Wednesday, September 23, 2009

Five More Poems

A Mistake is Made
by: L. Paul Fobert Jr.

Is there a reason it came to this?
She was telling me why now,
I wasn’t listening.
It wasn’t anything I hadn’t heard on TV.

She had been fighting.
This wasn’t new.
Her friend was in the house
touching her things.

What did he do?
He did something.
He always does something.
Or maybe it was her.
I must have done something wrong.

It was my mistake.


Will he ever forgive me?
I wouldn’t were I in his shoes.
The spark in his bronze eyes died
when I told him.

The statement of certainty
as I confirmed his thoughts
made his pupils darken black.
He hasn’t spoken since.

I just finished moving her things.
He still won’t look at me.
How do I explain this to him
when I can’t explain it to myself?

This is my mistake.

by: L. Paul Fobert Jr.

Tan, peach, cream, rosemary white
crystals twinkling brightly,
all speaking to everyone, yet no one.

Tangy gold, bushy green
vegetation, ageing slowly
within the garden fence.

Fresh morning dew becomes
black magic night. Now all seems lost
when shadows are let loose.

A Dash ‘a salt, a pinch ‘a pepper
reminds them all of
A Witching Hour.

by: L. Paul Fobert Jr.

The rubber against my butt never felt good.
I learned to ignore it.

Inhaling and exhaling
I reminded myself there was no race.
Ignoring the dull throb of my ears
I started my piece.

My arms began to get tired.
Cramps were starting.

Stage lighting has its uses,
audiences do not.
Their major theme, make me sweat.

Recitals are nerve wracking.

Silence Is Golden
by: L. Paul Fobert Jr.

The best time of day is night.
It is a time for silence.
When all is lost, the empty
echoes of the moon are deafening.
Silence use to be golden.

When others are talking
the sound can be loud or soft,
but whispers of subconscious memories
are music to piercing ears.
Silence should be golden.

Bursts of loud noise are bad.
None worse than in areas designated quiet.
Why do cell phones ring in libraries?
If there are dual TV’s, why argue?
Silence can be Golden.

The resounding hours of silence
are betrayed by those who use them
for their own purpose. When silence is broken
the world has nothing.
Silence is golden.

The Bells and Whistles of Insanity
by: L. Paul Fobert Jr.

Bells going off and whistles,
signaling the start of something. Of what?
Bells and whistles represent the start
of everything.
Or is it the end?

Is the oven finished baking bread?
Did a sporting event just reach its conclusion?
Earth’s destruction is predicted
everywhere, every day. That’s it.
The end of everything.

The ringing, pinging and dinging
sounds hollow out strained ears,
no longer calming nerves,
instead they echo in an empty mind.
A crazy mind?

A bell goes off again. A gonglike sound
that doesn’t burrow inside.
This wasn’t imagined.
Down the street kids play with a
plastic gong and mallet.

A whistle sounds in the mind, not
ringing off any walls but the house.
This wasn’t imagined either.
Where did the sound come from?
It doesn’t matter. The crazy mind doesn’t exist.

The window of the house is a reminder of being
Alone in the middle of the woods.
No kids with a gong.
No manmade sounds all week,
only the whistle-ringing of a strained, hollowed-out, empty mind.

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