Addict.

Today's piece isn't exactly the most subtle of pieces. It comes off a bit stronger than I actually feel, but oh well, it is what it is. Hah.

Addict.

You sinner, you addict, what becomes of your prayers?
Is there someone who listens? Or do they die in the air?
The angels in heaven, please tell me my worth!
Will I be rewarded when I depart from this Earth?

You addict, you blacken when you poison your veins.
You're the son of sin, a modern day cain.
Oh blessed are we, when we drink the blood
And shower in the love of our saviour, wash off the devil's mud.

You pray on an altar of porcelein and tile,
All to escape the world for a while.
We pray at an altar of wood and flowers
To be saved from the world's most lecherous powers.

You addict, the devil's got a hold of your ear
When you run from the world in your cowardly fear.
Oh blessed are we, the lord fills us with cheer.
When we run from the world in our cowardly fear.

You poor one, you're bound in a self made cage,
That only grows smaller as you grow weary with age.
Oh lord, we're bound in a self made cage
That only grows smaller as we grow weary with age.

Daytime Lullaby.

Greetings, greetings again. I'm in the midst of a very busy June, so forgive my recent lack of posts. To start things off again, here's something I wrote last November, it's about consoling a child who comes to love night and starts to shy away from daytime. This particular one ended up being cut up and developed into a number of other poems (some of which I've posted on here, and if you read back you'll probably be able to tell), but I like the original, so here it is:

Daytime Lullaby.

Morning's on the phone, it calls you to rise
And depart from your bed full of dreams.
Depart from your room, and your hall, and your door
And watch the Earth, full of life, how it teems.
No matter what the moon may say,
The light of day doesn't take the stars away.

Oh daughter, oh son, oh the owls and the wolves
Who fly to and howl at the moon
Fear not morning, alarming, charming bright banner of sunlight
Or the call of the robin or loon.
No matter what the moon may say,
The light of day doesn't take the stars away.

Eyes wide under space and pushed by the tide.
Restless dreamer, the new one, the child of stars
Swinging higher than clouds, swimming further than heaven
To spin in orbit with Mars.
No matter what the moon may say,
The light of day doesn't take the stars away.

The children of day, will you join them in play?
As they bounce between town and the school
And pass town hall, apartments, the carpenter's place
To buzz and hum with his woodworking tools
No matter what the moon may say,
The light of day doesn't take the stars away.

The warm dry grass so comforting under foot
Had its dew baked away by the sun
Fond memories in the pond so warm come midday
Hasn't it brought you hours of fun?
No matter what the moon may say,
The light of day doesn't take the stars away.

As the waves cool and the moon comes back
And night's window puts stars on display
Enjoy night when it's here and day when it comes
And you will always know it's okay.
No matter what the moon may say,
The light of day doesn't take the stars away.

Sound Cages.

Serenade sung through a chain link fence.
Timid and tamed, hung and framed,
Locked and guarded, cruelly regarded.
Serenade sung so forced and tense.

Symphony played in a theater on fire.
Frenzied and worried, hastened and hurried,
Relentlessly razed in an overbearing blaze.
Symphony played in its funeral pyre.

The Axis Travellers.

Snow globe turning like a storm in a hand
Over contoured fingers like a boulder on land.
Interior cyclical waves slide like tides on wet sand,
And we're carried in a vessel cradled at sea.
Each creeping wave that crawls up the walls
Changes rythm and speed as it rises and falls,
And we're caught in a snow globe of perpetual squalls
But cradled and safe and sleeping we'll be.

Mighty.

And a second one, just because I like it:

The Familiar Call.

I heard the sound of my name
Drawn from the body of a scouring-rush.
Blooming from its frayed mouth
Was the head of a sunflower
With petals curling,
Slices of shade and dusty yellow.
A call played for my ears
A call that curved from the tip of each waving petal
Sung in a language without words.
Warm promises
Made by the trust of familiarity.
The neck of my mind's creation,
Feigning lifelessness,
All the while blowing notes and tender characters.
Rustling within rows in a field of dance partners.
A symphony for one,
All played by the wind;
A hundred flutes and a sunflower trumpet.

East Irving Street.

On East Irving Street
He lived in an attic.
A beige chair by the window
A brown bed by the door.
On East Irving Street
He paced on the hardwood
With his hands in his pockets,
And his feet on the floor.

In the chair by the window
His elbow on the sill
He watched the commotion,
From atop his perch.
In the chair by the window
Hands still and eyes scanning
He watched the old bus stop
Between the cafe and church.

A couple dressed like stoplights
Moved like his imagination
Through a red and green world,
Wearing that same red and green.
A couple dressed like stoplights
They sparkled like Christmas
In a hardware store dore
In childhood's loveliest dream.

A bright young man
Wore a pinstripe sportscoat,
As sharp as anyone could be
With his shirt buttoned down.
A bright young man
He saw his ride coming.
He caught the bus with a leash,
And followed it down town.

That dull beige man
Watched the bus as it left
Watched the taxis and towncars
As the sun stopped the show.
That dull beige man
Left the chair by the window
When the night emptied the sidewalks
And the spectacle below.

On East Irving Street
He lived in an attic.
A beige chair by the window
A brown bed by the door.
On East Irving Street
He paced on the hardwood
With his hands in his pockets
And his feet on the floor.