3 New Poems

Going through my prompts on my phone today. Here's what I can up with. Let me know what you think! Thanks! :-)

Busted Halo

I busted my halo long ago,

didn’t like the weight

of it constantly hovering

over my head tell

me and world

that I was suppose

to be a pretty perfect person.

I can picture my halo

unsteadily slipping, falling

to the ground. A golden

ring that shimmers as it hits

the ground and shatters into

a million tiny pieces of glitter.

Free now to strike

a wrong chord, step on

cracks, stand up and not

back down because sometimes

the truth needs to be told

even if it hurts.

Yeah, being halo-free

came with some challenges.

But I still prefer

to dance shoeless in the rain.

Headphone Infatuation

Carrying my music

crisply, cleanly to

my brain. Finally

peace.

Untitled

Some days I walk

with my head down,

headphones and sunglasses

firmly in place. With

my hair flattened.

I try to blend into

the sidewalk,

buildings, and walls.

Then there are days like

today, in which I’m staring

right back at a primly

dressed woman dining at

the coffee shop who can’t stop

looking over at me, a cross

between curiosity and annoyance

in her eyes. I’ve been minding

my own business for the better

part of an hour, writing. Yet

I can assure you that it’s

my mohawk that’s caught

her attention, along with my

beat up black hoodie that’s

faded and a little holey.

Yeah, the decor of the shop

lends itself more to the hippies,

hipsters, and coffee-aficionados,

but today I don’t care that

I stand out. I know

who I am, and that’s good

enough for me.

 ------

Pieces

It's already been a crazy December, and I've spent much of it already listening to my favorite songwriter's (Mark Lind) many bands & albums. I'm always blown away by honest his writing is. I am constantly inspired when I'm listening to anything that he's involved in.

Pieces

I keep a list

on my phone of themes,

images, scenarios, and prompts

that I want to write about.

Chaos, love, bits of broken

pieces, black ooze, the

guitarist playing his heart

out on the square to passers-by.

Somewhere, swirled in this

list is a semblance

of what I call life. A lot

like the abstract painting

by my brother that hangs

above my bed; heavy white

lines, paint splotches of black

and red that sometimes combine

to make purple. Life. Writing

lines, images; emotions experienced

by everyone, yet written about only

from the pens of the brave. I

wish I was one of them.

Maybe one day, after I’ve

picked up as many pieces

of my broken self as I can

find and glue them

sort of back together

will I find the courage to

explain myself to the world.

----

Arms

I've Always had a thing for arms. This is one of the other poems I wrote Sunday night. A remembrance of a past love, and a quiet night, from my wilder younger days. :-)

Arms

Your arms around me,

holding, reassuring, protecting

and comforting me.

Head on your chest, listening

to you, and me.

Tracing the curve of your muscles

lightly with my fingertips.

Failing in the fight to fall asleep

aided by the weight

of your forearms wrapped

around my body.

I felt protected, strong

and calm

with you whispering

words sweeter than any song

lyrics or poetry

into my hair. You paused,

pressed your lips to my head,

and smiled. I wanted

to stay awake listening

and feeling you and the weight

of your arms all night.

-----

CD Warehouse

Yeah, I know I wrote like 3 poems last night, but this is the only one I feel like posting, at least right now. I hope you like it. Let me know your thoughts! Thanks! :-)

CD Warehouse

One of my favorite places

is the local used CD store,

the one owned by the old school

skinhead who likes to give me

hints on albums to buy

if I’m having a hard time choosing.

It starts just pulling into

the lot and parking

in front of the wall of posters

for every local show, you could

never even make all of them.

Finding the correct entrance

stepping inside and hearing

someone behind the counter,  “Hey.”

(These are so my people!)

Before your eyes are a sea

of non-pretentious black bins

crowded with new and used CDs,

a wall of new releases behind them,

all nice and categorized

for easy finding. Although once

I had to move Patti Smith

from “Pop/Rock” to her

rightful place of “Punk/Hard Rock.”

I know where all my favorite

artists are located. Dropkick Murphys,

first column, fourth row. Ducky Boys,

same bin, a few flaps down.

Minor Threat, same column, last row.

Lou Reed, second column, last row.

Way too many amazing albums

have been found in these bins.

One of my favorites: a NOFX/Rancid

split, but with Rancid covering NOFX

songs and vice versa. You have not lived

until you hear Fat Mike’s impression

of Fat Albert. Perfect.

If I’m too overwhelmed with decisions

I retreat to the Minutemen

and pick a used CD full

of 90 second songs,

that I can pretty much guarantee

that I will love.

Up to the counter, and always a

a short discussion of great

punk music while my purchase

is being processed. A friendly

“See you soon!” followed by

my least favorite part,

leaving and joining

reality again.

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