Graveyard Dream Blues

gravedigger stooped in graveyard

tearing apart my dream

throat stretched not to yell but holler the blues

within dense comfort of the blues

fear crawled away from skull borne graveyard

memory contorted as a dream

barren stone studded dream

verse of longing in the blues

as i dig my knees in dirt at the graveyard

solace in the graveyard ? no but found a dream and blues

inspired by Ida Cox and Graveyard Dream Blues (1923) for @dVersePoets http://dversepoets.com/2012/08/30/form-for-all-on-tritinas/

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Flaked Gold

heave a sigh

here the wind joins

on gentle breath,

again my day

born from stars,

has a sharp savor

to the soul,

thoughts as blossom

between fingers picked

cast over waning fires,

not glancing back

a look at frigid oceans toss,

rubbing shoreline

with foamy insolence,

my heart wants to chant

find a voice

last lost when beneath

you quivered,

your face now abstract

yet still defining,

from this coast

i would search

overturn many moments

so i could take your hand

again,

to see if any feeling

had budded , grown

from the moisture of

your eyes,

no more to walk a

gloomy path,

but to rise in places

fall,

and be buried in roses

Gulf Stream of Love

words of august quenching

a thirst sought by me,

in glittering glow

beneath eternal yellow

her beckoning touch

unleashed a rainbow,

undiluted by my gaze,

physical in all their color,

dense tactile,

i found and absorbed

each one,

some merged giving

new fervent love,

no mercy for me,

in slumber and awake,

dazzled and scented,

words became found,

promises kept,

hearts unbroken,

caught upon the colors

carried about the earth

lost in desire.

Talking to Charlie

an outward bound kiss

became vagrant

lost with letter sent,

tucked in a corner

of mailsack unfound,

never to touch it’s

intended receiver,

and when no reply came,

held her breath

before shouting,

so that trailer walls

resonated,

how could he be so cruel,

was that conscious of his

a foursquare rigging

torn on open sea

bleeding at edges

so that anger valued

no control,

could it be expected

in places so different

yet just as imprisoning,

he faced all wall eternally,

she had the breath of footprints,

a whisper of wind,

and no restriction

on how far she went,

maybe as she rubbed

a wounded breast,

it would be better

to not know a man

so brutal and destructive,

after a steadying drink

at eleven am

headed to the diner

she needed to speak to

someone

 

Gravitational Pull

dusk as intervention

to that crawlspace known as night,

leaning on the fence

cigarette stub extinguished

dropped over onto sidewalk,

link impressions reddened arm,

as i moved away,

light essential began to click on

the first a house a block away,

opposite the empty one

looked bleak and could not

be forgiven,

grass damp curled over,

now on porch sock imprints

their trace vague would evaporate,

i nearly lit up again

it was an unforgiving chain,

i was the operator

of my own half life,

as night swallowed up that rose

growing in the corner,

her rose she planted

as a recipe for splendor,

splendor that never came,

small card table surface

where i rested my pad,

maybe pour a glass

as a moth juddered by,

pencil tapped and i would

write.

Working Still

Working Still

Leeuwenhoek lens

could not identify particles

in the ladle,

from a fallen heart,

brutal moments

drawing out tissue

analyzing sections

beneath blade and syringe,

a tempered hand worked

isolating precise sections

of the nausea that riddled

mankind,

thick dark bile

leaking treachery

without the fleck of love,

that often appears,

embattled huddled with others,

discussions occurred

resolve mans heart

from it’s failings,

before that

which is revealed

absorbs mortal flesh

and it’s insistent coil

My composition for Stanza

Museum Collections Blog

MUSA recently took part in StAnza poetry festival. Below is one of the five fantastic poems which won our competition and are now on display in MUSA.

Caich Balls

walls resonate with

thunder,

cries and cheers

fade fast,

in silent grey

torn and exposed

By Chris Lawrence

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