Jul 22, 2007

It’s a good thing I don’t like people. No one will tell me how [Harry Potter] ends.

- Anonymous

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Poetry

If you want to follow my poetry, follow me on pownce.

People like city poets
their references to places they’ve been
I can do that:

Crack dance at Pigeon Park
Walk down toitie Robson
Up to trip Commercial

Pleasing that a street named after
money makers and ad men
should revolt against

Walk to Uncle Fatih’s for a slice
of Pizza. Then on the Skytrain
Home.

Not that hard.
To bad my eggs are scrambled.
This is not my home.
Thursday, 21 August 2008, 6:54 am #
No words to write
and yet the tip of my pen still scratches
fibered remains of great groves of trees
The fiery brother stains with liquid charcoal
embered remains of lost ideas
hollow, empty, directionless
encompassing the pen, the hand
the arm, and mind
the creator of papered burning death.
Sunday, 17 August 2008, 8:30 pm #
This is my temper tantrum
my hissy fit
my don’t wanna
not gonna do it
jump up and down
bouncing in an invisible jolly jumper
red face
fire siren
moment.

Wait

Numb to the noise
the ritual of it
constant
no escaping
walled in brick by brick
frost bit
from finger tip
and toes
midnight sweats from day lit burns
twitch from fix
blind from sun spit.

Embrace

This is not the assigned
and damn it,
sublime
an escape
a break from rule
the duel
of you against you
you shouldn’t yet you do
this ain’t flight
my melancholy plight
with fist inside
you shake
yet make
these words on this page!

It’s quiet

My temper tantrum
hissy fit
don’t wanna
not gonna do it
jump up and down
inside

while I
wait
to embrace
my quiet
Friday, 15 August 2008, 6:48 am #
an old desk
thrown against the wall
and shattered like the child
that once sat in it with glory

in an old house
stained with fear and hate
that singes the senses
with secrets stored
in stairways and carpets

down in it’s belly
a den of education
with others now piled up
and forgotten in a corner
like the children in their glory
shattered against the wall
Wednesday, 13 August 2008, 7:17 am #
Wake up caged amongst the lost
Walking through their world.
Look at the posters pointing
The way not traveled has
been traveled too much

This world rich with illusion
You think you’re found?
You think it’s wise?
To walk amongst the found
is not traveling at all

On a pedestal looking up
In your caged Freedom
I’m alive and drenched in
the lonely
The Lonely we are
Sunday, 10 August 2008, 10:46 pm #
What was I when I was here last?
A storyteller & dreamer?
A rainmaker & healer?
Did my mouth mold around meter & rhyme?
or Did my eyes skip through tales of lows and highs?
I don’t recall,
but that’s the wonderment of it all.
Friday, 8 August 2008, 6:49 am #
Tongue on tongue on
Cheek to cheek
Dripping with metaphors and
thoughts; ideas
With Intensity
of sweat flying from
Boxers Face
Hit with the glove of
Inspiration
Thursday, 7 August 2008, 7:02 am #
What would it be like to see the sun?
I don’t mean to look up at the sky
and see a ball of light
staring at us from heaven.
I mean to see the sun.
A raging ball of fire
that’s so powerful to send
heat across the milky way.
It decides who lives or dies.
And if we aren’t worthy of walking
on this one planet it can rage against us
and with one small wave, we die.
Monday, 4 August 2008, 1:19 pm #
No vision to guide a weary hand that strokes aimlessly to the sky.
With fists of white they curse above.
A blinding light responds.

Dissembled, tattered, encased by polared rock, not pointing to a compass
but, round it pivots and spirals so
to add confusion to this travel woe.

Adrift and alone. Only flights of fancy that catch an eye and paralyze
till burning tips of painted wings
cause a tumble towards a bluest embered coal.

What must it be, to have dotted line between left and right, continued onwards
through and over mountain crest.
A beacon to souls desire.

A calling home from far off lands through places yet unknown.
The journey is important,
while destination still is always known.

Instead, in chaos core adrift, a regal ship of war, with sail forgotten by
silent iron children.
Still a boat.

It's more like thought without a word.
Aimless throughout our conscious
with no doorway through becoming solid known.

Instead, it hides between words and lines
only glimpsed;
to some completely unheard.

To feel this curse is heavy.
But, unlike Atlas, temporary.
A limbo between dark and light.

My gray today will rain and wash away
my cloak of quills
and I shall shine no matter.

A star in heaven from far away
shall see me cry and
know my name.

On that day with fists of white,
what once was aimless strokes
connect to form a mastful sight

My painted life
of depth and hue
Concluded.
Saturday, 2 August 2008, 10:28 pm #
I made a cigarette from glue and paper
crammed with shredded soul and shrine,
which once was used by spirits around
but now is cased in box and time.

Puffed away at past and ceremony
filled my lungs with olden prayer
but when exhaled fed not the beast
instead it tasted old and stale.
Friday, 1 August 2008, 10:08 pm #