poetry, Prose, Reviews

fences

Inspired by the 2016 film Fences (click here)
*                                  *                                  *

 

spin the ball with me…hold that leather skull in your hand it’s just baseball

it could be rocket science ingredients leaping from tube to tube with the fear of fire and the desire to turn into something cold and remembered

in baseball folks are running from plate to plate sometimes you miss the ball like it’s a force you can’t see…an idea you can’t free…a divorce in your head maybe

an old man is out building a fence…he buys sturdy wood…he wears a smile and a stare that crawls into your bones

he churns up the naked loam with an old spade…his hands cling to the wooden neck the same way a jaded man fondles a bottle of something strong enough to wash emotions away

“one day I’ll finish this damn thing” he tells himself…earth, sweat and spray rinse dense memories he cannot leave behind unless he presses his lips to the gentle kiss of a gin bottle

old, polished, strong to the taste just like a boy he remembers and the man he forgets

 

 

PhilosopherPoet

Standard
poetry

the lady on the bus

fragile and foetal
death picks up the chaos
she cannot collect

her eyes hide
in the slow smoke

her hair lies between
rules and regret

a brown umbrella
decorates her day

a white hat
holds the echoes
in her speech

her son died today
in dank ditches
where spoons suffocate

eyes like a soldier
a voice so tender
it narrates the
fingers of smoke

 

PhilosopherPoet

Standard
poetry

the girl with the golden bow

for Takae

she drifts like water
through the house
her hands are curious mice
they scurry from cellphone
dip into the soft throat
of her handbag

she sleeps
engaged in the ochre arms of the duvet
she sighs and moans as the slow waves
of memory wash through the events in her eyes
her whispers walk away from her
growing in gravity

she rests in the gentle
arms of my sweatshirt
the blue cotton calms her
caresses the narrow slope of her back

she lies against me – i can feel the
clock in her heart
her smile spills onto my neck
her fingers grow like roots
into the shadows of my chest

last night we spilled out of the taxi, like a
giddy glass of wine painting the pavement
under the eyes of street lights,
we gossiped like goblins, the
pulse of midnight pulling us home
like the slow notes of a song
that says “we can dance forever”

he bought her breakfast today
he juggled cups & coffee beans
and watched the silver arm of the
plunger seep down into the present

4 hours later she sleeps in his bed
he watches her and annotates an image
vibrating in his head
“she is my goddess today.”

this is only the first chapter – he thinks
stories empty out of every breath
he will remember…
the rhythm of her voice
the patterns she sketches
in a fluid finger

he folds her arms around him
like the lips of a newspaper
her heart continues to beat
and drums down into her dreams

 

 

PhilosopherPoet

Standard
Philosophy, poetry

the old man and the boy

an old man walks
along the rocky
road of an orchid

he carries a silent staff
amber eyes drink the
severed psyche of the boy
he sits down to watch

– come and listen
he beckons the boy
naive feet beat
against the ground

– it’s the sound of a frog
wizard like wind whistles
through hair and bones

the boy fidgets
baby rabbit brain
inside young man muscle

– it’s the sound
of your warrior
a damp dialect dribbles
from his throat

– huh?
childhood chaos unfolds
vacant voices shift
in virgin ears

an old hand
ploughs through
knots in his beard

– cry like a man
burn with regret
listen to angst unwind
in your bones

he says

 

PhilosopherPoet

Standard
Philosophy, poetry

there is a god in my head

there is a god in my head
cold notions scrape against
the cement of the mind

he sways from slumber
with a dark fist

there is a god in my head
voices crawl through cables
neurons heavy with history
synapses
writhe in molten thought

i am the god in my head
emotions scatter in anger
i frighten the fragments
the chaos i sculpt with blind intent
the picture of a weak man
[i refuse to watch]

i brighten timid corners of
my narrow house with the
scalp of a light bulb burning
and the vacant murmur
of callous cutlery

dividing my guilt

 

 

PhilosopherPoet

Standard
poetry

magician

spices scatter
hand twitches
mushrooms jostle like
coins in a purse

he skips around the stove
– every minute is theatre
he wields a wooden spoon
with wand-like intensity

aroma oozes into the room
heart thunders in ribcage
eyes flicker and fold between
ingredients & mayhem

– a fine meal is like drinking
mead with the gods
he told a friend

now rice pours on to the plate
like course notes from an hourglass
he hums a song
it flashes through the steam
the somber notes fall down
arranged in empathy

 

 

PhilosopherPoet

Standard