a couple of poems...
been writing lately. trying out some new magic tricks and the like.
the low rumble of poetry
builds
but never seems to deliver.
a page from a child's diary
or
the sound of a time clock.
a poignant anecdote
told to an old friend
under a shade tree
over a cold beer.
in a wasteland
the sparkle of a ruby
should be easy
to uncover.
pale white walls
dirty with
the fingerprints of ghosts.
the fertile earth
of an empty grave
imagining
flowers.
cunningham
07
the cost of melancholy
it could be
that
Miles' horn at midnight
or Patsy Cline's voice on sunday
the crackle of radio static
the sound of needles and wax
the quiet of a summer breeze
the odd punctuation of a typewriter
a photograph in
coffee-stained paper sleeves
a hopeless
knot in lace
are the
price we pay
to
live like humans
in
the shadow
of everything else.
cunningham
07
a walk in the desert
fucking water
everywhere.
what the hell is this?
everyone fat and
bloated, stuffed
from feasting,
bones littering
the
hardwood forest floor,
flesh and song
and meat and dance.
the extinction
of dust.
it goes on for miles
in every
direction.
smiling faces
staring blindly
back at
the face of death.
cunningham
07
and if I owe you a letter, this might just be your weekend. just got the typewriter cleaned and oiled and the motherfucker won't shut up...
the low rumble of poetry
builds
but never seems to deliver.
a page from a child's diary
or
the sound of a time clock.
a poignant anecdote
told to an old friend
under a shade tree
over a cold beer.
in a wasteland
the sparkle of a ruby
should be easy
to uncover.
pale white walls
dirty with
the fingerprints of ghosts.
the fertile earth
of an empty grave
imagining
flowers.
cunningham
07
the cost of melancholy
it could be
that
Miles' horn at midnight
or Patsy Cline's voice on sunday
the crackle of radio static
the sound of needles and wax
the quiet of a summer breeze
the odd punctuation of a typewriter
a photograph in
coffee-stained paper sleeves
a hopeless
knot in lace
are the
price we pay
to
live like humans
in
the shadow
of everything else.
cunningham
07
a walk in the desert
fucking water
everywhere.
what the hell is this?
everyone fat and
bloated, stuffed
from feasting,
bones littering
the
hardwood forest floor,
flesh and song
and meat and dance.
the extinction
of dust.
it goes on for miles
in every
direction.
smiling faces
staring blindly
back at
the face of death.
cunningham
07
and if I owe you a letter, this might just be your weekend. just got the typewriter cleaned and oiled and the motherfucker won't shut up...
posted by christopher cunningham at 8:55 PM
4 Comments:
Yeah, you do...quit lolly-gaggin' & get a-typin'...
I'm on it, son. gotta get up from an hour and a half sleep to go to the farmer's market, then run some errands, then it's back here to the Compound and at the typer. I started your letter but ended up writing about twenty solid poems.
in the wind by mon...
As the sun goes down slowly on a damp South Texas Saturday night,
and I no longer have enough light
to read Neruda on the front porch,
your poem "The Cost of Melancholy" seems to say exactly what was hiding in a lonely corner of my mind but I couldn't articulate.
Thanks...
Bill S.
big bill s:
thanks for visiting and thanks for the kind words. we're all just trying to nail down some aspect of our humanity to the blank page, trying to make a little sense of things...
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