Our Small Town | Clyde Liffey
We
In
Our small
Landlocked town
Eat Fish – Fresh! – Year Round!
We’re always polite to machines
We
In
Our small
Landlocked town
Eat Fish – Fresh! – Year Round!
We’re always polite to machines
We all gather
in the yard telling
stories, but the stories
go nowhere
but to winning
games, empty lives
empty houses waiting
to be filled up.
Unseen, we hovered above the planet.
It has retained much of its beauty:
grassed plains, high mountains, sky and cloud,
spectacular displays from land and sea.
However, we noted damage and scarring.
Floating islands of plastic and huge holes abound.
Grey smudges and stagnant water indicate
considerable pollution of air, water and ground.
We also noted the dominant species
has a limited, self-centred thinking.
Inequality and poverty are rife.
Egalitarian ideals appear to be shrinking.
Problems demand altered consciousness.
Poverty, resource plundering, increasing population,
primitive energy sources and climate warming
indicate a need for global cooperation.
Most of the wealth is controlled by a few.
To protect it they exploit a common flaw
which enables many to be easily manipulated
into the absurdity of destruction and war.
We believe they slumber in partial consciousness.
They are not yet fully awake.
Further development may require
an emotional and intellectual earthquake.
We will return in a millennium or two.
The species has potential for distinction.
We conclude with the hope that their folly
does not ultimately lead to their extinction.
Gray clouds blacken the dusk
A sliver of moon
Shivers in the ocean
Little sunbursts in his head
Throwing back shots
Numbness
Flowing through his veins
Garbled messages in the tavern
Try to comfort a fire
That will not surrender
A muted scene of fishing boats
Eyes closing down on the daily frazzle
Generations seek to dull
One empty net after another
A fish out if water
Doesn’t want to feel the hook ripped out
Throwing back shots again and again
fermenting at the edges
here in these forgotten towns
burning in collective pain
memories and history
swirling down the drain
Hot tears flowing down the stream
Only opening my eyes to see
I’m just lying on my bed
And no one’s hurting me anymore
It was all just a dream
But it was real
All the humans in there
Everything happening was just a compilation of hurt
On repeat
Set in a different setting
The only difference was this time
I actually cried
More at https://sfondato.blogspot.com.
I suffer from insomnia I sleep for an hour if lucky, others view me, think I have gone insane.
They are fools.
For that happened after the first time I knew poison that is love.
Happiness moved in and my mind escaped like some cat who saw its chance then fled never to return.
We are all insane to a degree, those who chase the page only to bleed from the pen.
Making a promise we can never keep.
People will say many things.
I am too exhausted to care anymore.
But many lies embrace this page as once I did so easily you.
I am beyond exhausted but can’t bear the thought of finding you in the dreams I once knew to be my reality.
Let me sleep tonight as you allow my life to remain empty in reality.
“Man you’re really losing your grip”.
An old friend said to me.
Sitting upon the ledge, watching as I struggled to cling to the ledge.
Never once did he offer a helping hand.
That’s what friends are for.
He played with his phone and was lost in his own world as so many are.
He could tell you what a trainwreck you were but never pull you from tracks.
I needed rest he needed a soul.
I could always buy sleeping pills.
Such strange creatures
Contentment
A fleeting ideal
We chase voraciously
To come in arm’s reach
As it disintegrates
Beneath our fingertips
As I am
I think
Ergo I am
Here on the ground
Longing to be in the air
Once there
Desirous
For gravity’s power
Planting me firmly
Terrestrially
Only to gaze at the clouds
Remembering the view
From the other side
faceless evil
under the sun’s Ray
made by Us, like You
but we all carry
it
The secret hidden in
dark
Sounding like a riddle
and marked by
Innocence
Lingers behind you,
its back to us,
silent and nothing and unknowing ghost
But only I see it
All too deep
Silence.
Only temporary
The train never ceases to track –
A bird.
Incandescent (and fleeting)
Among the dull mortar of a man’s building –
(The colour of muted jade porcelain)
Blocks.
Of Stone
Clocking solar movements to resemble a hedge –
Of trees.
Ever still
Waiting to shed at the first glimpse of fall –
Slowly.
For her
If she withholds her soul from reach –
Further.
In a dream
To conquer fear of unknown land –
Safely.
On solid earth
Unknown to those who cannot see –
An ocean.
Fills the void
Between his touch and her consciousness –
Being.
An omen
Foreshadowing the ripple effect on human –
Psyche.
A collective knowledge
Felt like the fiery coals of passion –
Rings true.
In the tolls
Of ritual bells that bring us closer to –
Truth.
“Woe to the bloody city! it is all full of lies and
robbery; the prey departeth not; The noise of a whip, and
the noise of the rattling of the wheels, and
of the pransing horses, and
of the jumping chariots. The horseman lifteth up both the bright sword and
the glittering spear: and
there is a multitude of slain, and
a great number of carcases; and
there is none end of their corpses; they stumble upon their corpses:”
Nahum 3:1-3 (KJV).
Never forget negros them ol’ carts prancing before the ol’ horse and
bridling to draw up the head and
dropping down the chin and
disparaged in pure resentment about THE marching and
still IZ culturally expected, devine and
a jockstay prancing coffins through dem’ filthy woods and
back dirt-roads in prehistoric times and
one can’t beat a dead horse when they’re already down and
yes they can; IZ’ lied and
it’s sortta like an extinct animal being pranced upon and
sortta like a mammal lost in space-aged time and
a show horse gallivanting~~ 2 the tune of the processions and
fiddlers playin’ on the roof and
juggling coffins like a circus clown and
might I may add; one of the best of the best noble acts in town and
mares on elm street and
charging stallions who can’t compete with steeds and
no flags for him only them downy white sheets and
black nags marching alongside me crying after him and
equestrians gallivanting like an ugly black beauty whose deep inna sleep and
also laying in state as for waiting a prey, and
for a white sheet is a deep ditch; and
THAT strange fruit is a narrow pit and
increaseth the transgressors amongst colored men and
colored women AND
do you know how many black bodies them trojans carted off in the woods?
I do AND
Dedicated to: Ashes to ashes; dust to dust; one of the greatest shows in town!
A B.A.D. poem
—–
Renee’ Drummond-Brown, is a poetess with experience in creative writing. She is a graduate of Geneva College of Western Pennsylvania. Renee’ is still in pursuit of excellence towards her mark for higher education. She is working on her seventh book and has numerous works published globally which can be seen in cubm.org/news, KWEE Magazine, Leaves of Ink, Raven Cage Poetry and Prose Ezine, Realistic Poetry International, Scarlet Leaf Publishing House, SickLit Magazine, The Metro Gazette Publishing Company, Inc., Tuck, and Whispers Magazine just to name a few. Civil Rights Activist, Ms. Rutha Mae Harris, Original Freedom Singer of the Civil Rights Movement, was responsible for having Drummond-Brown’s very first poem published in the Metro Gazette Publishing Company, Inc., in Albany, GA. Renee’ also has poetry published in several anthologies and honorable mentions to her credit in various writing outlets. Renee’ has won and/or placed in several poetry contests globally and her books are currently eligible for nomination for a Black Book award in Southampton County Virginia. She was Poet of the Month 2017, Winner in the Our Poetry Archives and prestigious Potpourri Poets/Artists Writing Community in the past year. She graced the cover of KWEE Magazine in the month of May, 2016. Her love for creative writing is displayed through her unique style. Renee’ is inspired by none other than Dr. Maya Angelou; because of her, Renee’ posits, “Still I write, I write, and I’ll write!”