apad 10

Apr. 10th, 2016 07:17 pm
bardiphouka: (chair)
On the corner, not nearly as high
as the church spires that spike
through the neighbourhood
is a telephone pole, erected
long before its counterparts,
wood covered with tacks and nails,
decades of pre-internet communication.
Have you seen, do you want,
you want to see.

These days it is alone,
unadorned. It is wrong.
I leave a note of my own,
even though the sky says
it will be rained off but
still for a moment the
sheet flutters on the splinters

"read this"

apad 9

Apr. 9th, 2016 07:09 pm
bardiphouka: (chair)
CCTV mounted on poles,
watching the cars jerking
in and out of lanes at rush
hour and the buses sliding
in and out of stops.

At one point a streetcar pulls
silently into a stop, the signs
proclaiming that entry is forbidden.
And so, unlike cars and buses,
it moves off just as silent
and with only the operators
aboard.

Silent,sterile, passing the
couple who have just moved
into range of the CCTV
and each other's arms.

apad 8

Apr. 8th, 2016 08:31 pm
bardiphouka: (chair)
Overflowing her hills the City
ebbs and flows with the rivers
that were once the arteries
that brought growth and now
are potential dangers as
the snow melts off the mountains
upriver and the clouds empty
over and over again the levels
rising like the hormones in the
couples strolling along the edge of
history that is the Ohio
Heading like futures toward
the bridges.

apad 7

Apr. 7th, 2016 07:51 pm
bardiphouka: (chair)
"You will find that from inside empty buildings
the noise of the city is, if not louder, then
at least more full of life.
And our hotel is a prime example of that

Another thing I might add. The ghosts ,
you will find, perfer the upper levels.
And the roof where the pool was.
Where, to them, the pool still is."

She holds out my room key and
fades away. I wrap my fingers around the key
or try to. The key is laying on the floor.

I do not remember the feel of the key or
the sound of it hitting the floor. All the sounds
are outside where there is wind and lovers and
bustling to and from work.

Inside there is nothing. I can hear nothing can
feel nothing, not even my heartbeat.

























yOU W

apad 6

Apr. 6th, 2016 09:03 pm
bardiphouka: (chair)
These are not from cookie cutters,
these are homes, not buildings,
dreams and visions not boxes
roofs angle, wild songs played
against the wind and chimneys even
now recall the memories of smoke
rising from the hopes of new
generations in the city.
After all this time the walls and roofs slide
into an embrace of each other like
drunks near time gentleman, time.

apad 5

Apr. 5th, 2016 07:54 pm
bardiphouka: (chair)
There are noclouds in the sky
only the blue and the light
and the long grown shadows
cast by the sterile slabs
that are the walls of the
tall and barely alive buildings.

Limousines and powercars
rush from dark to dark in
hopes of control in the light
the sheen of desire the
ripples of hunger.

But there are also people,
the hungry, the lonely,
the loving, the crazy to ones
who can recognise each other
even in the dark where
they are wrapped in dark and light
like purring cats remembering immortality.

apad 4

Apr. 4th, 2016 07:56 pm
bardiphouka: (chair)
The windowseat is peeled
slightly mildewed behind
a window mounted
large and bright

in walls dark then calcified
from old storms and
older memories of
families upon families

It is just as any magic
made of the real and the past
weaving notes and thoughts
in a fantasy called tomorrow

apad 3

Apr. 3rd, 2016 01:58 pm
bardiphouka: (chair)
She is 14 going on 41
an age she may not reach
if the years follow the
tracks along her arms.

Instead of wanting
a pony, she wants more horse
and stops passing strangers
offering a ride for whatever amount.

The wind wraps what little skirt
she wears and as she smoothes it
the wind carries her laughter and
for a moment she is once again 14

like a blade of grass through concrete
she is, for a moment, free

apad 2016

Apr. 2nd, 2016 10:17 pm
bardiphouka: (chair)

APAD 2

The streets are small globes, ineffective
under the monochrome passing of
day to night, various greys and blacks...
the sky full of clouds scuttled by windstream
hard and fast enough to create a soundtrack
using rooftiles and the flotsam and jetsam
that float on the streets, the dry rivers of the city,.

Or are the streetlights ineffective because
they are distracted by past existences as
gasllamps glowing soft in union with the night
counterpoints that flicker as horses and
people carry the new century's hopes and dreams
into the flow of a monochrome passing of
day to night and in time back again.

apad 1

Apr. 2nd, 2016 10:24 am
bardiphouka: (chair)
Yes I know it is late, but then the poem is about something that happened the day before that so perhaps it all fits


There is a long, low rumble
as the sky comes unfastened
and there is deluge of water...
that brings out a colourful
cornucopia of umbrellas
twirling, colours overlapping,
held tight by hands praying along
the handles for dryness.

Except for one umbrella, black
and bouncing from
curb to cub free from
everything except the
brisk wind of Spring.

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