Wednesday, September 18, 2013

Executioner's Eulogy

"He was a heartless man,
they say, his life a lie
death is a messy business.
they don' realize. 
having lived his life 
making death readily accesible
his death was rather peaceful
He didn't 'pass way' so to say
There was no transition
He died with his boots on
His parting words:
'Peace is the last thing you would want'"

Tuesday, July 9, 2013

The Last Supper

Leaves fear falling,
on paths men tread.
They kill each other
for butter and bread.

They shed not one
of their own blood.
What seeps from swords
and soaks the mud,

Are tears of widows,
children orphaned,
of waning mothers,
a God who's shunned.

When the last of men,
will have thrust his steel,
I'll have my supper,
My very last meal. 




Friday, April 19, 2013

The Whitewashed Room

I wait patiently for what they call, a writer’s block.
Words escape like overcooked noodles through a fork.
And metaphors like the one above, slip past unnoticed,
like the hour hand's movements. For days, I find myself
in an empty room. This room with perfect whitewashed walls,
Not one blemish or cobweb to stare at; infinitely long.
Not even the smell of fresh paint or varnish or a damp stain.
An old woman’s face. Her wrinkles smudged by seeping saltiness.
And then, the crack beneath the door fills up with darkness. 

A scented envelope appears from under the door, unaddressed,
but by the time I open it, You would have been long gone
leaving behind words so exquisite, I could have never written them.
 










License
AttributionNoncommercialShare Alike Some rights reserved by tmschndr

Friday, March 22, 2013

What if?


Would I have loved her just as much,
Had her hair been less than perfect,
that evening or had autumn arrived
a day late? 
Had the warm, halogen glow  
cast an odd shadow
on her freckled face?



Would I have tickled her cat’s scruff,
Had it not purred and rolled  
like my own or had I missed the  black patch
on his left eye?
Had her bed smelled
of suds and dead roses, would I
have bid goodbye?



that night. Would she have noticed me ‘walking-by’,
through the limpid reflections on the pane,
had the smog set in early or had I
lit a cigar?
Had the knot around my neck,  
with the fresh mustard stain revealed
a deeper scar?



Would she have locked the door behind
and left the welcome mat askew,
Had I crossed the dingy alley and leapt over
the fence?
Had I turned the knob clockwise,
She perhaps would have answered
in morbid silence.



Photo Credits:
AttributionShare Alike Some rights reserved by Daniel Dionne

  

Wednesday, March 6, 2013

Ratings of a Rational Poet


Sanity, come back later! Let me be!
Let me for once, write in peace.

Take Newton with you, when you leave.
Let Galileo, Descartes follow thee.
  
Strip me down and search me well,
under my skin, within every cell.

Look, where, no light has ever been.
It is here that you hide, unseen.

Beyond the reach of rationale,
With light I look and hence I fail.

Return, when I have penned a verse
Wishing no glory or remorse.


Photo Credits: fotobaba under CC license



Sunday, March 3, 2013

The Tram Ride


Today, the tram traveled backwards
The pantograph rope swayed, like her
cat, Misha’s tail, when he walks on
nail, glass and moss covered walls.

She pressed my hand every time,
the bell rang. It startled her, just like
the worn out rope tied to the bell.
Or when Misha stepped on a nail.

‘Two round trip tickets’, she said.
Or so I remember. We untangled
our fingers, to reach for change.
My cold hands still longing for hers.  

‘There he is’, she exclaimed.
 Pointed at two dull red dots  
 and pulled the chafed rope. The bell 
resonated, while she faded in the fog.  

As the empty shining wooden seats,
old bell and cabin door rattled in cold.
I found two laundried, sun dried tickets
in a deep warm corner of my pocket. 


Photo Credits: © Gerard Stolk

Sunday, February 17, 2013

Tuesday, February 12, 2013

Alter Ego

The other one of me,
The one that lives with
the girl next door,
and her imperfections;
Seems happier.


The other one of her,
The one who lives with
me. Makes my bed and
me love her perfection;
Seems happier.


The two of us,
Seem happier,
with the other one.
One that never was
and never will be. 



Sunday, February 10, 2013

Dust


The 18th century mahogany shoe rack,
 finally spilled. Ivory worms savoring on
hollow bones and crimson innards,  
reduced to Dust on fine Italian leather.
A rabbit thump and good as new.
An aging loafer leaves rotten remains,
a lingering musty smell, gathers Dust.
He never thumps, He limps, spreads it far
On grass, wet and never trampled before.