My Take on the Old Ways - M.Weisgerber

Tonight, we're bringing back sky-diving,
horizontal. Exhaust plumes call me home,
while the landscape lips whisper freely
'round parts best left empty or unexplored.

It starts, with one leg over leather steed,
then jack rabbit advancement o're plains. We
two diametric poles opposed: I - one,
the other, a whip of flame in the dark.
Splitting the ground, pulling even the earth
farther, to the nearest edge of twilight;
Mad Men: we exist to drive away night.

Guns burst, smelling of passing fumes, bullet
forms smelted then dislodged from hot chambers.
It's me, screaming as I fly along them,
the back streets. Loggers trails; forgotten land.
Viewing the roots that seek to end my blaze,
dodged with crisp laughter; I know so much better!

Even managed to steady hushed God-calls
in the whir of machinery; a blur
passing, matching the heartspeed and spittle.
This is ours, bird country; a forge that's longed
to create sparks that hiss or fly freely.
We, happy to abblige simple requests.

Peripheral: gone. Forward; meaningless.
It is here, amongst the adrenaline
that we may be allowed to forget all:
simple rose petals catching in the twigs.
Mud-stuck, holding up the fishbowl bottom
of a twisted sky carved of stars, blue shade:
better than crosses drawn upon both wrists.

And I, God I need to see the moon, sun
plucked from the eastern-most sky where they feed.
Drive now, if only to use the windburn
to dry my eyes.

Written Quick - M.Weisgerber

I walked the world today, and did not know I sinned

I saw the world, the world replied, and yet, I know I did not sin.

This they yelled at me, scolded; they even begged

Yet still I skip along with frilly flip flops, and know better: they lie.

The preacher man looked down upon me, while I was on my knees

Because he had the men build his pulpit tall, that’s all.

I don’t know what is in it for him, but I know

Not lordship, only “good lord”. I know.

If no one around me said I sinned, then I would not

If I didn’t believe that I’m a wretched person, indeed I would not be.

Somehow, as I pen these words, I am free

And that is all I need.

In a moment soon in Leaving - M.Weisgerber

"Trouble now. Trouble close ahead."
These words spoken deftly in the gloom,
I, not realizing they were of warning
hidden within a hug.

Three hundred or so dark days show its clear
you don't desire a man who cries
across his soaked fields or mudded wallows.
What about a boy that smiles?

Plays ball upon the sewn long-grass by firefly light.
Now paper child. Framed cute eyes stuck behind the lens,
uncrimped hair, drifting along with the wind.
French perfect.

I merely stand among the rotting flowers
stuffed gaily into another pine tar heel.
Meant to plant seeds of hopes or lover's fruits,
wandering now without a tears to nourish them.
Finding it ironic.

Forgot we dreamers can only bleed daffodils.
Professional fakers, always with an alibi,
seeking the next moonbeam to bend to encourage a grin.
Meant not to breed, or spread the disease.

No wonder itchy feet begin to walk.
I hope he/they/(it?) fits the stereotypes; sellers type.
I am, forever have been a man who whispers please.

Black 21 - M.Weisgerber

Every day, she comes down from the window
walking by the boy with flowers stick-stuck,
looking anxiously at the passer-bys,
catching each in some pose or reverie.

Four times of ten she catches those soft blues
from the eye corners only, refraining.
"Ah, he is 'merican!" says she, in mind
conspiring reasons for abatement.

Has he long made up his to travel there
bouquet under arm, to view only the Seine?
A river sprite with good grin, cut features
meant to impress, and almost doing so.

Looking like those that read blog life stories,
then put his on a number; the wheel spun,
landed him on these banks so he slowly,
soulfully may soak up the river smell.

And wait.

She giggles, thinking of writing this too;
her life, and an 'merican boy fused? PAH!
But the days never shift, and he daily
spies at her, always in recognition.

She awakens one dawn to a startling,
removed from a dream where the waters spoke,
long, slow sounds lapping at the edges of
her, her spectacle, and nothing else more.

This time, she scents the roses wafting early,
goes to the window sill with nightgown drawn,
peering; a chance to catch sapphire rising,
with hope, wonder now in heart held.

(Unnamed) - M.Weisgerber

The thought of a train
plunging through the sheathing of this bus, hot screams & soft steel rivets escaping
awakens me from half hearted slumber
with a start.

I must have gotten rest, I suppose
seeing as my blood is cool to the touch, bones refraining from ache.
Lifting eyes to houses along this east side boulevard
I discover it is only winter, nothing more.

Even as my gaze remains fixed, these wheels roll on
causing the backround to shift; I find that I have to keep changing positions
just to stay fixed upon the same point of charred lumber.
But that too passes, swallowed up somewhere "behind".

The image of that house long remains, somewhere burried in my mind,
one built of strong hands & immigrant care.
Proud. Tall. Giving in only to moisture or reprise.
However, it too has also burned, flames dancing in the midnight sky.

Now sits, a sigh; husk of its former life,
surprised that it could survive just one more day of snowfall.

As if houses could feel such things.

Its windows catch my eyes while my face alights in its glazed pitch
for this one brief second; a glance between strangers.
And in that moment, so many sad slow stories pass.

Perhaps they were always fiction,and never will have a chance to be.

Meloncholy - M.Weisgerber

This one is for bill,
for reasons I dont think even I
understand.

(oh yes, and on to the poem!)


Knowing we've locked the Seine in,
begun to choke the mighty Thames.
...but also knowing they will prevail:
how timid it makes the pulse beat.

That their decent into Hades will always remain pillar mark'd,
just a sliver of the smallest fing'rs nail,
stuck into the fabric; everything else swirling 'round.

I'd love to see the earth raunt there bare,
just to examine the curve of the soils breast;
an instant of alarm distributed on this little hill
outside my fair industrial city.

Watch it all with patient eye as the wind sifts
winters breath upon the singed concrete canyons and lessening,
letting the same fug that tatters my golden locks
ushers old dust motes back into the north.

I do not sing to what I cannot swim across,
wallow in the mud o'the banks with tinged breeze
and miss the smell of salt upon the air;
it's a title soon in coming.

Notice the pall rising, yet do not fear it;
there never were ghosts that roam'd the river
near hospital beds, or infect open manufacturing bays.
The only old spooks festering in the mansions

or open pustules that make the streets
whisper the loins of history, not one word more.
They already had their centuries of lore,
and are ok about being forgotten.

(Currently Unnamed) - M.Weisgerber

Every Friday night, I sit down to play a game
If I can live till Monday's dawn , I may actually win one

See, the world no longer seems full of human things
It is sharp edges cut with a green reminiscent of computer screens on mute
Or the look of an ocean after the storm break: glowing lightly at the seams

I stand on one end of the beam, twisting silently in midair,
watching you sway precariously upon the other
Claw the air into a frothy boil while going tiptoe along the rim
Push yourself again and again, ever further outwards from the center; hope?
How strange, because you were once a noble creature, now at the end of your time

All that lies between us is the gulf, an abyss from which none return once entered
Such a shallow hole sunk into the earth crust

You will turn and come back from the borderlands to kill them all; dear pen
let this note draw blood indiscriminately
Will I find freedom in the sky, or instead in the coldness of the liquid torn from it
Hold steady fate; allow me to bide my time