Author: beighartman

Composition

poetry

Where’s the music to these lyrics?
Where’s the rhythm to the drumming of my hands on the desk?
Where’s the beat in the neck-breaking of my head-banging?
Where’s the chord to the strumming of my air guitar?
Where’s the tune whistling from my lips?
Where’s the snap between my fingers?
Where’s the melody to this song?
Where’s the tapping to my feet?
Where’s the music to these lyrics?
They’re all in my head.
It’s all in my head.

Where Have All The Tea Parties Gone?

poetry

What happened to a time when we disagreed,
We did something about it?
When did we lose our backbones?
When did we start letting this happen?
When did we stop standing up?
When did we sit down and resign?
And sign our voices over?
Where did representation go?
What happened to rising up?
Sticking it to the man?
Being a little rebellious?
Engaging in some debauchery?
When did we become so passive?
So docile?
So weak?
Let’s throw a damn tea party!
Let’s toss this cowardice overboard.
Let’s make this oppression walk the plank.

Gothic

poetry

The Darkness had spared no expense on its arrival.
From the depths unseen by any man, animal, or angel, it arose and spread.
The fissure had widened and from this abyss, the Darkness had escaped.
From this, the Darkness had conquered.
From this, the Darkness had suffocated air; stole the breath from lungs and lips.
Stole vapors from clouds and waves and atmosphere.
Dry and desolate and destitute; the empty ocean cracked.
The brittle forests burned.
Towers toppled, structures disintegrated;
churned to a dust that blew by force of a noiseless wind;
the only interloper, like Charon ferrying dead over the River Styx.
Silent volcanoes did not rage forth with unmatched fury and magnificence;
imploding, they tumbled into themselves, and into more blackness.
Lightning did not shred the night skies with power and vehemence.
There was nothing left.
There was no beauty.
Only the Darkness remained.

Ellipsis

poetry

When I think about the death of my parents
Of those I love
I’m overcome with repudiation.
It will never happen
Not me
Not to me
But maybe it can’t be avoided.
And who will it be?
Can I deny the inevitable until it becomes reality?
Who first?
Why them?
Why me?
Why not me?
And then what?
What will I do?
What happens next?
Cry at the funeral?
Know they’re “in a better place”?
Be consumed with self-loathing?
Filled with regret?
Why this?
Why now?
A shadow that I can’t shake.
A thick vapor that chokes.
The invisible talons that dig into my chest
Clutch my lungs and squeeze.
And I’ll sweat and weep
And it won’t be very poetic.
But if it happens
When it happens
I think I’ll have a lot of questions.

Next

poetry

Ending white awning
And nothing to conflict
Against the conjecture
Fresh windless
Nor a sparrow
Nor a falcon
Nor any geese
Nor contrasting mote
In any direction
Imperceptibly skimming
Pallid smoke clouds
Sighing to rupture
On skin like stone
Shaped smoothen
But refusal to break
A continuum of fault
Moving too fast
And fast forward
There is nothing here
But desolation

Thanks for the Tea

poetry

But I really should be going now.
And as much as I’d like to stay
And have another cup
(It was a very rich blend)
At present,
I think we’ve exhausted our pleasantries
And it appears the receptions
Were much less hearty than we first perceived.
Which, I suppose,
Is all the more reason to depart.
Here’s my contact information,
But don’t feel obligated
As it’s only social etiquette and niceties.
Until, at least, the occasion
Is at once a vaguest of recollections
We’ll bump into each other
Declaring with zestful exuberance
That it’s been too long
And hey, would you like to meet for coffee?
I know a great place on Front Street.
To with boisterous affirmation
We’ll say absolutely!
And see you on Thursday.