May 2002 | back-issues, John Sweet, poetry
and he hits you
then brings you flowers
or he just hits you
it’s not a story anymore
it’s a religion
and i choose not to believe
the earth will be consumed
yes
but not in my lifetime
the days will pass too quickly
and the reasons for leaving
will fade
and it’s always someone
a friend
an old lover
or a sister-in-law
and just beyond the brutality
are the sounds of children
playing in the street
the approaching scream of sirens
after a man i’ve never met
finds the brakes too late
and we call this autumn
and the sky is a brilliant blue
and without warmth
the sun is old beyond years
and we have begun
hearing rumors of its death
i have found myself standing
by my son’s bed in
a whiteknuckle rage as
his temperature hangs at 104
the list of people
i would strike dead so that
he might be spared this
is endless
May 2002 | back-issues, poetry
[b]at the joining of sky and horizon[/b]
the prints now left behind in sand will soon be washed away
the fires that burn bright tonight will all burn out by day
remembrance does not come for those who carve their names in stone
their memory decays and fades as even stone erodes….
no guarantees implied or written come with human birth
no standard set nor written guide can say what life is worth
one day life is, the next it’s not, the next new life begins
that life will live, that life will die – and that is how life is….
the author writes – his paper fades; and so his story dies
and who he is and what he was gets lost in seas of time
since all men great and small one day must breathe a final breath….
the greatest shame of all would be to die in fear of death….
[b]illumination:[/b]
the darkness from the light of day will leave unmelted snow
illuminations far removed leave candles left to glow
that candlelight is still romantic – so the lovers say…
but are dim lights and silent nights the proof we’ve grown afraid?
if so then those who pause to look might see what has been lost
and if in this lucidity – they choose a road unwalked…
if finally they gamble and let go of all they grasp…
they might discover candlelight can light their life at last….
[b]in the dream and what is hoped for, maybe[/b]
in the dream and what is hoped for, maybe;
i will see with different eyes.
i will walk inside your shoes,
i will live another’s life.
as maybe you would also.
maybe in my aspirations;
i’m the man i’d like to be.
i’m the hero of the story,
i’m the difference; i’m the dream.
and always living in it.
maybe in my daydream fancies;
i was things i’ve never been.
i was who i’d least expected,
giving out; putting in –
with so much left to offer.
in the dream of what is hoped for, maybe;
mirrors show me things i like.
reflections are the least revealing,
i paint truth about my life.
and there, i find my shelter.
it’s just a shame
that when it’s done,
when i must leave the world behind –
glancing back,
i’ll see i lived…
in dreams alone;
alone in life.
my nightmare then upon me.
[b]maroon and somnolescence[/b]
the words i write upon this page are thoughts which slowly fade
as time makes mind and body blend into the endless shade.
the will is strong, the dream is real, or so it seems to me
though empty glass and ticking clock is all i now can see.
fatigue sets in, and makes itself at home… like it belongs.
and till the sickness runs it’s course there are no sounds of songs.
there’s just the old ironic dream i sip from reddened glass,
the dream that i might wake to find my happiness at last.
by Joel R. S. Young (c)2002
([email]FndleMcGoat [at] aol [dot] com[/email])
[b]Author’s Note:[/b]
Joel R. S. Young poses this question: “Am i an artist? Read what i have written, and decide for yourselves.”
