Seasons Flow | Mary Bone
Playing in the leaves,
rolling in the snow.
A snowball fight is in order
as the seasons flow.
Playing in the leaves,
rolling in the snow.
A snowball fight is in order
as the seasons flow.
I’m held back by what I think
Might happen but probably won’t,
Struggling against my racing mind
That constantly tries to hold me back.
This time will be different,
I’ll resolve to not listen to the voices
And forge my own destiny,
Relishing my new found freedom
And the joy of being me.
There are no flowers anymore
In this room,
Nobody comes by
To say hello or spend some
Quiet time reading.
It wasn’t always this way,
Not so long ago there was
Joy, life, fun
Permeating this chamber,
Not just empty curtains
Blocking the outside view.
Dark outline of
Massive building.
I see things
Others don’t.
I understand what
They don’t want me to.
Each time I look in
They turn away.
Two windows,
Dual lives.
i used to write countless
poems about love to
a certain someone who
i thought was the one for me
i used to write countless
poems about love to
anyone who would listen
for a moment
i used to write countless
poems about love to
everyone
but myself
At last, she yielded up her record, which,
Scratched, glossed upon its deck, days thick.
Oh, matted with its bakelite, the slick
Defections of glib music spin to live.
Lies smoke the words of these ‘stereo-images‘.
My living eye must hanker after sound-
With ponytails colliding with the moon,
I lift my heady head against true noise
And bask in torpor as rock-sounds display
The quietus of a classroom, punk-sprayed.
With every single speaker, darkness flows
Down the drains of melodies and crows
‘Your candour thus infers a classic tune
Whence gladness springs its singing from
Out the fields; and tapes will prize rooms’
From contractions rolling to a red drum,
Simply by feeling old and out of date,
Girls must wash their feet inside a pop-state
Of self-loathing; thence this white-room lays
The censors of an album, wide and loud.
Washing-lines in towns define cries
And music must confer with bubble-wrapped
Compact-discs that scheme the snapped.
Ah, we whisk aside the jazz of sense
And drive the blemished towers of hell-sent
Lyrics, making meagre passions mourn
The sea-shelves of an oven-heated song.
In short, from eye to eye, pink dance will send
Pennies from the skies of sensual croons.
These lakes of sinning dancing thrash
And smaller clearings break their livid tunes.
This schizophrenic tale is now unveiled,
Bricked in the boiling with dream-key ‘2-2.’
More at https://www.jamesbellamy.org.
i didn’t think it would
ever come to this
where I literally could not breathe
because some heartless people in
a faraway place were
so selfish that they
cared more about giant corporations
giving them money
and keeping them in power
than for a little person
like me to be able to breathe
some great country