The
Poetry Of James Spoonmore
Quiet
I beg these walls are not so thin
That any sound would conquer them
The moon in all its bathing glory
Asks me not to share this story
I wavered from the dreaming place
To walk beside the mortal race
Of men and heroes one and same
To give my definition name
And by and by I noticed things
The pulling of the subtle strings
That wrap the atom in its womb
And crush the saddened in its doom
Funny such a thing would come
To listen to a foreign tongue
Often not enough at all
The standing hear the choir fall
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The
Witness
It is as if the wind had come to stay.
More than usual, that is.
Past its moment into sway
and up beyond the whiz.
Like shelves of ice in wavy form,
frozen in their wake.
The standing still of everything,
no ripples on the lake.
He, like living statue walked
out of the hardened atom.
All was one thing just around him
with no such thing as sadness.
The milky void filled with plaster
in every space but his.
He, the king of alabaster,
staring through the quiz.
It flowed like a belt of stringy tech,
he should have seen it coming.
The clouds would move him into check
just before the stunning.
Behold! Another player calls.
This here, this new beginning.
For now the mate has seen it all,
the Earth no longer spinning.
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Extra!
Extra!
Intuitive, I step along a wild open door
To find the place where I belong
And visit just once more.
I own the operation here, melody in hand.
I remember with a longing dear's
Humility of man.
Beyond the canyon corridor, past a dying
symbol,
They never see the metaphor,
They only see it simple.
Buried treasure just beyond, sad to see
it go.
Cast them with the mastadons,
They will not ever know.
Gather round to center square, listen if
you can.
I say let's be the future here
And meet with our demands.
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glance
these borrowed fleeting wrinkles
are a caveman's bleeding needles
as the rock does pierce his brutish vein
sharpened into bevels quick
the arrowhead of Eros' stick
whose flying dart does end in so much pain
will rip the very soul apart
and take a hand in neo art
to save the day from any type of gain
and in the end of fastening
the body that was happening
will fall into the mind from which it came
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The
Traveler's Rest
Take to shoulder up a sack,
and hang it on a stick.
Walk across the natural tracks
that make the weaker sick.
Through many prehistoric dawns,
in and by each scenic stop,
The villages of buy and pawn,
are battling for rocks.
Til we reach that shore at end
to walk along the dirty path,
where nature starts a new begin,
and vindicates the past.
Til one arrives who sails the sea,
who needs no flimsy vessel.
And walks across the shimmering
into the waiting castle.
There he drinketh of the cup,
and never will he thirst.
For what he's found has filled him up
And made his soul to burst.
Til shining from his statue face
The rays of nature's sun,
Can settle down into a place
Where all things have begun.
And man then comes to final form,
in that place he always was.
Far above the raging storm,
of infamy and love
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