
The phone rings.
You are in a tunnel.
Cellophane thoughts
of a certain cerulean sentiment
unfold a hollow multiplicity.
The old man is barely here.
Who then to challenge his appearance?
Night after night he scratches at origin,
dares specters to dance with him.
Night after night his proverbial nerve
longs for love's flickering sensation
a brief fleeting moment.
Soaring through the entire all of it
he embraces the irrevocable.
Speed is a lethal companion.
All possessions will transform
into bedrock, blood,
into bones, a dreadful integrity,
a hesitant praise of dust.
The city moves cadres of dead eloquence
down the streets
where catafalques of lost innocence
roll like nothing else.
7
Torched by the fire of oblivion
old man longs for water
in late rush hour cries
for opium and hindsight,
for an ultimate here.
Memory is a last legacy
balancing on a sea of words
with gravity falling with images
only condition may direct.
The other speaks.
"Long live extreme and august anger
uniting roaming packs
that crave mass destruction
with words of blind dead want
and swords that flash
in no eloquent fashion."
Hot gain is far more exciting
than the anguish of poverty.
A dark heart speaks loud.
On unpaved streets
you are infamous.
"Long live the voices
that pray for blood,
unforgiving instigators
of fear and cold obliteration."
Winter began with a blue gentleness,
dancing soft circles of integrity;
the peripheral encouraged mild control
as a matter of being in charge.
All that he is and all that he does
leaps at the touch of snow.
Morning is merely the name
of a new white intentions.
Glowing in insidious times,
suspended like herons,
turning curved, beady beaks
toward a final surf,
old man dives into here now
for a glimpse of harnessed light.
Calamities toll like shadows
in the eye of the witness.
Weight fills his recollection
with more regret.
"Cry you hollow man;
the wind is in your shoes.
No one will follow you;
the echo of circular water
is only sand in your tumbler."
Daring dark day's profundity
old man slows down,
facing inevitability.
Day's daring process collides
with intention to express;
the dance subsides,
what must be said is lost.
A moment caught
in the middle of history
with the best of all intention.
The distance between what has been
and what will come
carries his first name.
Webs within circles of distraction
often hold his attention
as day follows moon
on its way to forgetfulness.
The electric night,
baleful with harsh light,
is a watchful eye.
A dog does his smile,
burns all his intentions.
The lights the hall is he
when a fuse goes.
Never looking back
he finds the wind irresistible.
Poetry by Bob
Read 554 times
Written on 2015-12-08 at 23:30
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Write a comment (requires login)
Send as email (requires login)
Print text
Originally written 2012
A stab in the dark
Cold grass sways their bold necks,
indifferent to the season's grim tale,
too short to be told more than once
a long, unsteady night.
The sounding drums of war.
Bleeding, bleeding...
The reckoning of days.
The hollow eye.
A bird above the barren froth
sings of grass in crystal silence,
calling no more.
Families and trees, all gone.
Fathers long before us
waited for their turn to fill the gap.
The sun in a sea of salt.
Seep through weeping autumn
with gales and gusts,
with weird tools of dark mystery.
The old man hears bells of sunken ships
calling in a weeping mist called memory
if there only was a book of codes.
Thrusts of pain spear the old man's hope
of ever joining joy's magical
master switch
with its ascendance
into a clear cerulean forever.
"Speak you bloody tongue
of all that matters;
speak of all things unsaid,
unheard of amongst beasts,
hovering in halls as yet
unmeasured by eyes."
Leaves and old age fold,
as they should and must,
the soaked soil
knows the downward direction,
the falling spells his name.
This he knows,
that in between this
and what really goes on
there are eyes
dying to get closer.
Driven by a heavy toll
chimney sweeps might allow,
the old man forges day's insanity
into the one true sword
cold nights insist upon.
Never promised by tomorrow,
his scarecrow fingers beckon.
Mortally wounded
he falls short at midnight.
Once milky skin
embraced his dreams
with warm anxiety,
gulls hung above the sea.
He is bruised remains,
eyes falling, leaves.
Earth's dark, exhausted bowl
carries his tenderness.
Dreams fill his days,
sleep erases all hope;
a sullen mound, even more so.
The wind crawls
like a quiet sarcoma patient
over grassy hills in desperation,
hollering at midnight
with an intent beyond the stars:
"Leave me not to time's device,
to the sound of seashells on slabs;
let gentle perish be my hollow mass,
all my broken feet will know."
Measuring all dark hills
a cerulean horizon commences.
The old man purges the passing
with one simple word
and leaps at wind's revision from trees
that take and give him different eyes.
Memories of an old town
move through the wet woods
of bare November's gaze.
Supple ice rolls across hills,
dares the thought to see
hidden memory waves
of lost childhood summers.
Clean, white water once
ran transparent
under these stones;
feathery ferns called
for a viridian indulgence;
birds hid in green, soporific shadows.
Bright chlorophyll
rolled like dark thunder.
2
Saturated in a circular perfection,
not yet pale in a perfect winter sky,
the determined moon wages
yet another way to inherit.
Sparrows fold their day in merit,
there are tales of feathery fames.
Once the grass was tall and free,
slow nights carried windy messages
across a perfectly curved sky.
Now the grass is hurriedly trimmed short
for the final, concave hour
with its mercury motion down.
Bold, defying cries of departing birds
roll across still roadside tombs.
The old man finds no plea.
Never again shall his prayers
fall in love so easily
with crude saxophones on the radio.
Regal rises above hushed trees,
bare with a dark, stiff tongued itching
in a night was belonging.
He has known that coming
long before these words.
Wild wings, a floating elegance,
ride dark water's slow goodbye;
songs of the grave jelly fish
break in long time coming.
Abandoned ferries ruptures,
expecting snow's illumination.
He waits for darkness
in leaps and recoils,
unprepared for the sound
bass players can make;
there are stiff remembrance reeds
in a sea of horns.
The eye, heavy with night,
colors all that might be;
I rises, yet falls heavily
where many an I walks,
continuing the warped distance
from the here to another now.
Tall night fallen with dervish snow.
Green grass groomed in the white,
in an icy tell tale spell grandeur,
beckoning to sparrows in bushes,
cringing in I dark suspension.
When darkness toll in rooms of surgery
he discovers a new see saw syllable,
his hands are signs in a timeless tale.
Slow shadows lost to opportunity;
crossroads transmute, wither and leave.
There are winds that can mold a heart of snow;
white birches can bow, twig strung,
to sky's dark encounter with no more.
Suburbia, evening's dark companion,
abandons misery and runs for lost causes.
Children's voices frozen in formalin
over bedsides where dead visions call
for pale stories to continue
with wintry fantasies and laughter.
A breath of irrevocability
cloaks the dying of the day;
images of ancient ships
sail into a long goodbye sun.
Are there new pages to turn?
A man in the city
howls into the heedless night.
There is a old shortage of cedar.
Dog tired man bones
slowly rot into a mire mass,
a hollow perpetuation.
Smug charlatans hide
in dark deeds of pain,
behind stiff cloths demanding
a silly ceremony.
3
Whirling within limited existence, aroused,
crawling across weathered city centers,
the old man foresees all he is not
and dares the rest to find its own peace
with what no longer is possible.
Itchy, incorrigible ways cringes
at the touch of the one word,
pointing at him. He is lost.
His defiant smile breaks,
his intentions are hung
on long silent considerations.
The sky is a sea-fading fish bone,
a struggle amongst wiry clouds
for winds to interpret or change
the fate of lost men calling
with their pockets full of images,
grinning over dark, watery graves.
Tangled in a warm hide,
breathing softly beneath contortions,
the old man dares not to fall
into night's justified wrath,
he dares not invoke origin
when darkness sieges all ending days.
Overlapping moments of slow now rolling
fall unexpectedly into his lap.
The old man's love is a merry icon,
a slow dissolve into soft cries
prying into the delving;
a muted call, fading into dawn,
when there is no other.
His story is a bony tail,
a symphonic patriot at play.
He disbands and displays dark glory.
It is time he moulds,
time that will not play
with crude clay.
Who will dare dark incitements,
flights no hidden man can heed?
The old man feeds no flare, no fight,
nor what bare needs can prey upon
in nights that bleed for no more.
Thus he calls the pending year
by all fear night concludes in cries;
abandoned kites run with small stars,
soar in a wondrous wake.
It is nothing more than a glimpse,
a voyage of no consequence,
winding its way from here
to a potential said so
and all the way back again.
Drab stories of delusion fall short at dusk.
Frenzied voices from sub zero continents
slide down dark moon's pale matter
in utter looking for
to meet what does not come.
Colliding carelessly with
salty wood-words of winter,
black crows, with feathery bets,
beat collectors to the meltdown.
Food is the final curtain call.
Old predator blinds
that hang broken and vicious
in ways of time's neglect,
in chains and no peace.
Oxygen is more
than just a lethal breath.
Tuition so much more
than just coercion.
4
Old man of war and solitude
finds himself armed and ready
with old righteous howls
and recently dried bones.
The power of money
makes for a long term claim
of all that tags along.
Hypochondriac men
claim dominance by default.
Glossy shadows of power
feed on pain's illusion,
focuses on self imported
aspects of visibility.
Daring is a glorious move
with no need for blood
or religious fervor
to defy the order of deeds.
Old man walking
sees flaws at the fundament,
a keep safe illusion
and mind's complication.
A tumbling today, no direction.
A melting-point leaping
as he, as it were, hoped to canalize
the potential of a lame future
into pools of consideration.
Old man is wild intention
bleeding weary night goodbye,
he is too bold to be daft or even stale,
too rapt to pale or fold.
He is shift change from cruel tears
into one more Good night.
The sound of sirens echoes
with fractal consideration
in halls where danger falls short
at mercury midnight's
bright titan call for moderation.
Never before did a whispered moon
rip at the core of mortal serendipity
with such a definite intent,
never before had it occurred to him
that the haste of days is hereditary.
The waning moon has spent
all expensive emissions
on cellular mass calls for dawn.
Bright nimbus of winter distortion
warps distance into a frosty glass,
where drops softly freeze
into subtle oblivion.
At the dull hour of leaving,
when the light of other days
imbues all he can see,
when being breaks into longing
and matter makes a million goodbyes,
each a sweet bead in a lost rosary,
it is then defeat is bearable.
Parting is a billion suns
bursting into flames
in a single piece of dry wood;
conceding is to swell in that light
with each breath of air.
Cause has no other origin.
Old man turns in his sleep
just before next day
beckons at new horizon.
5
Old man downs cloaked severity
at daybreak's first call
on his way to close his heart and tale
a cold, flawless, winter day.
Burning all bold forever's
beneath a cold private sky
he cries for the lost children,
burning in books lost.
Bushes are etched in winter nudity,
exuding bright flittering clouds
of warm, feathery life.
Tears of irrevocability
ices a cold sea
where the mighty mackerel hums.
He must forego all masters of oblivion
on his way to the sea.
A billion tears have flowed in vain.
Old man's final call will soon
roll fatal life's condition
and nothing but broken tail lights
will guide him concluding his day.
Slandering seas will die,
– before breakfast –
in a temporal disgust, lust
and a slow burning;
jelly fish in contempt.
It is persistence
that holds him fretting
and falling.
The falling could have kept him
from staring at the end.
"Good night weary wisdom's fading.
Tonight no one can play elusive
with a smile of pale stars.
Shadows will not play."
Death has no further say
when it falls into broken night;
haunting rites and intangible ends
give wind to voices lost in blame,
lament and salt.
Time is cruel at midnight's falling.
Water puts shanty towns to sleep
with shimmering waves
and moonlit skeletons dancing.
Theft is located somewhere
between the third and forth vertebra,
signaling a lost tail.
Prostitution goes for money
while translucent skin
tells another tale.
Codes of conduct define what he is
as he materializes in what he sees.
It is time to sleep.
6
Elevators rising far beyond
the wanted floor
turn into blue subways
with female drivers
shifting into new tracks
every time you look.
The phone rings.
You are in a tunnel.
Cellophane thoughts
of a certain cerulean sentiment
unfold a hollow multiplicity.
The old man is barely here.
Who then to challenge his appearance?
Night after night he scratches at origin,
dares specters to dance with him.
Night after night his proverbial nerve
longs for love's flickering sensation
a brief fleeting moment.
Soaring through the entire all of it
he embraces the irrevocable.
Speed is a lethal companion.
All possessions will transform
into bedrock, blood,
into bones, a dreadful integrity,
a hesitant praise of dust.
The city moves cadres of dead eloquence
down the streets
where catafalques of lost innocence
roll like nothing else.
7
Torched by the fire of oblivion
old man longs for water
in late rush hour cries
for opium and hindsight,
for an ultimate here.
Memory is a last legacy
balancing on a sea of words
with gravity falling with images
only condition may direct.
The other speaks.
"Long live extreme and august anger
uniting roaming packs
that crave mass destruction
with words of blind dead want
and swords that flash
in no eloquent fashion."
Hot gain is far more exciting
than the anguish of poverty.
A dark heart speaks loud.
On unpaved streets
you are infamous.
"Long live the voices
that pray for blood,
unforgiving instigators
of fear and cold obliteration."
Winter began with a blue gentleness,
dancing soft circles of integrity;
the peripheral encouraged mild control
as a matter of being in charge.
All that he is and all that he does
leaps at the touch of snow.
Morning is merely the name
of a new white intentions.
Glowing in insidious times,
suspended like herons,
turning curved, beady beaks
toward a final surf,
old man dives into here now
for a glimpse of harnessed light.
Calamities toll like shadows
in the eye of the witness.
Weight fills his recollection
with more regret.
"Cry you hollow man;
the wind is in your shoes.
No one will follow you;
the echo of circular water
is only sand in your tumbler."
Daring dark day's profundity
old man slows down,
facing inevitability.
Day's daring process collides
with intention to express;
the dance subsides,
what must be said is lost.
A moment caught
in the middle of history
with the best of all intention.
The distance between what has been
and what will come
carries his first name.
Webs within circles of distraction
often hold his attention
as day follows moon
on its way to forgetfulness.
The electric night,
baleful with harsh light,
is a watchful eye.
A dog does his smile,
burns all his intentions.
The lights the hall is he
when a fuse goes.
Never looking back
he finds the wind irresistible.
Poetry by Bob
Read 554 times
Written on 2015-12-08 at 23:30
Save as a bookmark (requires login) Write a comment (requires login) Send as email (requires login) Print text
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