Posts Tagged ‘Poetry’

copyright Gay Harper
It seems that,
with every death,
I lose a part of me.

There’s very little left,
now,
of who I used to be and

this person
I’m becoming
isn’t able to see

the person
who I was then or
treasured memories.

Locked in this head
are places to which
I no longer have the key

My identity
must have drained out
with the last bag of my IV.

A hollow shell;
mask on tight,
I still resemble me.

The me
I used to know.
The me
I used to be.

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Cringing white,
terrified,
I anticipate
the swift slap
of ink & metal

just before
the key
strikes,

crushing into
my thin, blank chest

a mark
that will be here
forever.

Fire Engine Red

Posted: July 11, 2012 in My Poetry
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Raining ash
for forty days.
Everything’s on fire and
you, with your small words
like “god” and “hope”,
beg to be burnt
to a cinder.

Smoky skies;
days dark with
spent embers from
mountains blazing
with raw fury;
anger,
a question,
answered in flame.

Even futility
is useless
against this towering rage.
The world is aflame.

Hope,
like love,
is a dirty word.
It gives you faith in
nothing and

you, with your petty dreams,
small words
bleeding dry to white spit,
at the corners
of your parched mouth,
are insignificant.

In the face of nature’s wrath.
you are nothing.
No one.

Your words
are sounds
coughed up by
dying animals.

Everyone protests
that last, great
blast of
life.

Lost Time

Posted: January 7, 2012 in My Poetry
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Our hearts beat together
in intimate embrace,
reflecting each other;
infinite repetition.

Like children, we accepted
the inevitability of Us.
Too innocent to question
an impossible future.

Forgetting all decorum,
tradition or taboo,
thinking only of each other.

How can I capture that wind
with words?
It tore us apart,
limb from limb, heart from heart.

Invisible but powerful enough
to drag you from my arms;
cleave you to her
like a tornado driven splinter:
sharp and irresistible.
Too deeply imbedded
to ever be freed.

I clutched my heart in bleeding hands.
That poor, shattered mirror
reflecting nothing but distortion.

Flayed feelings, burned then buried alive.
No eulogy was spoken.
They clawed at raw earth,
clinging to hope, but
nothing can set dead love free.

Neither fire, nor silence,
that grey ice sliding down my spine,
could unearth what was gone.

I mourned the loss alone;
vigil for the broken mirror.

7 years bad luck.

More Readings

Posted: May 16, 2011 in My Poetry
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I added some more readings. Thanks for the positive feedback!

Random readings from here and there…if you’d like to read along, here are links to the poems, published on this blog. Some others aren’t here, yet. Some are from my book;

Toeing the Line

Hanging Time

That Night

O’ My Father

Grieving Process

To Ty

Painting the Zebra

Cartomancy

Why Be Bukowski?

Posted: April 23, 2011 in My Poetry
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Who cares about
Bukowski?

A lot of people do –
Try to emulate
and fail.

Good old Charlie
had his own voice.

Every poet should.

Storm

Posted: November 21, 2010 in My Poetry
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Floating like snowflakes,
thoughts drop at my feet.
Bright as flower blossoms,
I kick them all away.

This blizzard of thought,
distracts me with color –
Words follow images,
hurtling down;
bury me in a cacophony
of harsh, silent sound.

Drugs take the reins,
drag me to safety.
Silence, dark;
a grave-cave
where even dreams won’t go.

Stricken by sleep,
I lie, like death,
chemically induced.

I’ll take whatever out I can,
to avoid that blizzard.

I didn’t notice
the sky,
like I usually do.

Too many other
things – Sensory
overload.

Police cars
parked haphazardly
lights still on, stained
the snow with color
like some bizarre
Christmas display.

If there was
an emergency,
it was far too late
for you.

Echoing static silence,
so loud it hurt my ears –
The sound of
a bottomless pit
called grief;
a tiny word
for such devouring
emotion.

I knew,
as soon as I opened the door
on that bursting scream
of silence,
that no heroics
would bring you back.

Reduced
to one, tight,
blue-lipped syllable:
“Dead”.

Icy wind & crusted snow,
were witness
to your tears.

Pale stars coldly
oversaw your last
movements;
making sure
you tied the noose
with militant precision.

You stepped off
the antique church bench,
painted cheerful red
and printed so appropriately:
“The best journeys always
lead us home.”

And you went home
to meet your Father,
tears still on your cheeks;
blue eyes open to your future –
dressed in your best clothes.

You are a True Believer.
There was no doubt
in your mind
that you were going home.

Away from the burdens
of this world.
Into the arms
of a loving Father
who understands all
and forgives it –

a brother
who loves you enough
to die, already, for your sins.
We lost you
but gained an angel.

Missing you is like a knife,
cutting deeper every day.

It never goes away.

Audio Reading

A gift,
a curse,
an illness.
I choose,
today,
to think
I’m blessed.

Rejecting
drugged out
normalcy
returned me
to myself.

For the first time
in what feels like
forever,

I see the world
without drug
fogged glasses.

LSD has nothing on
prescribed medication.
My brain clicks now,
with almost forgotten
precision.

You may call me manic.
I call myself a miracle.

Host
to all
these parasites,

you call them
my protectors.

Hide
my past
from me –

Keep
eggshell
sanity:

you say
they’re friends
not enemies;
these
symbiotic selves.

But
I still want
them gone.