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Poetry Short Stories The Birth of -Gatlin

Child's Smile
In the short sweet hours
Between Night and Day
Life and Death
Beginning and End
What more is there
Than the Rose that blossoms
  in the spring
Than the child laughing 
  in the summer
Than the small fire leaves falling
  in the autumn
Than the small white heaven's on earth
  in the winter.
What is more valuable?
The money spent in passing days
Or the childs giggle and smile
  and the sparkle caught in those eyes.



Scattered Information

 It could have been
 a backfire of a car passing by
 Or a firecracker
 outside the window,
 maybe even the ring of a school bell.
 I never would have thought
 That it would be the first gunshot...

 Oh my God.  Twenty five dead
 as of the last report.
 More to come later,
     children or information,
 The reporter isn't clear,
 But as of late...

 Twenty five mothers are
 losing more than their own life
 Over a thousand are watching,
 crying, not sure if their heart
 has been ripped out.
 Flashes on the screen.  A number
 to call, but it's busy.
 The tears and prayers are strong
 Enough that a stranger can feel them...

 I watch the reports
 And I share a prayer with people
 I don't know, nor will I ever meet.
 This should never have happened...



Frozen

The door opened

The girl inside
stood there in her long white nightgown.
It gently fell on her ankles
and then pulled away
as the wind flowed into the room.
Light followed, streaming
at her in waves, and blinding
as it attacked the iris of her eye.
It wouldn’t adjust for her.
It was frozen in it’s own blood of fear.

A shadow stepped in between her
and the white shower.
She didn’t know why, but she knew that
it was a man.
He stood there for a moment 
in that doorway, letting that time
drag as though an hour had gone by.
Then he entered, and closed the door.
The light fell away to nothing.
Everything was gone for a brief time
and then gradually it all came back to her.
He was still standing in the door way
watching her.

She forced a smile on her face, 
and ran to grab his leg.
“Daddy!” she giggled.

He reached down
and pulled her up into his arms.
He looked into her blue eyes
and seen the sweet hearted innocence lying there.
“You’ve been naugthy today,
Haven’t you?” He said as he looked up
to see the writing on the wall.



White Image

What does the artist say
As he loses
 into the loss of a day.
The canvas, strecth his
 body soul on it's easel
Is white, anger sores
 loss of sleep, rain pours
But not within his space
He sleeps alone, his easel
 walks farther away.



On My Own (first apartment)
          The click
Behind me
I walk away
closed/the white walls/in
InsomniaParanioa looking
out a window fear
Trapped alone
shaking, can't bare

Listen, within the night
Strange, a different beat
Than my own
Lost in the ocean a
squirrel in a sea of sharks
cliched but are my feelings
As I look down from my window
Looking up into the world

Oh my God,
  What have I gotten into....



Lake Shore Drive
The straps to tight
I can't feel the pain
Below my knees
But I step forward
And nearly fall back
"My first time on rollerblades"
I say to someone passing by

Then I roll my way
To the path I wanted to see
I have had a desire for beauty
The sight, this sight
Temporarily quenches

The waves pounding against
The bence beyond the wooden barrier
The green water is white spray
Lashing it's hands, throwing it
 playfulness at me, and
The blue sky, a sheet of
 undisturbed glass
Shining from my unknown science
That claims the beauty is marely dust.

There were times when I nearly fell
Because my mind was with beauty...



"Seeing Past the Window"

The window is broken.
I don't know when it
happened, nor can I 
remember how, but it
is.  The cracks streak
down and lightening
at an angle and the 
center is a spider
web.  It glistons as 
though in a rain, but 
there is none.  The 
sun is shining and the
window to my past is
Still
Broken.

I can see, but my 
vision is distorted.
The sun shining down
attacking me from the 
window, blinding me
from seeing what is
There.
How can I ever see 
through it.  How can
I fix the broken window.



song of night

That song
Like one not heard
 for so long
That song
That pulls me out 
 and makes me feel free
That song
The train passing 
 in the moon light

That song
It takes me out there
 to bathe in the moon light
That song
Let’s me fel the soft caress
 of the wind through my hair
That song
The song of the night
 outside of myself
I have not heard you for so long


Why?
Why,
I have not listened.
Why?
Why,
I have been trapped in my life.
The Job steals you from me,
And school drains me.
I had become a man.

I had become a man.
A guinea pig tested on
With hoses flushing out my fluid,
Oozing out as I become a zombie.
Society feeding off of my flesh,
Dehydrating my skin-it cracks
and peels away to the fat underneath.
Then the wall cracks
and sound enters-a train.
The song of night-It’s freedom.



The Picture Exposed

The stroke of my brush
Across the rough canvas
The colors I leave
They are the fear of what I might be
Glossed, under the light

Blue sky is placed at the bottom
With the ground all around
Circling as though a snake 
  around a prey
Threatening to attack.

And then in the center
The Golden Tree
Is the end of the rainbow
But the storm is still strong
The wind is blowing a black fog of dirt 
It comes from the apples
core.  The single apple
On the single limb.

And a man stands by the tree
With the dirt striking against him
He has a battle axe in one hand
While the other protects his face

Then the axe falls
And chops away the gold
Exposing the rotted wood
underneath



A Memory while driving downhill

               I

Driving up,
Flat on point,
The crest, then descent,
A stretch of road, straight,
Black and dotted with light
Sprinkling through the cave of tree limbs
Reaching out their clawed hands
As I ease along 
On the spotted cow.

Curve, tight, having to
crawl into it-through it
and another brief stretch
where I would wish to stop
For my breath catches
At the sight through in the trees
A hole in the wall of the cave.
Where I can see
The river, blue, glistening glass with 
A line of cliffs double reflected
That seperate the water
From the heaven’s clear sky

And like a dream,
I am at the threshold.
A peace, tranquil as the white bird sits
Upon a hollow in the middle of the mirror
While ducks flying V swim across the sky
Then gone
South to a winter home

                      II

The blue sand hour glass
Reminds me of as a child
A drive with my parents
To a stretch of beach,
Where I would play
Gay within my swimming
Until worn out, tired,
Sitting in the water
As it would lap against me.
The waves being my motion
As I flow back and forth,
Then I feel the tickle
A small blue gill
Nibbling on my foot.

And It was on my way to this beach
That there, driving down a hill,
There is a hole in the line of trees
Where I could see 
The crystal water stretching
Along the far wall of vine overhung rock.
I felt it deep inside.
The joyous hunder with
A feather in my stomach,
That climbs up through my breath
Such as when a fall
From the top of a rollercoaster
Rushes me with this,
This in my chest.

                III

Continuing down that brief stretch
Until I reached the next curve
The glare of the crystal blue behind me
I come from the turn
And prepare for the next one.
             


Anger

Awakened
The fire burning upon my chest
Small but spreading, growing
Walking with me down the street
Consuming, through forests of people
And scorching their flesh
As it rages to destructions
That had set the fire ablaze.                     



Epitath

here lies a man
He, born to a mother and a father
But the father left
Before the man could crawl

Here lies a man
Who grew up with a step-father
That yelled and cursed
With his drunked draw
At the man and his mother

Here lies a man
Who has laughed the day
  his step father left
Happy to see  that it
  was over

Here lies a man
Who watched his mother
  court another man
Who had been bewildered 
With how he felt

Here lies a man
Who had been unsure
Mortaly of who he was
Of who to call his father
And who was his family
What was his heritage
And what was his place

Here lies a man
Who never knew himself
Well enough to live