Broken Pieces

No doctor or man can

Stop this bleeding,

This wound can’t

Be healed by hand.

This heart needs

To be mended,

It’s wounded;

Falling apart.

It’s tattered

And wasted

In your hands

I placed it,

And now

A toy on a shelf,

It sits there

Loosing its wealth.

I feel faint

And weary.

All those around me

Are cheery.

I wish this heart

Were made of stone.

Then it could be tossed

And it could be thrown

And no damage

Would come.

Now this is what I've become:

A broken soul

And it has taken

Its toll.

A Quick fix of love

Held this heart

Together for a while,

But its fallen to pieces

Now. And there’s

To many to pick up

By myself.

I hope that

Someday someone

Will come and pick up the

Broken pieces.

My Ship, My Heart

A rusty mast;
This ship has
Seen many
storms.
The waves
Wash up
On the side,
Hitting the name:
Sherburt.
The deck creeks
Calling for its
Crew,
The steering wheel
Turns, remembering                  
The hands of
the captain.
Like the ship,
My heart longs
For excitement.
To feel the rush that
The crew felt hoisting
The mast.

Thoughts

Why can’t I think straight?

These lines in my head

Are

t

w

i

r

l

i

n

g

all over

the place.

These thoughts bring me here

UP

And there, ^ and

D

o

w

n.

And I can’t seem to hold them.

Melting

These days are
melting
into eachother like
Neapolitan icecream.
Sundays turn to
Mondays and
Tuesday's split
into wednesdays and
thursday.
And my
fridays and saturdays
have been walking
on the rocky road.

When

When tides change and seas roar,

When oceans rise and fall a’ more,

When rivers come to the end of their run,

When lakes shimmer in the sun,

When puddles dry up to the stone,

That is when I’ll be alone.

Star Gazing

Should I map out the twinkle in your eyes;

The stellar constellation of your heart?

Or fly up to be closer to your sky;

and compare your clouds to Da vinci's art?

By day, your face shines like the morning sun,

By night, your smile doth guide like the north star.

No, I did not rip off the poet Donne,

I wrote this in my room with my guitar.

But now my eyes can't see you anymore

For you have gone to a forever sleep.

But in my dream, your sky I do adore,

And my love for you in my heart I keep.

Star gazing reminds me of your beauty,

And I know you are looking down at me.

Run-on Idea poem

Words can speak volumes,

Turn the volume down I can’t hear myself.

Me myself and I, three in one like God or so they say.

They say nothing lasts forever.

What is forever? Is it the idea that time will last until our death?

Death: a passage to the unknown abyss of time.

What is time? Is it linear or a three dimensional void?

Darkness.

White Men and Socks

          "My papa used to tell em that you can tell a racist by his socks. I never understood what he meant until the day he was shot. They said he was causin' trouble in Forsyth Park, but I know my papa. I know he done nuthin' wrong. He was walkin' home from workin' down in the south end a' town; same way he'd been takin' since I can remember. He used to stop by the pond and feed the ducks the crumbs of his lunch. Ain't meant nobody no harm. I used to meat him just after the park on West Taylor Street. That day I waited for him till three thirty; that's when I knew something was wrong. I ran to the park as fast as I could. There I saw my papa holdin' his chest leanin' on the edge of the pond wall. His hands were cups of blood. He pulled me closer to him and told me 'I guess them white folk don't like a colored man feedin' them ducks.' Those were the last words he said to me. I looked around and saw a group a' white men starin' at me and my papa. They were wearin' them racist socks. It had a red circle a cross in the middle. I stayed there until the police came and dragged me away from my papa. That's the last time I saw him. They cuffed me and put me in jail for a couple a' nights. Didn't even get to go to his funeral. And that's all there is to it sir."

"Do you see the men who were in the park in this court room today, William?"
           "Yes sir, I do." He pointed to the three men sitting in the front row, "That's them."

           "All right, William. You can take your seat."

Leaves

Leaves

grow on a tree

only to wrinkle and die; we

grow and grow and fall

and wither away. Like

an old man sharing

his wisdom, so too do these

leaves

share

their

true

colors

before

falling.

I chose Hell

as an end but

not for the

sins I did. Looking

ahead of the line I

saw a friend sent

here for the lies

he told.

I beg

with God to

let me go with him. I

chose it as my

end: spend never

ending days

in there with

him.

First
Thunderstorm:
Clouds:
black cotton.
The ground
Shook like a rattle.
When the sky began
To spit, I waited for the end,
Bucketfuls.
I crawled under
My thick sheets, closed eyes.
The window
Lit up
Like flashlights
Being thrown
Around.
The
Roar of the sky, made me
 Cry.

Airport

             He was running late so he bought a flower from one of the airport shops instead of on the way. Mark hadn't seen her in a long time. He kept biting at his nails as he waited sitting at the airport; arrivals from Chicago. He was dressed up a bit more than usual: a white button up shirt, the only one he owned, and black jeans. Two years he hadn't seen or spoken to her. She had run away from him. He searched for her for a while, but figured she didn't want to be found.

           People started to file out of the arrivals. He stood up abruptly when he saw her. At first she didn't notice him standing there. When she saw him, she looked down and walked over slowly. He hugged her. She hugged back tiredly. Handing her the flower, she took it and put it in her bag. Mark took her bag, “Common. Car's this way.”

She looked at him, then followed. Mark saw at her from the corner of his eye. She had changed a lot. Her hair was shorter; it was blond now. Her skin was tanned. “So, how was the flight?”

            “Fine.” she said. Looking out the airport windows.

They went into the elevator. Alone with her finally, he asked, “Why'd you leave, Jasmine?”

            “I didn't want a commitment”

            “You left on the night of our wedding!”

            “I don't think I was ready for it.”

They got to the door. Mark opened it for her, but she went to the next door.

            “Where's the car parked?” She asked.

“Second floor of the indoor parking.” He paused, “How did you find me after so long?”

            “Mark, I've known you long enough to know that you're not one to move around a lot. I bet you're still at the apartment we moved into together when we were dating.”

Mark laughed nervously, “I guess you're right.”

They walked up the stairs to the second floor. The echoes of their footsteps was the only sound. Mark let her get to the door first, but she hesitated and waited for him to open it. Confused, Mark opened the door and let her go first.

            “Here we are.” He said, forcing a smile.

She half-smiled and got in.

Mark got into the car and started it. He sat there for a second thinking of what was happening. Jasmine started to stare at him. He turned to her, “So, what are we exactly now?”

            “I don't know exactly.” looking in the rear view mirror, “But doesn't that excite you?” She said turning to him.

            “I don't know.” Finally looking at her.

He pulled out of the parking spot and started for the apartment. “Why did you decide to come back?”

            "One day I woke up and I told myself “It's time to go home.”” She said.

            “Well I'm happy you're back.” Mark said smiling.

She looked at him. Mark could see a smile creeping onto her face.

           “I guess I am too.” She said and turned on the radio.

After Rain

missing summer much? Here's a little poem to help bring summer faster:

The smell of
tarred asphalt
after a rain shower,
the sun poking
out of the clouds like
a nose.
The wet grass licks my
feet as I
walk to the tree.
I hear the birds
sing their
song;
not
Oh Canada
or The Star
Spangled Banner:
their song,
and they
sing it best

Thanks for reading folks! :)

Calf

note about this poem: this is a list and a noun+7 poem. try and see if you can figure it out!

Japanese beetle

Fecundate

Marching orders

Apse

May Day

Jungle

Jumna

Augustinian

Septic

Octopod

Novitiate

Decentralization 

Moving Fast

I let his hands go up

and down my body.

I love it when he does that.

He greases me up and I shine

in the light.

When he takes me out,

he drives me fast.

I give him the best I got,

as his hair blows in the wind.

He turns me on sometimes,

just to show his

friends.

I don’t mind, I love the

attention.

He sometimes

lets his friends ride me,

but I’d rather him.

He knows how to handle me.

He knows me inside and out.

He should know,

he built me.

Heart Monitor

Thomas could smell the clean scent of newly washed bed sheets; flowers, and the smell of soap and alcohol. Something was beeping close him by. Opening his eyes, he saw a white ceiling. When he turned his head, he saw the usual things, familiar to him from the movies; an IV was going into his arm and a heart monitor. There was a cast on his left leg and a bruise on his right arm. His chest was pulsating with pain.

A nurse walked into his room with some papers and asked “How are you feeling?”

“My chest is killing me,” he paused, “what happened?”

“You were in a car accident. You’re lucky to be alive. You have a concussion, and you had to have surgery to get glass out from your skin and you have a broken leg.”

She walked a bit past him pulling a curtain away showing another patient. Thomas looked over to see an old man lying in the bed next to him. “Shit!” he thought to himself, “why am I in a room with an old guy?”

“How are you today Mr. Edwards?” the nurse asked the old man.

“I’m doing just fine Ms. Shirley, just fine.”

“I’ll be back with your medication Mr. Edwards.” She said with a smile. “And I’ll be back to give you some pain medication for your chest.” She walked out giving Thomas a frown; his eyes following her. Looking at the door, his parents walked in smiling.

“Oh! My little munchkin!” his mother said running in and squeezing him tightly.

“Mom! Get off!” he said turning red in the face.

“Hey son, I’m happy to see you’re all right.”

“Hey Dad.” Thomas paused looking around in the room, “what happened?”

“You were driving home last night from Rob’s house, when an eighteen wheeler T-boned your rear end. Your car flew into a ditch and flipped a couple times.”

“We were so worried. The hospital kept bouncing our calls from here to there.” His mother said with tears starting to come to her eyes.

“Mom, I’m okay though.”

“We should let you get some rest son.” His dad said smiling at him.

“I’m happy you’re okay!” his mom said, looking at him head to toe smiling.

“Thanks. I’ll see you guys later”

“Love you son.”

“I know.” He said.

They walked out and it was quiet again. He only heard the beeps of the heart monitor.

“Your parents seem like nice folks.”

Thomas turned to look over at the man. He looked frail. He was wrinkly and bald and his eyes looked like they could tell a story. He had no flowers or balloons, no drawings by grandchildren. His side was bare. “They’re all right I guess.”

“You’re lucky to have them around.” His voice was soft. “When I was your age, my parents were dead.”

“How’d they die?”

“An explosion. It destroyed their whole town. I was only a child. I was at our family farm when it happened. They were in town getting a few things I guess.

“Where was the explosion?” He asked.

“Halifax.”

“Wow!” Thomas paused. “My names Thomas.”

“Mr. Edwards, but you can call me Eugene.”

“Nice to meet you Eugene.”

Looking back at Eugene’s bare white wall, Thomas asked, “Eugene, how come no one’s come to visit you?”

“How could you tell?” he asked with a smile. He continued, “Well son, I have no one left. I was an only child and my wife died three years ago.”

“No kids?”

“You could say that.”

“What do you mean?”

“My sons have left me. I don’t even know where they are anymore.”

It was silent in the room; all that Thomas could hear was the beeping of the heart monitor.

“Eugene?”

“Yes son?”

“When are you getting out? Of the hospital I mean.”

“The only way I’m getting out is through the morgue son.” He said in his soft voice.

“Oh,” Thomas felt bad for asking, “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be Son; it’s a part of life.”

“Are you afraid?”

“Of dying? No, son. But one thing does scare me.”

“What’s that?” Thomas asked, looking over at Eugene.

“Being alone when it happens.” He said looking over at me.

All went silent. Thomas looked at the bare wall as he listened to the faint beeps of Eugene's heart monitor.

The Bitterness of Coffee

 Richard hadn't realized how much he hated the taste of coffee until now. He sat in a café, sipping his coffee, alone. Maybe it was the loneliness he didn't like? He had a newspaper in front of him, which he aimlessly flipped through while eating his breakfast, two eggs and sausages with toast. He looked around and saw only one other person in the café. He saw that she too was eating and looking at the paper as she sipped their coffee. He looked at her, a woman of maybe twenty-five, and realized she was quite attractive.

Long dark hair and dark skin. The thought passed through his mind to go and talk with her. He flipped through a few more pages. Taking one last swig of his coffee and got up. Pretending to go to the bathroom, with his coffee in hand he passed by her and looked at the newspaper.

“Ah! The comics. My favorite page.”

She looked at him with a smile, “Mine too.” She said.

“Nothing ever worth reading in the paper except them.” Richard said leaning on the chair across from her. She laughed.

“I want to ask, you don’t have to say yes, but I was wondering if you could use some company?”

Looking around at the empty seats, she nodded. He pulled out the chair and took a seat with his coffee.

“Richard” he said beaming.

“Jenifer” she said.

“If you don’t mind me asking,” Richard said, “What are you doing alone on a beautiful Saturday morning?”

She looked outside at the rain trickling down the window. She laughed,

“I don’t know. I woke up this morning and found myself walking into here.”

“I see.” said Richard. “Kinda the same thing for me. I don’t know why but I find myself in here every morning.”

She looked at him then back the paper. It fell silent for a while. He looked at her as she read the comics.

“What do you do? I mean as a living.” Richard asked.

“I’m a teacher.” She said, glancing up from the comics.

“What do you teach?”

“Math.” she said.

“Which school?”

She sipped a bit of her coffee, “You've probably never heard of it.”

“Try me!” he said with a smile.

Taking out a map, she pointed to a country in Africa. “I teach math in a town in Uganda called Gulu to children from ages six to fifteen.”

Taken back, Richard didn't know what to say at first.

Finally, “Wow! That’s really good! Helping out those in need. So what are you doing here then?”

Looking at him, she said, “Summer break, visiting family.”

It fell silent for a long time again.

Richard looked out the window and saw that it wasn't raining. The window wasn't even wet. Looking back in front of him, she was gone; there was no one in the café but the waitress pouring his coffee.

He asked the waitress, “Excuse me, what happened to the young lady sitting in front of me?”

She looked at him puzzled. “Hun,” she said, “you been out cold for about an hour.”

Finishing pouring his coffee she walked away. He took a sip of the coffee and realized how much he hated the taste.

Bus

Solitaire,

skateboards and

a message in a

bottle

asking

for more skittles.

We rock back and

forth;

chaise berçante.

Sleepers,

Blue jays hats,

mountain dew,

a friends arm

rubbing, on mine and

the wind breathing

on my face.

Possibly a finished poem? not sure though

Sometimes I feel like I'm the only one
other times like I'm being ignored by the sun.
All I want is someone to hold,
cus this winter is so damn cold.

Thanks for reading,
Tim