up the main stair and 'cross the room,
all faded wallpaper still a-bloom.
find the catch to pull or press
to the backstairs of her current address.
the steps all rotted but walls intact
climb the walls into the back,
betwixt the attic and uppermost floor:
there's her long unopened bedroom door.
"you were my mother, too long ago,
and since rebirth, I've felt your glow;
to be so in life while I live in death,
cherish the feeling of you warm pleasant breath."
This is based on someone else's dreams, not my own.
Saturday, August 22, 2009
Saturday, August 8, 2009
don't look at that poor man
dressed to go out and sitting alone
past the point of looking around
and he'll just fade away.
don't look at that poor lad
pounding the pavement and out of work
past the point of just going home
where "lazy" he hears all day.
don't look at that poor boy
dribbling his ball no more
past practicing and trying
and no team to let him play.
don't stare, don't look, don't gaze,
just slide past like there's no one there
they're not working and just no fair
getting paid just sitting there.
hey! who's that man with tie flappin'
stridin' like he's what's happ'nin'
past seein' us, past hearin' us,
for him always on holiday
hey! who's that lad in the fancy car
built to go fast though he doesn't drive far
past drivin' worryin' 'bout gas
struck it rich, got his lucky day
hey! who's that boy and a star
who ran so fast and got so far
past hopin' and dreamin': it all came true
and never wants to go on holiday.
Tuesday, August 4, 2009
wandering through the mountains,
hunting down my dreams,
dancing through the maze,
of blues and browns and greens,
caught between the veils,
of my human self and this,
reliving all the memories,
making new ones in the midst,
retiring to my furrself,
to refuel my spirit's health.
give the human time to repair,
repolishing my immaterial weath
Monday, August 3, 2009
prance across the treetops
until rooftops come into view,
detouring o'er the roadways
that burn fresh-made dew.
prance through the dreamlands
until the moon is heavenly high,
or blocked by stormclouds
that mask the starry sky.
prance in short white stockings
until your coat grows red as rust,
balanced by a tail as stocky
and wards off the rising dust.
prance like it's your nature,
as if you're born to fly,
barely holding in the dance
that lifts you in to the sky.