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Short Poetry Collection Number 1
by Chris Mysen
The madman stands upon the branch.
He walks up onto its flailing arms.
"How doth the winds burn
this unending night."
And so, they bring him in.
To them, no more than routine.
Out the streets, on the beat,
to catch, to stalk, and to prevail.
Rarely do they ever struggle,
"they think it is salvation--sometimes."
To the man, life is not reality.
To him, the world is just his dream,
and his dreams are his reality.
The wind may burn the night, as it shows its life
and his dreams may be his.
The padding on the walls cannot hold,
another still hidden in a frame built for one.
And so, they say it must be time,
a step, a walk, a chair,
Meat of the Day.
Sleep, dream, and lonliness.
Dream of days never to be.
Sleeping images of hope and love.
Lonliness of personality,
Purity.
Purity of evil, and of good.
Black and White,
All at once.
A wonderous jumble of the mind,
Purity.
Sleep, not dream, and hopefulness.
No more dreams, but reality.
A sleeping reality of afterwards.
Hopefulness of wonders to come;
Purity.
And Only twice will one find...
Purity.
In the long gone dead of night, hope begins to fall: A heavenly
gift from
the ominous sky. The darkened clouds blur the darkness's twinkle.
A cool,
slightly bitter, air sweeps the remaining life-drained leaves
around the
chapped ground.
A man lies amidst the winter's flowers, dying in an open field.
His dirt
nettled hair melts into the frozen earth. Tattered clothes, that
tell the
tale of a sorrow in life, can scarcely prevent the wind from worsening
an
already poor situation. A time weathered tan on a wrinkled leather
cloth,
the man's face hardly moves to react to the cold winter chill.
And hearty
flies hover, like antarctic vultures, around what can and will
become his
fleeting frame.
Five children yawn as they stare from their crystalled glass bay.
Their
weary breaths fog the already darkened view. Their blushing, fatted
faces
almost freeze to the time worn panes. A sadened mind bleeds its
thoughts
into a more saddened face. Only thin strands of spider web hope
keep them
in their places.
The man closes his eyes, one last time,
As the children open theirs,
And as the snowflakes begin to carpet the ground,
In white ...
Purity.
Step by step, and day by day,
white and black meet,
they meet and flow;
a painting across the town.
The billboards resound
or cringe in their fear,
as another steps,
tip-toeing into its place.
But, for now it only lies,
a belief in times
and a belief in beliefs,
for an image to turn to life.
Emotions fly amidst the clouds,
they stand among the trees,
until one begins
to meet and touch the black and white.
Color stops, to give its way
to give way to the crossroads.
Thoughts and times stop,
But, the black always meets white.
But, black and white, are quite,
strangely ordinary.
Taking time, the thoughts,
breathe life into the plain.
Exhausting step before exhausting.
Thought stands up and gives,
to let emotions play;
Emotions breathe heavily.
Sinuous steps and
hopefully wonderful flows,
lead onto the dreams
of reality.
Running the mile,
so many times
leaves a mark on minds,
and leaves a thought so tired.
With time wearing, erodedness,
and dreams and thoughts,
and emotions.
They all die away.
Leaving behind space for the next generation.
Giving birth leaves a mother exposed.
The times most fruitful,
exposed to those that kill.
Along with the ages flowing,
swiftly drifting fashions,
moving with the people,
killing and changing, for ever more.
And so as the dreams
of wilderness fade,
people will at last rise,
and read the past of black and white.
Deadly silence,
Dark, dark blues fading into the blacks,
Faint glimmers and brightness stars,
A cloud, and a breeze.
Sickening air,
Lonely bubbles to break the way,
Gusting dust that irritates, sometimes.
Standing still nowhere.
All turmoil,
though it's impossible to see,
Only clear to the time trained eye.
But, complex for all.
Hidden minds,
Daffodils dancing, seas of flowers,
Beyond the forrests, but there for all,
Only few know the path.
All is not,
Nothing is truly to avail,
A rat's maze, one way to next,
Learning on the way.
A child,
A child opens Pandora's box,
A child, and a challenge, and time,
Amazing things to find.
A youth,
A youth explores the woods,
A youth and the floating leaves,
Finds truth and time.
A dult,
A dult emerges from the fall,
A dult enters into the sun,
Individual in a crowd.
Our stars,
Are suns to other places,
Are the burnt orange sky,
And our's their dreams.
Sun's planets,
Sons of faint glimmers,
Soon is a distant time,
Minutiae to comprehend.
Inward thoughts,
Vastened space to expand into,
Almost full, but never quite,
Always space for one more.
So stands,
Metaphors for near everything,
Highlights for all to see, but
Different eyes to see with.
Sleeping beauty,
To be wakened by her prince,
In the dead of daily sets,
As the sun goes down.
My moon,
My sun, hope to come soon,
My stars, shimmer to some tune,
My life, and doom.
Every day I wake, I wake to do my duty.
Every day I do what I have to do.
Nothing more, nothing less.
Unless...I'm tired.
Then, I may do less.
Every day I wake, I wake to do my duty.
Every day I lose a little of myself.
Sometimes more, sometimes less.
But, it's out of my control.
It's all, it's never up to me.
Every day I wake, I wake to do my duty.
Every day I rise, I rise above my piers.
But, the presssure is quite demanding.
Every day I wake, I wake to do my duty.
Every day I run, every day I work.
Never much chance to rest.
It's wearing me down.
Every day I wake, I wake to do my duty.
Every day I leave my home, undress and get to work.
Every day is different, the end is always the same.
Every day I wake, I wake to do my duty.
Every day I lose half my brain.
A strangling here, a shooting there; I've seen all that happens.
I've seen my wife and kids, disappear into oblivion.
Every day I wake, I wake to do my duty.
I know one day, I will leave home, never to return.
Left to die, among the trash.
A pen, a pen never more.
writers@onestep.com
Last Updated: Feb 10, 1996