No More

Feeling her tears fall to the floor.
My room floods with sorrow.
Every drip soaks deep in my skin.
Pray that all your troubles are no more.

Hearing her anguish through thin
Paper walls I collapse with convulsion.
Thoughts burning as I pray.
GOD, she has not committed any sin!

Barely breathing as my lungs weigh
Like stones that kids throw.
Opening the door letting the water rush
Away the hurt that held sway.

Running up to your crush
Soul to hold you away from pain.
To hear the gaps of your heart beat.
Bursting in I see you blush.

I see the water under your feet.
Closer I hug you tightly
Promising you will suffer no more.
Sleep and dream of sweet summer heat.

Misty Old Witch

Magpie Tales

















Misty Old Witch


In early November I went out to camp.
As I entered a old town in the hills
Rain had made everything damp.
Stopped for fuel as a old man gripped tight

Of my arm with true fright
In his eyes as he spoke
Of some witch that hid in light.
He said she lived up in old foothills.

I smiled for I was up for thrills.
Leaving town I headed where he pointed.
Though I could feel those chills
Running up the back of my spine.

Outside of my tent watching the fire shine.
Grinning over what that old man said.
Oh Witch! Come out have some wine!
I shout towards the forest full of fog.

Rolling the last dry log
Into the fire I heard a noise.
The air around me condensing like smog.
Struggling to breathe I pass out.

My body aches as I come about.
Seeing the morning twilight
Blended with the fog throughout.
I notice I'm sitting in a chair.

I ask myself where, where?
Where was I with all these chairs?
But I couldn't believe who was there.
That witch, staring at me with those eyes.

Shaking my head, is this my demise?
A slight smile curled upon those lips.
"You weren't you advised,
To not enter my home, my hill?"

I began to laugh till
The whole forest joined me.
I wish this witch nothing but goodwill
as I asked her if she still wanted wine?

Detective Case Number 1

I press my ear towards your chest

Hearing the absence of your heart.

Your sweet hair tangled in a bloody mess.

Death by asphyxiation of a rope.

No noose, but your wrist,

Indicate heavy bruises and a missing ring.

Bruises from you trying to resist.

Looking over the words grope

Tightly around your body in red.

"Fuck you P.S. Try me?"

A crime scene of dread.

Maybe I'll give you a glimmer of hope.

Witness tells me of a club

You frequent during the off hours.

Investigation some would rather snub.

Back and forth, questioning some dope.

Following a trail full of dead ends.

This is 1948 with only my intuition.

Following leads, cruising around bends

Finally I get a break, blood soaked rope.

At the apartment of Percy Shelly.

Kicking in the door, no one to find.

Looking around I spot the telly 

Still on and the tub full with soap.

Blood smears on the tiles.

Closer to ending the case.

Murder weapon in hand will bring smiles 

To the all as I narrow the case scope.

Though what disturbs me is the letter.

"Detective, you'll never find me.

The next one will even be better."

My partner looks at me, "What a sick dope."

Not waiting for another to die.

I rush to the window to see a fire ladder.

Little drops of blood seemly dry

Lead up to the roof, I feel hope.

Spotting this little trail

I see a man in anguish 

And in shock as begins to assail 

Right hook jab he falls to mope.

Handcuffed and cussing me.

I eye up low to him.

Feeling his sense to run and go free.

"Percy Shelly, I'm charging you for the murder of Hannah Short."

I have been playing this video game called L.A. Noire and it has been truly amazing! I've taken the time to read some heavy cold cases back in the 40's and 50's. It is impressive that most of these could be solved today with the level of technology but I miss the days where we had hard nose detectives that could or tried to solve cases by only having the investigative nature of finding the clues and locations to people. I hope you enjoyed this piece, because as the title says, it is my first "Detective poem" and that means more will come. Maybe even have a few cold cases myself? You never know. 

 

   

White Empty Rooms

White Empty Rooms


White empty rooms share wall to wall.
Clean with the void of nothing.
I scream towards the illuminated ceiling.
Waiting for someone, waiting for a call.

Hands cusp, kneeling
In the center in a white room.
Is there anybody out there?
Can anyone see I'm not healing?

This void, this nothing I can't bear.
Escape, escape from this prison.
My heart can you hear it beat?
God, free me from this despair.

Sweat beads fall as this heat
Rises and my heartbeat fastens.
Pleading for anyone to call.
To hear my voice secrete.

To burst down this wall
And let me see the sky, the sun.
Isn't me that created my prison?
Didn't I make this cell wall?

I scream towards the illuminated ceiling.
Waiting for me to answer my own voice.
Waiting to burst open expression I've hidden.
Head low I stay there kneeling.



First off I am very pleased with this piece I've written. The last stanza breaks away from the rhythmic pattern I set up, instead in connects with the first stanza with "ceiling". Before I started this blog, and before I met some great writers through this blog, and one person in particular through email, who encouraged me to start this blog. Whom I am forever thankful for meeting. I really put myself in a cage, a prison. I couldn't write a single poem in months, and it was affecting my mood. I was becoming depress, indignant with myself. It feels great to finally sit back down again and write, just to simply write. But this piece, I want you to take your own meaning behind it, don't take mine. I see it one way, but you may see it another way and that is the beauty of poetry. Lately I've drifting some new pieces and I hope most of you enjoy them as I will post later on in the days. But until then I hope you read this poem, and go on and read the others. Poetry its good for the soul as I say!

Ads That have Appeared

I'm sure everyone has noticed the ads on my site. Well I'm not going to lie to anyone of you. I'm a poor college student. I'm not entirely sure how Adsense works but its alittle income that can help me pay off bills while I continue to search for a job. Though I do not want those ads to take away from the creative, deep, meaning of my poetry, and my short stories. I work hard as an individual both inside and outside. (How cliche of me.) I'm struggling but I'm pushing myself up. I'm hoping to complete college and earn my degree in English Education and teach. That is my dream, and my goal to earn. Though I'm scared that I won't be able to pay half of the cost to transfer to Missouri State University. That terrifies me beyond anything. I value Education and I do believe that is why I want to teach young minds of classic literature, modern tales, and ageless poetry.  But I won't be able to so if I can not finish my education. The adsense is a job but as I said just something to help me get by while I search for a job to help me through. I've got a few leads and I hope they work out. 

I will always continue to write poetry for all to enjoy and discuss. (Secretly I dream to be published) That is the main focus that I want emphasize on this blog. I don't how the adsense works out for pay but as long you come here and read my poetry, leave a comment expressing how you loved it, or just simply read it and enjoy it then I am ever happy. If these ads annoy you let me know and I'll get one of IT friends to figure something out. I'm not fond of html. Though I hope you understand where I am coming from, and that you know that poetry will come first before money in my life. This adsense is just to give me a hand while I search. Thank you and read on.

Death

                                              Magpie Tales

Death

Grey.

Bleak.

Death.

Is what one may see, taste, smell, and hear.

Touching the cold concrete of graves.

Underneath you can't help but overhear

The rotting corpses that once spoke of life.

Decay.

Bones.

Death.

Is what one envisions of the dead.

Haunting you as Autumn rain soaks

The clothing as your heart fills with dread.

That one day you'll be like them.

Forgotten.

Souls.

Death.

Is what you feel against the stone.

Trying to picture a man named Moore.

Do you feel cold and all alone?

Your soul leaving to the unknown?

Pray.

Life.

Death.

Is what you know in your heart.

That death is just another door to life.

Heaven the absolute perfect art.

Is there any need to fear our timely death?

Free Yourself From The Cage

Building a Cage

Was I ever a hipster in subway?

Sitting down drinking coffee while

reading a liberal paper while they,

The hungry costumers eye their prey.

With my modern glasses 

glancing at every so article.

I get a tingling feeling that surpasses 

my previous assumption of the masses.

Here I thought I had it nailed and filed.

Thinking I'm the anti-conformist. 

Guess I was just but a child

In thinking I was above the piled.

Realizing who I am in subway.

How odd of a place for an epiphany?

I was no different from they,

The masses that woke for day.

I was never a hipster of modern age.

That was a name I gave.

Conformity is nothing but a stage

That we use as a cage.

I was sitting in subway writing this piece and I noticed that many people wear certain clothes, fitting in their own cliques. Walk a certain way, talk a certain way, yet one person may view this as conformity. Which conformity is falling into a group and acting a certain way. The thing is the word conformity  (50's thing) is negative but once we apply that to others we don't think about ourselves. Its like the goth who preaches about the evils of conformity but he as well is about of a group. Conformity is something we say without thinking about one self. That "hipster" realizes that he too had fallen into conformity. The main thing is that you have to be yourself, only you can free yourself that cage that we build. We can follow the groups, the cliques, and what not but remember to be yourself. Stay unique for every one is different. 

  

  

Coffee Chess Bums

Coffee Chess Bums

In a old coffee cafe' I silently watch

Two men play a old game of chess.

Both with white hair and rustic hats

Contemplating and predicting moves.

I wonder if this brings a sense of peace

Or trying enlighten grooves,

In their old aged souls. 

Pawns, knights, kings, and queens move and fall.

Yet, both determined to win than lose.

Few peices remain and all are up for call.

Checkmate! yet the defeated old man 

With deep wrinkled brow gets up

And shakes the hands of his age old friend.

Though I sit in amazement with my empty cup.

Amazing how thirty years ago I saw them.

Younger and still playing chess while I just watched. 

Coffee and chess best two combinations in life. 

Old Steps Towards Forgotten History

In my black leather jacket I feel the first drops of a cool mist. Walking down old streets and cracked concert sidewalks. The wind whipping, turn color leaves swiftly fall upon the road as cars zoom pass. I can't help but admire a certain beauty which holds me to watch the same event again. I smile and continue to walk unto paths of old city streets which at one time were the grand centers of businesses and restaurants. The mist begins to drizzle down droplets that begin to soak my dark brown hair. Out of the corner of my eye I see old steps that once lead to a house. I've walked this street before, and I've often wondered if someone would buy that old decayed house that once had stood proud and honorable. Till college students and their wild, carelessness parties ruined the house from the inside out. I would had hoped that one would had taken mercy upon the house and restored this once magnificent house which must had been home to a graceful southern family. But, those days are long gone. No more are the southern plantation owners or the respectable business man who knew everybody that walked in his store. Certainly times have indeed changed. All the while I stared in the dark at these steps which lead to nothing but rumble and dirt. Looking up I saw that two old oak trees that had remained created a path. A path that was not to a house but to a grave where a once and proud house had stood. Later those steps will be gone as the sleek glass of the modern business world plants its foot where history use to be. Only to be forever lost.


This little story really got to my soul, because I saw those steps last night. I saw the history of an old house destroyed and lost to modern times. Call me the romantic classic!  Springfield Missouri may not be my birth home, or even where I grew up. But just like over the East, it has history in which people should never forget. Every building that predates the 60's has a deeply rich history that no one wants to see vanish unless you like the glass, and steel modern age. Which there isn't anything wrong with that either. Its just nice to see a old house where generations of a family grew in, where notable people become leaders or heroes. Every time I walk or drive in the older parts of Springfield I stop and soak up the old buildings that remain. And I pray they never fall or decay. If we forget our history can we even progress into the future?

New Orleans Voodoo

Most of us tend experience a wrong order pizza delivery once in a blue moon. Well I had one of those blue moons and so did another two people before me. So I called up, I wasn't angry, I just don't like mushrooms. She must had apologized so many times that I last track, but she told me she'll send the right pizza to me. Here I thought I had to drive up and confirm them that this wasn't the right pizza. But, no she told me that they'll send a guy back out to me. I was taken back with such generosity and kindness. It came and I ate it with glee! But now I have a large pepperoni and mushroom pizza though luckily my wife-to-be and roommates love mushrooms....I dislike mushrooms. I don't hate them, just dislike them.

So I've mention this guy before once, Andrew Bird. He is one of my favorite musicians and his "Bowl of Fire" album is zesty, full of spicy Louisiana jazz influence. Every song seems like the Bird must had to sell his soul to the devil himself. What I admire is the fact that he went down and tangoed with local musicians in creating such a masterpiece. In respect, I figured I'd a write a spicy, mysterious piece of art. 

Voodoo is in the Air

Vieux Carre isn't so fair?

Sitting among old jazz musicians

Who speak of fiery romances

And redeeming second chances.

In center of  New Orleans square.

Though instead of gumbo,

I ordered pizza with shrimp.

Creole woman with voodoo

Swag blows a kiss of evil 'juju'.

Pizza filled with shrimp so big, so jumbo.

In old fishermen's avenue

Eating a slice of shrimp pizza.

I eye that voodoo witch

Who blew a kiss in which 

Left me stunned, tricks of a ingenue!

Mardi gras is at a end,

But my night has just started.

As my witch entices romantic sins.

The touch, the vivacity of our skins

Intertwine in old mystic New Orleans. 

   Take a look of what inspires me. You never know you may come to love his art as much as me. I hope you have a good night and beautiful day tomorrow. As for me I'm going to go experience my own burning sins of desire! ;) Can't you see the type of seeds I'm sowing? 

Old News that will Forever Haunt Us

The piece you are about was written when the Casey Anthony trail took in her favor in Florida. I like many other fellow human beings around the world knew she was guilty, that she needed to rot in prison. Though for whatever reason even when the facts were clear that Casey was guilty the Jury of her peers agreed that she was innocent because of reasonable doubt. Though it took her 31 days to report that her daughter was missing, and that the remains were found near the family home. Instead she was charged with 4 misdemeanor's of lying to the police. I would say the Justice system had failed. I know this is old news, but news that will later haunt us. As well you will notice that during this time there was a horrific death of a mental ill homeless man in Fullerton California. Police officers just ruthless beat a man crying, crying out for his father. People stunned, they had no idea what do, they can't call the police since it is the police committing the act that no human being honestly wants to see or ever do. He later died in the hospital. At the hearing his father breaking in tears simply ask's, "Why?" Why did this even happen in the first place? Power corrupts those of weak minds. I share a quote from a powerful man, "Nearly all men can stand adversity, but if you want to test a man's character, give him power." - Abraham Lincoln. And then there is our cruel, humorous joke of our Congress. I am firm believer of the American government and the rights we have. Though I disagree where some our tax money ends up. I disagree that we can have Big Business pay off  Representatives and Senators in campaigns because of self-interest. Though politics is nothing but a joke, but when it hurts millions and even billions it stings in my heart, and it bleeds for billion others. Sometimes poetic justice is but the words in which are state on paper. I named this Sins of Thousands but to be fair it should be renamed Sins of the Billions. We are a great nation no matter what our views may be, whatever religion we practice, whatever how we live our lives that we live in a great nation. Nothing is perfect, but we can try to make this world less colder, make it better for all us. I hope you enjoy this piece, I hope you can feel and immerse yourself in my anger, in my grief, and the hope we can stop what injustices we can. Oh! Yes and the heat you may experience burning you to the bone is the Texas drought and those wildfires that plaque Texas. I hope for those who live in Texas that you see many weeks of heavy rain. You deserve it.


Sins of Thousands (Billions?)

Deadly raging heat scorching my flesh.

Burning my sins of thousands

As we unleash a murderer of a child.

Screams echo in the swampy mesh.

My skin melts into ash.

Children acting like men thresh

Around debating who was right.

While the poor man continues to be bashed.

Muscle and nerves turn into dust.

A jury paid off with petty cash,

As a father cries out for revenge.

People seethe their own disgust.

Record heat leaves nothing but my bones.

American people furthering their distrust.

Corruption breeds the parasites we fear.

A nation filled with mindless drones.