Author: beighartman

Day Old Jeans

poetry

Lie crumpled on the floor
Navy blue on the seams
Frayed along the stitches
And faded at the knees
Light etched on fabric
Through the window beams
Wrinkles in the folds
Still drying from the stream
Stretched out in the waist
And stained with ice cream
If you listen closely you
Can hear the playful screams
Full of summer memories
And yesterdays dreams

Mr. Sloan

poetry

Quality time, hangin’ out with Mr. Sloan—
A bonding experience, to say the least.
He was fairly candid
About letting me dump all my problems on him—
Or was it in him?
Then again, it’s not as if I gave him
Much choice in the matter.
And despite telling him
Bean burritos were a terrible idea on my behalf
He took a gulp of water, swallowed
And said, “come back any time.”

August

poetry

The threshold of another
Month rolls out on the
Steamy carpet of summer
Hot and humid
Thought not unbearably hot
And the humidity’s tolerable
Or maybe I haven’t been
Paying attention as the stage
Is filled by more important
Matters than my day to day
Griping about how
Hot or humid it is
Or that summers already
Going by way too fast
But I’m too delighted to notice
Because suddenly
And I’m feeling more appreciative
Of the hot and humid
Cause I’ll remember
All my profuse sweating
When I want to complain
About how cold and dry
It is once December’s here
And the months will have
Went by before I even realized it
So I’m going to enjoy
The tomatoes growing
In my shoddy garden and
Pretend I’m basking in a sauna
When I gasp and clutch for air
In a car that’s been
Out in the sun all afternoon
So yeah the air might be
Both hot and humid
And about 120 degrees,
In that oven I call a vehicle
But whether or not I notice
It all at the moment, there are
Some great things in the works.
Can’t wait to see them happen

Break

poetry

For so long I’ve been staring at this pale ground.
But these cemented feet have stood still too long.
With every inhale, this casket crumbles
And the vestige of your binds dispels to ash.
If you thought your insults like razors
Would keep me raw and wounded
And your seductive words like siren’s songs
Would keep me snared, then you were wrong.
Because I won’t be here
For you to tear me down,
And moving on is
One.
Step.
Forward.

Here, Take This

poetry

There’s a demon in my esophagus
I should audition for a monster
But I’m too preoccupied with
Blowing my congested nasal
Passages into oblivion.
Double-fisted if I can help it,
Slugging shots of
Nyquil.
Dayquil.
Afternoonquil.
And they’re multi-symptom.
Where’s the all-symptom?
Wrappers of a thousand
Menthol-eucalyptus lozenges
Make my mouth taste disgusting,
If I can taste at all.
Navigating over a spire of tissues
And a forest of childproof locks
Searching for respite.
I’m sick as a dog,
Whatever that means.

Words

poetry

I’m at a loss for words
But all I have are words
I can’t describe in words
The words to make you understand
Would you know what I mean
If I were to SHOUT!
Or would you only see
Capital letters and a word?
Would you know that I’m screaming?

Guilt

poetry

I’m having trouble
Com-pre-hen-ding
What it is you’re saying
Speak up!
You’re whispering.
Shut up!
You’re shouting.
No, I don’t
Need to explain myself
To you
Can’t I just go to bed already?

little Kids, BIG Sticks

poetry

Swirling and twirling with furrowed brows
We drew our weapons and took our bows

Freshly torn limbs from the maple tree
A dual of leafy, branched shrubbery

The stumped end was far too wide
To hold it comfortably, I switched sides

Spinning a six foot club until
CRACK!
He dropped his bough, going still

He hit the ground immediately after
The air no longer graced with laughter
Cupping his hands to his head
They filled with crimson as he bled

Fourteen stitches later, a doctors’ visit and hospital stay
I didn’t kill my best bud and we’re still friends to this day

Like Smoke

poetry

I wish I could convey on paper
Thoughts the way the appear
So beautifully in my head
I want to paint a picture
With every word I say
To the amber colored street lights
Down to the gravel laden roads
To the never ending sunrise
To the waning twilight glow
Then my words grow parched
I have nothing left to say
The beautiful moments escape
And without argument
I watch them disappear

Nice Days

poetry

On days that I’m working
It’s always so beautiful outside
And I bewail that I can’t enjoy
Sun splashed mornings
Chased by balmy afternoons
With an idle zephyr that bitten into,
Tastes of euphoria

But then again,
Maybe everyday is this beautiful
And I slouch till two in the afternoon
Not having the slightest inclination
To go beyond my dank room on the days
That I’m not ensnared behind a desk
Observing lives whittled down
To the pursuit of dead presidents

Ordinary

poetry

How many times
Can I admire out the same window
At scene I’ve seen
So many times before
And appreciate the view unchanging
But always changing
With the seasons
With the time of day
With the weather
With every minute that wind zips
Through thick layers of leaves
Tethered only by wavering stems
Or tugs a crinkling candy wrapper
Along the gum stained curb
And still find beauty
Amidst the mundane
And unacknowledged

Missing

poetry

Awaking with sleep soaked eyes
Fingers curling underneath covers
White noise between parentheses
Vehicle horns absorb the silence
Ceiling fan twirls perpetual circles
Streetlights through open windows
Scatter reflections on the walls
Pixies dancing in frenzied zeal
Migrating breeze tousles curtains
Perfume on delicate pillow creases
Ruffles embracing vacant hair strand
Corners with abandoned furniture
Rosy gleam silhouettes the door ajar
Fulfilled before consciousness
The farewell message of desolation
In a pale room long disregarded
The darkness outshines light

Forth

poetry

We decorate.
We celebrate.
We cheer and eat.
Spending time with those we love
(And maybe those we don’t)
We bake and we grill.
We wave flags.
Setting off fireworks
(And setting off car alarms)
Watching as they fizzle, pop
Dazzling into the sky
Onto the marveling,
Sparkling beauty of the night
We are blinded—
Lost between the air
Smothered with the scent
Of smoke and sulfur.
Rejoicing gleefully.
Tomorrow could never come
(And then tomorrow comes)
And we reluctantly embrace
The daily grind again.