[x]

ThursdayRumors of tumors, chatty neighbors, the grateful dead
A broken swing on a deserted playground
And bones; oh, the bones that pile up, more everyday
Thursday I had nothing to say

A weak and pale moon glares down at the snow, impotent
Stars in motion whisper my star-name, calling
Tiny spiders build homes in my beer-soaked brain
Thursday I had nothing to say

Pizza or Chinese for dinner? I can't hold a thought
Craftsmanship went out on a three-hour cruise
Through the swamplands of South Carolina in the rain
Thursday I had nothing to say

A brass-toothed journeyer shines a light in dark corners
Nudges and pokes at the beasts sleeping t

Soft ParadeDown the darkened four AM streets
Morrison leads the Soft Parade
I've had enough beer for it to be all wavy
like watching a movie underwater

Bridges burn behind them
hearses falling off into the river
The string of bad luck and trouble is almost over
gone quietly in the early morning hours

Not with a bang or a whimper
only an extended sigh and the shake of a rattlesnake's tail
I watch as always from my window
feeling the dawn aching to come

and I still keep running into parked carsMama,
your baby girl's swimming
in dead of the night
hair, scarred knees,
overgrown weeds, and
countless pairs
of shoes-
with those
orange and yellow wheels
that hug my toes
and heels

I'm running into
parked cars
trying to get
my kite to fly
and hiding under
dashboards
listening to you
fight

I'm rummaging through
boxes of secrets
that Daddy tried
to hide-
solving puzzles with pieces
I'll never uncover
in these thoughts
of you

The Last Lie of SummerQuiet days, the overcast sky keeps
to itself, ignoring the living for weeks
at a time.

From half a state away-

you could hear trains roll through
towns like mine.

There is peace
and it can't be trusted

Undeserved suspicion
given to the first
fallen leaves.

This was the calm before the calm.
The man that is seen, but
nobody knows.

Promise yourself:
"Tomorrow I will say hello to him."

But we are all too busy dressing healed wounds.

Stepping StonesI rip pages
out of poetry books,
the titles of
Shakespeare
and Plath
and Dickinson
littering the floor
like trash,
and I wonder
if we don't all
wind up stepping stones
in the end.

Heading HomeBitter-boned, I break and crumble to dust
My pockets full of keys to places that no longer exist
An oystershell ashtray full of butts and ashes beside me
Testify to dreams of green hedges and white picket fences

A tapping on the door, a rapping on the wall
Ghosts always like this hour just before dawn
A bird screeches and I wake again to the stinging day
And shufflestep towards home from a thousand worlds away

Name That Baby1) Audio Version Here and 2) New Audio Version here Scroll to "Read by SilverInkBlot," then find this title.

I'm gonna lay it on the table
Do the tell
Get the spelling right
Tight.
Got called "depressed"
Took it up to "manic"
Bipolar in the head
And they said --

"Make it longer,
Schizo-affective
Bipolar tendencies"
New dependency
On taking pills,
To flatten my hills
Knock out the frills,
I got double-damned.

'Cause a this shit --
Father dies in a pool
Mother dies too,
In love with a fool
Mother let days pass,
No food or water
How did she last?
I closed her eyes,
They felt alive,
Like little butterflies.

Hector also dies,
Left alone by

Stick-MenStick-men with blazing matchheads march across the table, single file, towards a glass of water. Latin incantations are said by a sole stick man by the water. It's a mass suicide. One by one they scramble up the slippery glass and jump in, their flames extinguished. This is the way of the world. Someone has placed lilacs on the table. I don't know why. This is the way of the world. I am their god, yet I only observe. It is not for me to determine their end, only to watch, and keep from getting splinters in my fingers. The lilacs smell good over the smoke. It smells like rain outside.

DormantSleep and sway and constancy
rain, two steady days, then three--
the horses crackle through the leaves
and stamp away the mud.
Brown grass lies tired, over-grazed,
bit down from roots to dirt
but winter lends her sympathy.

Her breath, the sharp-edged air;
her arms, the gaunt-limbed trees;
she paces, slow
where field mice cross themselves
against the shadow of the wing
and sacrifice their young.

I go wordless, spellbound
trading bravery for sleep,
alone and sound; a bed
where I abandon you,
the livid world I sought,
I find
that I was never yours
and you were never mine.

SOMETHINGWhat smoky poltergeist has lit out

across the dusty plains of my mind

and left no footprint?

A contrarian alchemist turning

my gold into lead and taking with it

all my illusions of clarity

Those wizards and sorcerers hawking

their false incantations and last right lies

I sense another curve in my future

Something just up ahead

UnbuttonI declared love dead.

There was a ceremony, and I did the obituary.
"Dear love. I told you so."
Then the burial of an empty gesture, broken
promises integrating with the earth.

I visited the grave, let my fingers run
along the unmarked stone. I would sit at the TV at night,
awash in a sea of detergent and other peoples' wives,
forgetting everything about this. One day I just woke up cold.
And it was fine.

I wrote my acceptance on the inside of my door.
Life is full as it is. Full of spoons and dirt and ways to slowly dig.
Full of reflections on what passes and what does not.
Curled up in itself, a wad of dirty bills. Life is
blu

MyiagrosYou went quietly
Like granite with finesse
Days and nights
The come down monster

I had a drink
Six, seven, eight more
Always and sometimes
Completely nothing

The weeks of illness
Before it pulled your eyes shut
No small talk
Just plain, empty time

I walked to the store for smokes
Struggled not to howl
There was fly paper nailed to the register
Legs still moving

And I knew what they were buzzing for
Hell had found you first

Primevaland I don't smoke, but all my poems talk
of cigarettes and ashes because my father smoked
for forty years and now he can't breathe

and I can't breathe.

the chill from the rain seeps through the glass panes
and feels swollen in the loneliness of a crowded train;
the air is pregnant with an umbilical thread
connecting us to something intangible,
something necessary to our being

yet we don't exist at all.

smoke and vapor crawling out our mouths;
we talk because the silence is sometimes frightening,
and because we're searching the dust visible only
in the places where light bends for words that won't disappear

FisheyeYour honest words perch upon brash lips,
teetering on thoughtful intentions; a super hero's cape
embroidered with moth holes, gossamered secret identity
shielding the crestfallen heart you disguise as armor,
forgotten about with a forced amnesia
until its lonely beating rips a hole
through your defenses.

I'm your kryptonite and your sunshine—
the thing that makes you human, and weak,
and untouchable,
and mighty,
and a villain to the unloved,
and my savior.

I'm the have and have-not,
the desired and the disdained—
for your every rib aches to feel the pressure of my palms
and the tangle of my fingers witching for you

swallowsswallows
ennui
we see

swallows
a sigh
to the sky

swallows
emotion
sans caution

swallows
cries
by the byes

swallows

alone

or with

swoop and dive

internalize
seem more alive

again

he swallows
his sorrow

but never

his pride

llp - aug2012 - dA - DLD-8/28/12

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More from ~RussianTim

Poorly Drawn Wolves

Get used to that brush in your hand,
sticking you with splinters and
jabbing you with inspiration.
Splash yourself with thoughts
from a rusty ink well.
When your ideas have crumbled from drought,
soak your mind in paint you made from
sweat, pigment, love and fear.
Never regret the hours spent feeding
the fire's of creation with the
burning coals of art.
When it's done, and they laugh, praise yourself,
For we are the children of Muses.
Keep every scrap of wonder within arm's reach,
And review each mistake with a surgeon's eye.
Learn. I implore you. Learn. I praise
What greatness can come from poorly drawn wol

The Last Pillar CrumblesI watched him fall to his stone knees.
A defeat that shook the cosmos.
Those among us, who did not cry,
Simply went inside ourselves,
In search of higher ground.
Nothing will ever be as true,
As the words he held in his,
Cracked and worn hands.
His eyes reached for solace.
Raised to the heavens and hells,
That circled our new crater.
All the gods came to see.
They all read the letter and I heard,
Him die in a thousand languages.
His head found the floor.
In sickness, I fell too.
But I did not shake the land.
In this ending, we were left faceless.
Blind to reason and sprawled across the floor.
Never did I leave that crater

Late Memories of Early MorningI remember when we would taste the morning.
A swig of orange juice from the carton.
Toast so burnt you abandoned it and
Chose to butter me up instead.
I never figured out if the strawberries,
Were sweeter than your kiss.
Our days were sunny side up.
You rubbed my shoulders while,
We watched our world blossom.
I tried to imagine I wasn't afraid of:
Your searching, hazel eyes,
Your sneaky, protective friends,
And those lurking, autumn leaves.
We lived that summer.
We were so alive, but did not,
Make it through the thaw of spring.

Grown UpsWe don't live anymore. We
don't see the sun. We
just sit alone now. We
are seldom fun. We
have jobs and bills now. We
miss our favorite shows. We're
in bed so early now. We
have hit new lows. We
don't go to parties now. We
don't fake the smiles. We
don't have those friends now. We
are trapped in denial.

We are not together now.
We could not find peace.
I packed and drove far away,
To help your pain cease.
I wanted to apologize.
We didn't try enough.
We both forgot how to love.
Sometimes life is tough.
You don't call me anymore.
You won't pick up your cell.
You hung yourself last Tuesday.
You forgot to tell.

Death Doesn't MindEveryone whispers.
Death doesn't mind.
It's true.
Keep the casket open.
No rumors buzzing in your ears.
No third degree burns.
No reason to leave the kids at home.
Let everyone know she is in there
And she is still beautiful
And that is how she will stay.
Death doesn't mind.
Keep your head up.
Lock eyes with each mourner.
It's your duty.
Let them tear up and claim,
She was a saint
Even if the last time she saw them
they told her not to show up for Thanksgiving.
Death doesn't mind.

Now pay your respects and pay the,
Nice oily man.
After all, he is always smiling and
he is deeply sorry.
As deep as your pockets

Grown UpWe don't live anymore.
We don't see the sun.
We just sit alone now.
We are never fun.
We have jobs and bills now.
We miss our favorite shows.
We're in bed so early now.
We have hit new lows.
We are not together now.
We could not find peace.
I packed and drove far away,
To help your pain cease.
You don't call me anymore.
You won't pick up your cell.
You hung yourself last Tuesday.
You forgot to tell.

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Springfield, MO

by ~RussianTim, Sep 8, 2012, 5:23:43 PM
Literature / Poetry / General Poetry / Free Verse

1991

In my father's house there are many rooms
(Only one gun cabinet)

A cross hung over my grandmother's
bedroom door for thirty two years

Her phone rang late on a Saturday night
She was the last person he called…

The sun rose early the next morning

The cross was taken down

Springfield, MOby ~RussianTim

Literature / Poetry / General Poetry / Free Verse

Just a short poem. Comments are welcome.

~~love 0 0~~

~~joy 0 0~~

~~wow 0 0~~

~~mad 0 0~~

~~fear 0 0~~

~~neutral 0 0~~

*leyghan Oct 14, 2012 Hobbyist Writer

Wonderful poem. There's so much story here in these few words. I like writing that teases my imagination.

Reply

~Sigma-Echo-Seven Oct 11, 2012 Hobbyist Writer

Short, but it's got depth. Nicely done.

Reply

~charizfire Oct 10, 2012

Interesting. Thought-provoking, but leaves enough space for the reader to fill in the gaps themselves. For me, I would appreciate slightly more detail, but you have a good basic structure here.

Reply

*alapip Sep 19, 2012 Hobbyist Writer

the loss of faith, as one commenter noted, is one interpretation.
another take seems to posit that - maybe the cross was there in
an attempt to soften the heart of the man who entered...

an excellent poem, prompting deeper thoughts - i fav.

pip

Reply

=DailyLitDeviations Sep 18, 2012

Your wonderful literary work has been chosen to be featured by DailyLitDeviations in a news article that can be found here [link]
Be sure to check out the other artists featured and show your support by

ing the News Article.

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*IAmPoetry Sep 13, 2012 Hobbyist Writer

Wonderful.

Reply

~RussianTim Sep 19, 2012 Professional Writer

Thank you

Reply

*xtcgm Sep 11, 2012

I have read this several times since you posted it. I can't write enough to offer a critique but I would like to say that I find it very effective (and affecting).

The transformation from what, at first, seemed like a biblical re-working to a very personal statement is suitably dramatic.

Well done.

Reply

~RussianTim Sep 11, 2012 Professional Writer

Thank you kindly!

Reply

*xtcgm Sep 11, 2012

Most welcome.

Reply

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