Hi all. Welcome to a another installment at Blog Central. I'm tired. I'm not sleeping quite right. I get home from work, fall asleep on the couch and wake up at two in the morning and then I'm up the rest of the night. Then I"m tried all day and the same thing happens again. A vicious cycle. It's a pain in my ass. When I go to Vegas in a month it'll be perfect, but until then, I gotta fight through it.
Well, let's do some more poetry, or as I like to call it, random mental discharges. Oh, and the copyright thing still applies, you know.
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Strange Flight


In the place between sleep and waking
I find myself weightless, 100 feet above the ground.
As is strangely normal in this context,
I am floating in forward motion above
a familiar neighborhood of my past.

I pass houses on my left, feel the wind in my hair,
as I recount family names of those in residence below.
A hundred yards or more of green lawns and light grey driveways
pass under my levitation and I smile with recognition
as I see the house I lived in on the corner across the street.

Down the hill I glide, skimming trees along the way.
I begin to feel gravity as it slowly pulls me toward the ground.
The surroundings are now only vaguely familiar as I now pass
through trees rather than over them.
But I cross the familiar street as I drift ever closer to it's surface.

All too aware of my altitude, I approach a pond that was once a creek
and it tries to lick at my feet.
Ankles bent up, I raise my toes as the water salivates below.
My concentration proves ineffectual as ripples mark my progress,
and my toes get wet anyway.

But I kept aloft just enough to keep my ankles dry,
skimming the surface like a low skipping stone.
A u-turn to the left at waters edge and I'm off again with new speed.
Off the water and up, my will obeyed, but where familiar woods
once stood is a building in its' stead reflected upon the pond.

All glass, stone and steel, I reach for its' heights, and am rewarded.
The air is clean, the breeze cool, my flight natural as breathing.
Through a tinted window I pass, both of us unscathed.
Along the dark halls I drift, passing strangers in featureless rooms,
until I come to one I know.

She smiles with her whole face,
her dark eyes brightening the hall as well as my soul.
Her embrace warms me, anchors my desire,
but cannot weigh down my heart as it soars again,
taking flight out the window and into the fair blue above.
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Church Of Boardner's


Midnight at Boardners.
I think about leaving as the holiday crowd
makes a racket I can no longer bear.
The smell of fried pub food somehow
makes it's way out here to the patio
so I go inside and make my way to the door.

But as I pass the corner of the bar
my eye is drawn to a man sitting there.
He seemed to be of few assets,
his hair is long and his beard is longer.
He sits among the noise as a drip of perspiration
falls from the bottle in his hand.
A light above the bar is angled so he is more
illuminated than those around him.
It gives him a warm glow and I expect to see
a precious halo above his head.

I stopped to watch him as I wondered if
this somewhat somber man might be of
Heavenly ilk.
But in a Hollywood bar wearing a bad polyester shirt,
drinking a Bud, is hardly how one might expect to
see the creator of the Universe, right?

I walk out into the cool night,
walk up to Hollywood Blvd. and take a right.
At Vine St. a local character wearing a priest collar and cape
yells at passersby to 'follow the Lord'.
I don't have the heart to tell him that tonight,
God drinks alone.
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A Little More Color


So unearthly a vision,
she glides into the room so smoothly,
like Morticia on a camera dolly.
I knew I would love her;
she would be my Mina Harker.

Skin so white, translucent in fact,
that her veins I could easily find
behind her hair, tousled serpents of black,
to her shoulders intertwined.
“A little more color”, I thought,
“would bring out her eyes, so icy blue.”
Ah, those eyes, saying much more than words would ever construe.

Her lips, two black leeches,
lying side by side, barely parted,
pressed against mine, would they leave me broken-hearted?
Were they the color of a valentine,
I would make those lips mine.

A little more color then, I implore.
Yes, a little more color upon her
porcelain face,
I thought would be best for such
a delicate place.
But recognition of me, there was not a trace.
To her I may as well have lived in outer space.

How to win her love, have her all to myself?
Such was the question with which I wrestled;
I, and of course my demons within,
so comfortably nestled.
It came to mind so suddenly, in a snap;
nothing too complicated, no better mouse trap.

Just wait until dark, follow her close,
strike a blow to the head, let her heart
do the rest,
as it pumps a rich, red palette into her
head’s raven nest.
Streaks of wet crimson, so warm and fresh,
just what was needed for her wintry flesh.

It was clear to see;
a little more color, some warmth of hue,
gave her the life she was so sorely due.
A perfect visage for all Eternity;
I kiss her lips, now of warm ruby.

We’ll be together forever,
And I love her truly.
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Hometown


I get off the plane in my birthplace
but it doesn't feel like it used to.
Familiar faces pick me up at an airport
that changes shape every time I visit.

In High School
it was a small town that rallied
around it's football team
every Friday night without fail.

Students gathered at the McDonald's
like a soda shop full of bobby-soxers.
An '81 Chevy Citation made you popular,
even just for the ride home.

Town Square complete with big, white gazebo,
was filled each summer with cotton candy
and ring tosses, a Ferris wheel,
and shouts of "Guess your weight for a dollar!"

Now it's shopping centers and fast food joints by the dozen.
I hear nary a word of High School football
in a town whose youth choose nights at the mall
over a summer carnival.

What was once quaint, full of familiarity,
is now a bland, midwest town that I don't recognize,
yet know I've seen a million times before
in a million other places.

Overweight moms and their little, overweight banshees
have replaced me and my high school friends.
People gather in groups of faux upper class elite
in a town where there isn't really anyone to impress.

A decrepit-looking man in the town square
shuffles along in dirty clothes, using unneeded crutches.
The smoke he puffs above a neck brace ages him beyond his years.
I sigh in resignation; he's the last straw.

Hometown is no longer where my heart is;
I'm eager to travel the 3000 miles to where I hang my hat.
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A Day At The Beach


It's a rain cocktail on a grey beach
and not a bikini as far as the eye can see.
A lone surfer paddles into a breaker fifty yards away
without acknowledging my presence.
In my diluted rum-banana daiquiri, a cherry floats
wishing she would show to tie it's stem with her tongue;
a talent she once was so fond of showing off.
Gone are the silly days we'd spend here in the sun,
laughing for hours that passed too fast, digging moats
for our castles in the sand.
I guess she'd grown up with the coming of autumn.
My calls went unreturned but
I thought she'd meet me at least one last time.
Now I sit alone on this towel wishing I'd brought an umbrella
as water pelts my shoulders and head like wet bullets.
In a land of perpetual summer,
a day in Mailbu never seemed so long.
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Haiku Valentine


Champagne and candy,
or roses by the dozen,
are just mere tokens.

But I wrap my heart
in a bow of promises;
a more worthy gift.

Or even more sweet,
a candy box of my love
wrapped in forever.
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Well, it's another day in the daily grind. Hump Day, Wednesday, middle of the week. Get through today and the rest of theweek should be easy. Got a three-day weekend ahead of us for President's Day. Sweet. Otherwise, not a great deal to report. Let's just get to the weekend. So, while we're just coasting to Friday, here's some more poetry for you to read. Won't that be fun?
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So Many bad Apples


Not every day is a good day.
Dealing with people's dark sides
leaves no room for my benevolence.

Humanity's ignorance on display,
these are parents of tomorrow's future,
a future that looks rude and self-centered.

Abdomen full of writhing snakes
pushing bile from my throat like venom,
I spit misanthropy in a wide arc.

With assumptions and condescension
and more money than brains,
they are certainly not peddling respect.

Oh, if I only had a hammer
for all those bad apples,
I'd have a fortune in apple sauce.

But at the end of the week
I glue together the twig
that is my snapped brain
with a drink or two and friends
who remind me that not everyone on earth
should be ingredients for the book "To Serve Man".
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So Many Wishes


A desert night almost as far
from the sun as California can be.
My breath visible in the post midnight air.
I drive north to be closer to the heavens.
Traffic winds slowly upward, a giant, glowing red snake
seeking higher ground.
I find a place to pull off, breaking the daisy chain of cars
looking for a better point of vantage.
Standing in the chill air I didn't think I'd be warm enough,
but soon I wouldn't notice temperature.
Above me, I see the powder of the Milky Way
dusting the night sky.
Nothing else at first, but then - there!
A light, like a flare, but with a tail...like the trail of a roman candle.
Then another, and another - Oooo! Aaaaah! Ooohhh!
It's the Fourth of July in November.
Then it gets good.
The sky opens up a cauldron of molten steel,
sparks spilling over the side onto the earth.
It's ablaze in a fiery rain, trails of white-hot magic
shine and sparkle behind their bright leader, then slowly fade away,
another in its' place before the last is gone.
Never before have I seen the heavens give forth their spoils so generously.
It's as if the Gods were having a clearance sale on wishes, 'Everything must go!'
There's enough for everyone this time.
Stunned and spellbound, I imagine how it must look in the atmosphere,
then I'm suddenly aware of both my insignificance
and my potential importance in the universe.
I am nothing, yet, such a phenomenal display is created
by mere particles hitting earths atmosphere,
so small, so magnificent.
I am awed, I am hopeful, I am alive.
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I breathe cool, damp air.
Near crashing surf I await
Your warm salty kiss.
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Sun sets in orange sky,
waves crash below our table
almost touching feet.

Drinks and DJ spin
chill grooves mate with summer surf
soothing savage week.

Seagulls drift in place
friends point to passing dolphins
here at Moonshadows.
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- Sunshine staves off encroaching darkness
handing out summer's golden butterfly dreams.


- Moon doppelgangers the sun in a mirror
dancing a Degas ballet in glass.


- Love,
a deep pool of water,
changes parched seasons into
soft, rhythmic, swaying green fields.


- My questions echoing thoughts of suffering,
the quiescent everyday facade concealing caustic despair.
Desire for existence is dwindling.


- Time goads loneliness to lamentation,
my purpose riven
into love and fleshly desire
by implacable fear.


- Fierce sharpness of your delicious mouth
splashes my desire.
Hot rivulets splattering dark red
tattooing my dreams.


- I found the sea in your laughing eyes.
To resist their luring
is beyond my will.


- Share your laugh,
the joyous song of desire,
a chant rising as endless flame
on twilights wing.


- Love's recognition a question.
Always waiting,
I am a postcard in the lost and found.


- Light fog kisses her face.
It's faint lips touch, unassuming
as the soft breath of my love.


- Your hands trespass gently upon my helpless will,
touching, soothing, my exposed love.
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Red Cart


A bright summer morn at ten o'clock
is already warm with out-of-school sunshine.
Down the concrete slope
of the manufactured L.A. river,
sits a red shopping cart,
two inches of run-off soaking its motionless wheels.
Empty, it sits in the heat without purpose,
like a discarded Radio Flyer,
no children willing to retrieve it for joyrides through parking lots or
through the shallow water in which it resides.
Even the business for which it was built will never miss it.
It merely waits for a rush of flood water
that will never come,
to wash it away from sight.
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Scent of stormier seas,
strange incense of Nature's spirit
confessing it's dark thoughts.
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Wind whispers forgotten tunes over empty moors,
crying shadowy dirges
through creaking fences.
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Elevator interlude


A vision in peach silk and string sandals
consumes me in an elevator.
It's not quite a dress, not quite a neglige',
but she wears it like second skin.
Like a symbiotic being coexisting with her lithe form,
it reacts and compliments each movement she makes.
Her hair a brunette frame for a delicate, sun-tanned face,
with deep pools of brown that warm me without noticing me.

I only remember there are others in here
when she turns around to speak to someone I hadn't noticed,
as if none of us are real until she acknowledges us.
The door opens and they walk out together,
peach silk waving farewell to an invisible me.
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Ok, here are some things to get you started. Keep in mind these are all copyrighted, so they're mine mine mine. :)
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Pavlov Would Be Proud


Places to go, things to do,
scurrying through a winless race,
The alarm clock, the traffic: my stimulus.
I know the drill; pay the attendant, park the car.
I wait at the curb to cross the street,
not using the crosswalk is my defiance to routine.

I wait for the red light and turn to find I don't wait alone.
Another subject seeming to salivate for the promise of a paycheck,
yet he seems pre-occupied, impatient, rather than lulled by the day-in, day-out.
"Late for something?", I ask, knowing I'll get no reply.
Craning his neck past me, he looks to the left, eyes sharp and intense.
Then looks right, checking for traffic, as if it's something he's been trained to do.

First foot raises making him look like a pointer,
Steps into the street- no wait, one more car- then across he goes.
He trots to the median; I follow, sure he'll not pause there-
but no, he waits, again checking left and right for obstruction.
Satisfied with the lack of cars, he crosses the remaining distance to the opposite curb.
I bask in my fascination, my day disrupted in a most unique way.

For a stray dog living on the street, there is more purpose in his step than my own.
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Groove Creation


Create me.
With your synth-organic rhythms
and beats from the heart,
make the body electronic.

Sustain me.
Keep the pace,
pumping the force of life
like a peacemaker in my chest.

Enlighten me.
Loops of cascading beats
synthesizing blood music
circulate through the passages of my soul,

Filling every corner
of what I am:
Organic matter in symbiosis
with undulating cadence.
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Winters Off Lenape Road


Sun feigns heat
in a clear slate of blue above;
I gaze upon pale, brown hills and fields
through the smoke of my breath
wishing it would at least snow.

There was talk of cow-tipping
when I was in fifth grade,
but cows would've broken their necks.
Ground covered in frozen grass
is no comfort for fallen cows at 15 Fahrenheit.

Our small lake
transformed into a debating ground for skaters and hockey players,
each vying for control over the weekend's
primary source of entertainment.
(The dreadful alternative: afternoons shopping with parents.)

When it finally snowed, a wonderland was made,
a knee-high, get-out-of-school-free card.
We charted expeditions in corn fields, wooded creeks
and stone-colored barns that were beguiling in the white
of Chadds Ford pastures like untended English castles.

Woods like a Pollack of burnt sienna and white,
their only sound is weight of snow bearing down on limb.
Beyond those whispers, just a roaring silence
when I'm still as ice fingers
trying to touch the ground from the roof.

The cats of Baldwin's Book Barn nap easily within,
as we dig for a pearl amongst makeshift shelves
full of hard-bound reads for snow-bound youth.
These felines, grown, need not the words,
but the pages themselves for fine beds.

A blue-white glow from outside casts a cold light,
illuminating prints of Helga and Christina's World,
a reminder to all who live down the road.
On such a winter day, I didn't care to remember
that soon there would be Spring kittens in the books,
and a lake full of children's swimsuits.
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-Cosms

I let the sky be my tent tonight,
a sparkle-filled indigo field
like a Star Trek transporter.
I swirl the stars with my mind
as my body says, "Energize!".

My destination: points of light,
any one of which could be a hive
of beings living, working, playing
in a mirror of the musings originating
from the sleeping bag in which I lay.

Rolling over to feed my notebook,
a firefly insists on sharing my pen.
Among his friends gathered about my flashlight
is a dragonfly twisting and turning its head
in a display of 360 degree impossibility.

"Do it again!", say my wide eyes,
then I'm shushed by a distant Canis howl.
The trees carry its magic to me like
a powerful totem, making me wary,
reaffirming our instinctual similarities.

Relaxing, I smile goodnight to its echo,
shoo the Insecta from their little electric campfire,
and turn my face again to the Universe
while whispers from a nearby stream
provide a soundtrack to twinkling above.

Gentle air pulls its blanket over me,
while scent of earth and pine
send me dreaming of cosmic fireflies,
blinking their lullaby in rhythm
to the ecosystem powered by my heart.
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Hey all. I finally bought a car. I got a 2001 Acura Integra and it's real spiffy. I'm quite pleased. Yay, me.
I've decided to use this space for something relativley useful. I started writing about 2 years ago, so I'm going to start posting some poetry that I've written as well as some other writings. But first I have to get this posting problem figured out. We'll see.
Talk soon,

Neil

Home Page for Neil Weakley