20 Dec
2014
Posted in: poetry
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Festive

Shadows blink reflected on the wall as Christmas lights twinkle holiday bright, bright white, bright pink, on and off, on and off.

No golden present miracles appear under the tree for no present giver miracles appear at my door, two times a loss of Christmas miracles for me, for me.

It seems an utter shame or sham to swathe and decorate a house in fir, a house devoid of spirit and of cheer, cheery me, cheery me.

Will the music, hark the herald angels music, let it snow drifts, will the music change the feeling, feeling alone, feeling so singular, on and off, on and off.

Mistook shadows, they aren’t shadows, they’re hope and delusions, fading out, fading fast, the bulb’s burned out, and so it goes and there it goes and me with it, off I go, off I go.

 

Festive Bulb by Greg Beris (GregBeris)) on 500px.com

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Originally written several years ago for 5 sentence fiction. I’ve edited it a bit for this ‘new’ release

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4 Dec
2014
Posted in: poetry
By    4 Comments

Six packets of sugar

Six packets of sugar, ripped open, contents tumbled into a cardboard cup of cold water
Solid concentration focused on process rather than the free concoction
Stir sticks become airborne as the choice of mixing utensil is made

Shifty glances towards the condiments, a room full of furrowed brows umbrella-ing narrowed eyes
While shoes shuffle along a slippery, faux ceramic floor, determined not to lift in step
Voices surround, netted in conversations, rise and fall in volume and pitch

The question on everyone’s mind isn’t what’s it for, what’s its name, where’s it from
They don’t ponder or fondle, wonder or stun-der about such trivialities
The question forming on pursed and rounded lips is where does he belong (in the grand scheme of things)

Though the universe may be big enough, bold enough, vacant enough to hold infinite worlds
Starbucks customers may not contain multitudes enough for a rained-out wanderer
Shoddy, needs a scrub, needs a meal, needs a job, requires too much understanding

And he feels it, and he knows it, and so moves his stain out through the in-door
In his endless search for warmth

*********

Unedited poem from Thursday night when I met a fictional character in non-fiction form.

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9 Nov
2014

Mitchell

There was that smile again. Even now, Mitchell was able to use it to his advantage. It might not work with the cops anymore, but passersby, deciding which undesirable to bestow their money to, would usually go with Mitchell. He would look suitably downcast and hard-done by, then when the money clinked onto his cardboard mat, or better yet, when it fluttered onto his cardboard mat, Mitchell would slowly look up at his street benefactors and beam. Light shining from within, like a sunbeam. Shirley thought he was a faker and probably lived in a mansion in the suburbs, only coming downtown to get some weird kicks.

But Mitchell didn’t care what worked or what inside track he used to gain advantage, he needed money. Pure and simple. He needed cash to buy the smack that kept him going. Fuck them if they were jealous. He was doing what he needed to do.

He always had something to say too. He kept up with the news. Commentary on current events surprised his street donors and he liked the shock value of  a hobo (he couldn’t bring himself to use the term ‘bum’ or ‘addict’) having well considered opinions. If he sat ‘just so’ underneath the diner kitchen window, he caught snippets of the news from the cook’s portable radio. Mitchell’s hearing had remained gold star through the years, even with all the punches to the head.  The news, being well-read or well-heard, were holdovers from his previous life. It helped to keep him from isolation, and desperation, in his room at the Edgerton Hotel.

This is a draft of the beginning, or the end, of a longer piece of writing.

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17 Oct
2014
Posted in: poetry
By    5 Comments

Autumnal notes

Though Vivaldi wrote the shades of all four seasons
My autumn, painted rich with gold and red, shines with only Bach
Baroque swirls of longing, sad notes on a rotund bass

Apples fall from overladen, chipped bark trees and seem to roll
Into concert halls filled with sharp and flat acoustic, light-toned, wood walls
Seating arc for vantage views of stark stage punctuated with black music stands

I close my eyes as strings begin to sing, pining for attention and darker afternoons
When flushed cheeks in sweater weather walks end with turns
Into rooms lit by lanterns and crackling fireplaces

Tapestry and the setting of St. Matthew’s Passion evoke more memories
Of childhoods spent in reverie of worlds beyond these polished rooms
These cosy spaces of dangerous corners and painted ceilings

For outside, rain washes clean the leaves of trees longing for change
Puddles form on gray stone and brick walkways, and I tap
My booted toes to the faraway sound of trains and journeys yet to be

Elizabethean harpsichord join violins and the lonesome cello
Notes plucked, then strings skimmed by ribbon bows
Baroque, my fall friend, obliges me forward,
While all the while I look back in awe and sigh.

Photograph Red October by Vlad Costras on 500px

Red October by Vlad Costras on 500px

Written in response to d’Verse Pub: http://dversepoets.com/2014/10/14/poetics-under-the-influence-of-music/

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12 Oct
2014

As far as the eye can see

Golden sunrise vistas don’t tint this rusted world. Only fractured light reaches between the cracks and crumbles. Even when it’s sunny here, it’s dark.

See, our horizon stretches from alley to alley on either side of East Hastings.

Well sure, there’s one tease of blue-green mountains, squeezed between the pawnbrokers and the beer parlor… but you have to squint really hard.

Photo by Dawn Paley /  The Dominion

Photo by Dawn Paley / The Dominion

Written for this week’s Five Sentence Fiction: Horizon

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6 Oct
2014

Downpour

You find a doorway for refuge. Tears salt your cheeks, wet bangs sting your eyes, and an angry welt reddens high on your thigh.

Curled up as small as you feel, you shiver as rain carries promises of home into the gutter.

****************

42 words

Rain in November

 

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