Writing On the Wall
Assorted Poems of William J. Strain
my mind, it screams, "you are not well,"
I see me sleeping, curled in fear,
I wrap my heart, each night, in hell,
in waking dreams, I've thoughts to tell,
solitude can be too much to bear,
my mind, it screams, "you are not well,"
harsh words, they flow, assault my will,
their terror, murdering my ear,
I wrap my heart, each night, in hell,
I write them down, their tolling bell,
forboding sounds I will not hear,
my mind, it screams, "you are not well,"
fall's sweet decay, death has her smell,
my winter is drawing near,
I wrap my heart, each night, in hell,
I listen close for the final knell,
my eye lets slip a tear,
my mind, it screams, "you are not well,"
I wrap my heart, each night, in hell.
Lingering, trails and swirls
serpentine and wicked
smoky dragons around me
in a sweetly noxious cloak
the same it seems for the rest
the music twirling about like
a drunken snake, melodies
from beyond, or from within
Dexter Gordon, seemingly
knowing me better than I
can hope for more than a
simple gesture at my mind
and the psychedelic burning
in my hands as the paint hits
paper and the words, rank
and fetid, inky flow
What I think I can learn
listening to the whistle-stop
bright beats of sideways jazz
the audible alchemists who
concoct in dark coffee dives
and bars on the bad side of
town, the grand symphonies
meant to create in us, awe
or maybe disgust, could be just
a deep sense of knowing, we
see what I thought a few moments
ago, come to life in some
strange whirling mess of molocules,
the philosopher's stone, clay
sulfur, mercury salts and the
swimming motion of life.
Opposite of my eyes, I hear
the boom-tick boom of a
drummer's dream, composed
perhaps, in a stupor of unrelenting
neural activity, when the brain
is firing, synapse after synapse
so fast that a poor broken pencil
has a hard time scribbling
across the page fast enough, and
you know that thoughts, precious
thoughts are being lost in translation
somewhere, and the music seems to
want you to go faster, go, go
boom-tick-a boom, swinging
sideways in your ears, slamming
boom, boom, pounding its sex
tick-a boom tick-a, and
maybe it just wants, maybe
you just want it
to stop...
A sparrow, becomes
suddenly, a leaf on the
wind blowing through
a tree, who tosses
in her sleep as though
having a bad dream,
and the birds cradle her
in their wings, singing
songs to comfort her, until
a leaf blows off, changing
suddenly, back into
a sparrow.
I have often heard
the phrase, "look at life
through rose colored glasses..."
but I have not until this
morning understood.
There is a quality to the light
of a new day, a truly new day.
Before the burning rays
of the sun have time
to act cruelly,
when the light is reflected
on clouds of the faintest pink,
only laced with gold,
and a cool mist hangs
about the ground like the
purest silk handkerchief
falling
slowly
to
earth.
When the moon is still
in all her spleandor...a magical time.
All the birds have been awake
for half an hour, and the rabbits
are quite happily nibbling
on my flowers.
But this cannot break my mood
(even though I planted the
coreopsis yesterday), rather
I laugh, and take off my shoes.
I watch the birds fly to an opening
sunflower to eat from it,
as I remove my socks.
I run into the garden,
barefoot, flapping my arms
and staring
at
the
sky.
Sometimes it seems I take flight,
with the lilies just opening,
rushing past me in the corners
of my vision, the sweet scent
of the chamomile,
the bite of thyme and rosemary,
and the roses, clean and fresh,
swirling about me until I collapse,
laying on my back...looking up.
And I hear, all the songs I have ever known,
sung to me by choirs of robin
lark, and cardinal, with an
ambitious titmouse, singing descant.
The melencholy of the night
lightens slowly into a brightness
never dreamt, and I know
that today, at least,
I will be happy.
impossibly quick
agile steps
the fly jumps
onto my plate
hungry feet searching
my dinner, immense
cordially inviting
sweet peas
are devoured
delicately, tiny
bites tasting
without my notice
sated and stalwart,
adjusting his stance
to a more defensive
pose, should I turn
unfriendly, somersaulting
into the air, the acrobat
departs.
I walk alone
smelling salt air
scented by the
perfume of jasmine
and dog roses, that
grow, weed-like on the
sides of gravel roads,
never used except
for the local fisher-people
on thick mornings.
I sit on top of hills,
watching the fog roll,
forming deep
clouds wandering
sadly on the ground,
swimming madly
on the water, like
children who fell
into a puddle, stifling a
cry with a bit lip,
fealing cheated, as though
she had fallen, fallen
from above and got stuck in
this sad plane,
like you did.
stagnant and sullen
weary steps swirling
down the concrete steps
cold as ice
to the crusted bottom
where sleeps a
man, a coiled snake
around itself for warmth
joining in the silent
slumber, with whispered
dreams of sunny days
shiny
like dimes for coffee
and dripping off the roofs
are cold reminders
of swimming pools
and Italian shoes
and Dollar bills to hungry
hands, when hands were
careful not to linger
where they may become
hungry too.
In the dark
stairwells and high
escapes for toughened
natives of the street
an aboriginal people
blackened by the grime
of rich Conquistadores.
I had intended to
write today perhaps
a poem or two,
maybe a story I
don't really know
what will come out
until of course
I sit down and
write until I can't
then I can look
at what things I
left like stains
on a white sheet
of paper which
has nothing else
and so it is left
without ever knowing
that I am all it will
be in this life and
maybe later it
will be trash or
perhaps in the
future it will be
shredded into more
paper to be bounced
around and abused
like this poem.
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