The darkness has not lifted
But the voices are getting mean
A subtle slippage in the light
I’m going to need more caffeine
Perhaps some fresh air to heal
When the dreaming has soured
I spy the image in a night shift
The lone lady out at this hour
The gloom begins to recede
With this sweet widow on the block
My heart in rhythm with her words
As the gentle hands on the clock
External pressures without comparative edges
Weighing down the spirit of our voice
The uneasy relationship with original thought
Fate passes us by when we cannot rejoice
Knowing the beauty that lurks
Though she’s hidden by the shroud
Draped by the promisingly sheer veneer
Whispering taunts, teases & getting loud
I hear the excitement in her voice
Grasping for control – keeping it steady
My passion & desire suddenly obvious
My world brightens when she’s ready
You give up your voice
When you choose to take their hand
You sacrifice your honor
When you go joining their faceless band
You deem yourself unremarkable
Once they take away your vote
No longer choosing for yourself
Their drudging spirit grabs your throat
The hoard directs you how to think
& can make you recite all sorts of things
You deserve your time in Hell
When you hand them your own strings
You’re a questionable soul
Lying in the Captain’s brig
After drinking his scotch
& wearing his wife’s wig
Definitely conduct unbecoming
Her voice sounding the alarm
The man knows your name now
Surely you’ll swing from the yardarm
Summer rain
Quiet relief from the heat of day
A respite from the din of voices
The quell in an otherwise doldrum way
Taking time to breathe the stirred air
Before the winds turn into a squall
The disruption of bored stagnation
The afternoon not so quiet after all
Finding refuge in my dreams
Traipsing through Baudelaire’s flowers
I sing a silent dirge to my soul
Tracing her petals within Summer’s shower
Caught in the currents of missteps
Former words no longer voiced
Lightness of a delicate vision
We heard the morning’s rain rejoice
Politely declining a dreadful umbrella
Walking out, always been man enough to weep
Soaked; tears all the way through
Drowning; maybe now the sunset will let me sleep
Scars last when everything else fades away
A juvenile memory from the long, soft coast
Only those remaining with a raspy voice
Remind you they don’t make homes for ghosts
The world can only hold so many poets
Woefully claiming Bukowski as their inspiration
Worshiping a habitual womanizer & drunk
Answering questions with little to no imagination
I’m doing my best to fill up the lines & empty spaces
With these ink splotches spreading upon the page
Distinct notions of what I believe to be right
But I’m only displaying the curmudgeon side of my age
Shove off from those heroes & clip art stick figures
We need fresh voices with an authentic feel
No more grave-robbing stale words & artifacts
We need to release the future & embrace what’s real
The passing of time is a mixed blessing
Tapping your foot with your vision blurred
Doing our best, but remaining guilty
Still searching for a way to be cured
Wrapping wrists around the tarnished rosary
Youthful dreams faded from when I wanted to be a saint
My heart still ticks, albeit a little weaker
Remembering those days, but the voices now faint
Telling stories after dark
Occasionally with Tom Waits in the lead
Fantastical little allegories
Bringing a light to those souls in need
No need to whisper in the shadows
Luminous words to prepare the way
Removing barriers to our enlightenment
Witticisms fleshed out & on display
Short tales to get creative juices flowing
Harking back to dreams that we might meet
Subtle differences between the pauses
Allowing our imaginations to properly greet
Scenes from our own round table
Foreplay within our cheeky banter
Conjuring visions of a keen passion
Diluted memories at the bottom of our decanter
Bad behavior leads to a more examined life
Though through fiction we can live eternal
A little more sensitive than you want to believe
Yearning to be held by a beautiful dame so maternal
Out here with our hearts raised to the sky
Searching for better answers on the midnight shore
With the freedom to imagine wisdom laid bare
Parsed theories for when we sent them off to war
Subtle manipulation within our romantic esthetics
Unreliable narrators marching; our literary brigade
There’s no vernacular for hearts’ folly
Pushing forth our gentle notion love might persuade
In the end, dear friends, our parable is contrite
In this heinous world, we all have a simple choice
I lay myself to slumber, a fatigued sailor
Wishing for a lullaby coming from Nick Cave’s voice
Image by Eli Digital Creative from Pixabay
The illustrious words of Hunter (the elder)
We ante’d more than our parents’ share
Broken cups of mottled modeling clay
Abstinence leaving you lonely & bare
Chanting Yeats without a voice
A rye smile at the lively night’s end
Cocktail girls when only a wife will do
Looking to the heavens to make amends
Time is failing on a tractional level
Bleak mornings to come calling back
Needing to move without giving notice
Resurrection only possible with coffee this black
I love what’s feminine for its own beautiful sake
Walking out into Mother Nature & breathing in Earth
I’m collecting thoughts & addicted to smiling
A deliberate course to truly live ever since my birth
Feeling the distinct notion of life’s pulse
To emerge from here unbroken & mostly unscathed
To seek out joy & embrace hope where it lives
A stroll in pure sunshine; to be regeneratively bathed
No longer shall I listen to competing voices
I’m going to soak up compassion until I’m through
Outside of the distractions, I’ll grow softer
Finding contentment admits love’s eternal residue
Crisp ocean force winds
Gentle fresh citrus scent
Lost upon the eternal sea
Forgot where beauty went
A treatise of delicate love
Evidence of a ghost
Smile your sweet smile
I’ve left for the coast
Sound of muted voices
She’s a little too cute
Allowing no more secrets
Down through my roots
Great American notebook
Time to add our verse
Or merely help to tread water
While we all survive
Ringing the ship’s bell
Putting on warm tunes
Honing the proper words
To elevate our voice
She was enraged
But it was merely an aesthetic
Undiagnosed shakedown calamity
Her stare leaving me cold & pathetic
She asked me why I was a Pisces
I told her I used to drink like a fish
Though attempts at humor fell flat
I was awkward; she was such a dish
I’m not as spectacular as I may seem
Age filters vexing characteristics instead
She looked upon me with curious disdain
Tangibly conceding to the voices in my head
The voices come calling
Like shattered visitors in the night
Darkness expunged within thought
Auditioning words; trying to get it right
Vapid orations coming from the podium
Stacks of the wrong books & loose leaf notes
The dumbing down makes a tedious existence
But ideas are the traditional spark of an antidote
Ghosts in the library – off the rack
Where truth far outweighs the prose
Tender voices of passed miracles
Remembering eventually that’s how life goes
Only loyal to the dead
Keeping faith with those gone before
Thoughts hard to shake loose
My left foot dragging on the floor
What did I drink last night
Her voice pounding in my head
Regret fills me from within
I know I should have drank water instead
Sometimes I don’t want to love you
But I know there’s no real choice
My heart longs for your touch
Your kisses give my soul a voice
Sometimes you don’t make it easy
But we always make it through
This world is a beautiful place
Much better since I share it with you
“Many people hear voices when no one is there. Some of them are called mad and are shut up in rooms where they stare at the walls all day. Others are called writers and they do pretty much the same thing.”
― Margaret Chittenden
Captain Q 