These Dreams

 

Where do the dreams go to die?
The great throes of a beast whose being shines with an energy of a lifetime.
The elephant graveyard of hopes, where the bones crumble and crack in the burning sun of reality.
Do they die at all, or hibernate under the covers of life.
Forgotten about until the final hour, to flash across our eyes like signs on a road never taken.
These dreams wither; they fold and float away on the winds of existence.
Spirited away like the seasons of youth.
Like leaves from a tree they decay.
Never watered, chopped down before the seed ever even germinates.
These dreams, forever in my mind yet always out of reach.

Tender, the grass of war

A bloody dust covers the eyes of the onlookers.
The voyeurs of life’s sad pageant.
Cattled and rattled they sing the song of war.
A sweet lullaby to mark their intent.
The flag sticks in a body not long departed.
Stretched and lined like the marks of policies.
The bow broke and spilled them into the trenches.
Dirtied their bones and wet the bed.
What care for them as their moon-skulls broke?
Separated out into the dark sea of regret.
Piece by piece we cut away the fabric of life.
Stitched into a patchwork of redesign.
Peace and thoughts maligned.
Meet me in the sandbox, the playground, the gulf.
Help me destroy the things I do not understand.
Recess, regress. God bless this mess.
A boy lost in a man’s disappearing world.

Dusk of the innocent

They didn’t see it coming.
Always bouncing on to something else.
Ignoring the ghosts in their eyes, or the oncoming headlights.
Those April days of innocence.
Flying over schools and mountain tops.
Elasticated minds skimming the Tokyo suburbs.
Never finding time to hear what love sounded like.
Letting it all fall away like a crumbling cliff, on the sea of something.
Were you ever sure what you fought for?
Always in the eye of the storm of your halcyon hurricane.
When April faded to December, what do you cling to now?
Freeze dried promises that never seem to thaw.
Mislabelled and mumbling that nothing seems clear.
Only the icy ground beneath, forcing you in that straight line.
Towards you losing yourself.
And lowering into soil.
Could you ever tell who liked you? Did you ever really care?
Needling the hay to make way for a forgotten tomorrow.
Singing into the dusk of the innocents.

Home of the naïve

Disentangled child, cut from the spangled banner.
Speckled in manna, and the god they trust.
As unique as a snowflake.
Beyond the dawn break, of a new and troubled ice age.
Call me on your cell phone.
Buzzing in neon, and a blood point too high to tally.
Covert the freedom.
Sensibilities you need them, as the world cracks and crumbles below.
Oh say can you see?
Beyond all the misery.
There is a land open and free, still waiting for you.
Topple the gods.
In a system at odds, which crackles with such hellish flame.
Pledge allegiance to the drag of a drug in your veins.
Which splits the world and mottles your brain.
Until you die and are reborn again.
So proudly you exhale, a revolution of love.
And a change that cannot fail.
Splattered in white, red and blue.
Be strong. Be courageous. Be you.

Turquoise veiled ghosts

Twilight’s child so faithful to the few.
Caught between the space between us.
The strong who stand and the eternal lie.
A joker’s poem of loss.
Drawn to the white winged dove and Moses smile.
A sister to the dying cancer, locked in turquoise eyes of loss.
Starting up conversation with ghosts.
She picked her way through the bones of youth.
Making it out through the death with dignity.
Into willow licked streams of sulphur.
Glowing blue in the night’s sad demise.
Where will she watch the universe now?
Which end will she choose to believe in?
Picking her skin away, waiting for her day in the sun.
Discovering more cancer on the bone.
Finding her mother crying in bed.
Rotting away the light and smiles from her memories.
Illuminated black beauty and rest. Frightened by more feelings.
Captain to a sinking ship.

Death to Cinderella

Back then and when, and add some more.
Young Stacey Tyler was only four.
Though good at math, and loved to read.
It was baby dolls she sadly received.
All pretty in pink, with a matching dress.
That fit young Stacey, her parent’s princess.
Feed and change that plastic thing.
Clean up after it, no time to sing.
That was left for Sleeping beauty.
It’s Cinderella that’s your call of duty.
Be pretty, be quiet and wait to be saved.
Forget independence, or being so brave.
For that will be your stories’ end.
No adventures after, no lovers or friends.
Give your man a home and then a child.
With smiles for him, well-mannered and mild.
Subservient is the way to be.
Come now Stacey, copy me.
Her mother had cooed from before she could remember.
Trophied on a pedestal, her brain now a dying ember.
But Stacey, though four, knew better than this
And knew there were things that she didn’t want to miss.
She didn’t really care for babies or bottles.
It was Dr. Seus she craved, and even Aristotle.
To save her from her mother’s fate.
Of giving birth and gaining weight.
Stacey pledged that very day.
To speak up and out, and have her say.
Out with the pink and the notions of gender.
A determined mind, and a heart so tender.
And that is why, with thirty years spent.
Little Stacey is running to be president.