Honea Express

Archive for the ‘poetry’ Category

Once again the state of California has proven that its label of liberal is nothing more than window-dressing and urban legend.

or

It’s the damn Mormons, don’t you watch South Park?

There are fingers and there are pointers, and excuses are thrown against walls and heads are smashed in alleys lined with blood and bottles sharp with anger and stupidity.

It’s not about politics. It’s not about religion. It’s about doing the right thing. You’ll hear people say otherwise and they are wrong. There are few things in life less grey. This is black and white. This is right versus something far from it.

Freedom for all should not be contingent upon the fears of the some. Glass ceilings are meant to be shattered. Dreams are meant to inspire and mountain tops only remain unreachable to those without the will to see beyond the rocks that fill their mind.

Love is not unconstitutional. Civil rights are not wrong. Families are not supposed to be broken. Nobody gets left behind.

Isn’t there enough hate in this world?

Will my children grow up in a world where love grows hungry, left to starve in open closets while government rations are thrown into the masses, kept straight and narrow by the sight-line of their blinders?

Do we need to paste the words of Gibran and Lennon on every street corner? Should the ebb and flow of Neruda’s heartstrings be our ringtone? Must a Browning be tattooed upon every shoulder to whisper a constant song of poetry across the stream of our conscience?

Even Foreigner must know what love is by now, and it is not what passes for law in the state of California.

There will be those that disagree, which is their right. They will fill comments and message boards trying to justify the unjustifiable and their every word will prove us right. They will waste both time and space with letters to the editor, pungent with blunt ignorance and the pocketed scent of posies.

We all fall down, but only some of us will have rings on our fingers.

Popular is such a strong word, but it came up in passing that I haven’t posted any poetry lately and…

Um, where are you going?

It’s Sunday morning and I’ve got coffee in my cup, Joe Williams on the stereo and plans to replace the laptop with the Times. After that I’ll play it by ear.

For you, my friends:

URBAN BEACHES

Taste the sea when you lay against me
And not the sweat of a long day’s work-
For I always said we would go there
Every time you brought it up,
But the ocean does not pay the bills,
And the waves of passing traffic
Outside our bedroom window
May never be surfed or waded through,
But there is sand and sunshine
In the park around the swings.

If we were to go there in the morning
With a basket of food and bottle of wine
I could put a towel down for you
To sun yourself while you read
Whatever it is women read on beaches
While the men try not to look
At so much exposed flesh,
Instead wandering out to pee in the sea
And pretend that sharks are coming
To keep their erections down,
But I’ll have no water to hide in
And I will come up with other ways
To watch your skin as it gathers sun.
For example, I may get on the swing
Since it would just be hanging there,
And while watching your breasts
I might say, “Push me. Push me.”

THE RAINDANCER

I dance upon the breath of a thousand lies
To unknown breasts
And forgotten lips
Aloof with the pride of man
And the loneliness of one night stands
Wondering . . .
How many drinks to the bottom of a soul?
And how does a heart burn so cold?
But there is warmth in the whiskey,
And a song on the jukebox,
So I shall drink
And I shall dance,
Until the music stops.

I dance upon the breath of a thousand lies
To unknown breasts
And forgotten lips
Aloof with the pride of man
And the loneliness of one night stands
Wondering . . .
How many drinks to the bottom of a soul?
And how does a heart burn so cold?
But there is warmth in the whiskey,
And a song on the jukebox,
So I shall drink
And I shall dance,
Until the music stops.

DREAMING OF DECEMBER

The long ride leaves me dreaming of December.
The shadows of heavy clouds,
The echo of melancholy piano keys
Lead me onward and away.
Hills once caressed by smooth sunlight
Turn inward under their icy coats
With their backs against frost
covered canvas of still warm fields
Left alone for now,Stoic and forgotten,
depressing the uninspired.
I was told it should be spring,
Yet I am blind to the budding and blooming
lost between bouts of mists of rain.
What might I lose but you
If I forget the words to your song
Or the colors of your sky
Even the fruits that fall against the ground
Beneath your tree taste sour when you leave.
Remember my face when you look at his,
And know how poor I will always be.

LIFE ON THE DULL SIDE: A POEM – or 34 ON A TUESDAY: AN ESSAY

My stomach ain’t what it used to be
Iron lining and flat as a board
Now eaten away by glasses of Beam
And expanded by bottles of Bass.
My hair is retreating
And my bones depleting.
I get older and I get along.
One more shell of broken dreams.

Tune in tomorrow for poems for kids!