CerebralDebris

It’s a rare occasion, I’ll admit, that my writings diverge from the path of traditional narrative and forge ahead into the largely unexplored (in my case, anyway) realm of poetry, but it does happen.

Largely when I write poems, I do so as an exploration of the language. They’re structural in nature, focused on rhyme scheme, syncopation, meter and beat. I haven’t yet graduated to a level of ability at which I feel comfortable playing with symbolism, or theme. That may never happen, actually, given that my poetry output is somewhat less than prodigious.

Still, I have two or three poems that I feel are solid, in one way or another, and I feel like sharing them here. This being my blog, where better to post this sort of thing, right?

I appreciate comments, whenever I get them, though that occasion has proven to be rare so far. If you have thoughts on any of the poems after the jump, please feel free to leave a note!

To Me, From You

You said you would,
But didn’t.
And the tast it left was bitter:
Wine gone bad,
Empty cellars, full of litter
And hidden.
You said you would.

Santa Ana

There’s pleasure in the wind that creeps,
Bone-dry and hot like desert sighs

In broken hands. The silence weeps
Like ghosts in walls, for binding ties

To days that wait, while darkness seeps,
Through wood and stone, and all realize:

Ancestral shades in silence keep
Their bitter watch with shotgun eyes.

In times like these, when all retreats,
Men pray for blood and tell their lies.

The House at the End of the Street

Yes.

The house at the end of the street …
Where broken windows stare like eyes,
And spiders crawl where darkness lies.
They spin their webs to catch the flies,
And other creatures that they eat
In the house at the end of the street.

There is a smell like rotting meat,
That wafts out of its crumbling walls.
It sickens, maddens and appalls
All those who walk within the halls,
And many make a quick retreat
From the house at the end of the street.

Things lurk within its darkened suites,
And shades of children play with toys.
These spectral wisps of girls and boys,
Go quietly and make no noise,
And ignore all those that they meet
In the house at the end of the street.

They hide there in the summer heat,
And sit alone through winter’s night.
They smile when the moon is bright
(the only time they love the light),
And whisper verses that repeat,
In the house at the end of the street.

They flee it now with running feet,
Those who view its wasted space.
Their fear is etched upon their face.
They grimace, gibber, moan, and pace.
They must admit to their defeat,
By the house at the end of the street.