RESTAURANT POETRY

I try to think of what to say
The words crumble in my mouth
They float up to the rafters
Eventually they’ll fall south

They’re waiting for the melody
They taste of sweet vermouth
The liquor always helps me
It says to tell the truth

Summertime is far away
But in here the light stands still
The present is forever
We don’t have to pay the bill

The candles burn so slowly
They sparkle in a dance
Like shattered stars they twirl
They got me in a trance

Let’s keep up this masquerade
With champagne and gold brocade
With rosé and coq au vin
Do you hear the serenade

The ceilings whisper secrets
You look at me cozily
I’ll try not to forget
It’s just some restaurant poetry

@rhapsodiesinlimbo

Circle

We are in circles
In circles we go
Too late to go back
Too soon to throw

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A caw and a cluck
The feathers they fly
Amid two-buck chuck
All high in the sky

The sand and the click
The tick and the tock
The pages they stick
They roll off the dock

A crunch and a hole
A rock rolling by
Instead smoke a bowl
Let the dirt pile high

Nowhere to go
No steam and no flame
No way to say no
No time for a game

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Taste the ashes and smoke
The cackle of poison
Just one hit of coke
Go ahead fake the motion

A circle, that circle
Is all that you get
Take a good look around
Now place your bet

 

Too late to go back
Too soon to throw
Sit back or attack
Now where will you go?

02.27.12

Find CIRCLE again on the  POEMS page.

 

September Haze

It doesn’t come.

Its buried, gone. I search, I strain, I long for sweet recall, but it rarely comes. The words breeze by, softly scented like summer, fleeting and forgettable. The only thing that lingers is the sweet memory, blurry and fragile, halted in the heat. It stays for far too long, becoming a stinking sweat, sticky and repulsive, drowning any desire to pursue more. It festers, useless, until it must be banished, off into the rotten heap of things we want to forget.

Its useless really, chasing a train of thought. There’s no hope in catching it. The moment’s too fleeting. If you’re lucky, the stars align and you can throw the letters down, charged like lightning, striking with force. If you’re lucky.

I try not worry too much, about those words long gone, careening away to another world where I can’t catch them. They’ll be okay. They’ll find a stop, and I might catch up again. But if I don’t that’s okay too.

It’s just so hard not to try, when the summer’s waning, fall barreling down upon you with relentless speed, and you want something to hold on to. Or maybe it’s what I’m trying to avoid. After all the warm sun of summer, I dread the stark dry days ahead, when leaves fall with reckless abandon and the sky turns grey with indifference.

Really it’s the fear of what I’ll remember as the September haze wafts in, carrying all the things long ago cast aside. That train has memories quite sharp, that easily sting, anew and fresh, as if they’d never left me.

All the nightmares and the stars, the demons deep within, slither silken and sly among the lost dreams, the desiccated fountains of ideas still yet to bloom, tortured from wanting to know the unknowable.

Interminable, the impatience of waiting for lightning to strike.

It doesn’t come.

But the thunder, it rolls.