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Stephen Pickering

Category: My Poetry

  • Little Night Poem

    I don’t care what the foam sea squalls say:
    The mountains are made of mint.
    Green I spend gliding upon the emotion-
    Less ramp besieged by the creepy Count de Bourgie
    Of my psyche. The orphaned Queen of my heart will jump
    Straight down into her moat and drown
    If the adventurer of my soul forgets
    To stay on his horse.
    A jacketed smoke walk down to the Bourbon wall.
    It stretches a few quarters, but the one
    Inside, it tunnels inward Universe upon Universe.
    A bleek streak.Beaker Street. Jazz blue smokes Bitches Brew
    To whites of eyes carved out of stone
    Demi-Gods staring back double fisted.
    They can take it even pinned to a mountain for centuries.
    We (the children still inside me) roll in the dough, little sprinkled whites,
    As pigeons of possibility sip cappucino on the departing square.
    Someone shuffles down a back alley
    Of my heart. A glance, and two dark, soft eyes
    Surrender the Yucatan night as the beach waves
    Dive in from the hole the Dinosaur asteroid made.
    We shriek down to drink the Greek god’s salty blood.
    I buy trinkets for her and two dresses embroidered with firebirds,
    One for Mum. They will fly us to the shore. The rest, well…we must save some words.
    The phone call goes through but I don’t hear her voice.
    (Who could in this situation?)
    Someone else (the sloucher) whispers a void
    That sucks away the beach sunrise sunset dream.
    The cats blur in the fiber
    Glass behind locked chained links for winter, but the matted Tabby
    Of my bewilderment is stuck in the roof of my ego
    And moans for food, for a way out.
    Oh, how I reach!
    Sound gets through, light gets through, all the forces of nature get through
    But there is still something else we are waiting for. What is it?
    I never forget the freaky blizzard where even the flowing
    Fountain turned into block. Don’t tell me life isn’t quantum.
    (Even after wave after wave almost drowns me)
    Someone, no, not just anyone,
    She turns to me laughing gingerly in the cold,
    Dark back alley of the warehouse district,
    But I let the flashy city’s neon outlines carry me away,
    Building upon building seeking the sacred pyramidal top.
    Soon enough, though, I’ll be alone in the Pontiac,
    Bristling at the bones,
    Nestling into the concrete, filling another Weller
    With spring water, looking at the gate still not crumble,
    Even as the giant hundred year oaks howl at the city’s brick tablets.
    My one hand left snakes, and an eye opens the Sun curtain.
    One tree and a bounding suspicion race
    God knows where but the car’s breath
    Roars in the hope that at least it’s somewhere,
    Home to someone,
    Who might finally have that expression on her face
    We’ve been waiting for
    Our whole life.

  • Beginning a New Poem (In Beta 1.1)

    Dear Father, I love you, what can I say?
    These eyes I have can see only little
    Sweet Gum covered hills,
    But the eye of my soul can see through a million endless
    Nights kept alive by the fire of your hearth.
    The heart of the mountain that peeks through the clouds
    Of our misty laughter has been still for two million years,
    But who is freer, us or it?

    I’ve fallen into the Ocean
    Of Kepler’s fountain, and the whole
    Universe has sprung up silver,
    Light through water, stars singing.
    For silver is the colour of crossing
    The ocean, of the Soul meeting its betrothed,
    Piercing through the world that says “Life Stops Here”
    In Jason’s ship of Destiny.

    Since you left my whole
    Being seems to be in free
    Fall back into the Whale’s belly.
    It feels like I’m fleeing the Gods,
    Painting the birds their different colors
    With my fire
    That you lit.

  • Poetic Fragment (Version 1.3)

    Sometimes you dream so hard
    The clocks of your mind begin
    To melt inside a Dali painting,
    And the continents of your heart collide,
    Pushing up mountains on which the hunter inside
    You searches for the sacred white deer.
    White mountains, white snow, white Buffalo, white sorrow;
    The land’s blood is white, and the white moleskin bison skins
    Flap in the wind as crystals soak the mountain.
    We are sucked through the river’s white pipe.
    Tobacco like water, river like smoke,
    Our black walnut branches freeze
    Fruit into the shadow Mother’s feathered bed.

    But when we beat our drums,
    To remember what we danced
    And sang and the silence glances
    Between her shadowy apparition and vapory vanish,
    What will happen to those snow ringed owl nights
    Darkened by just her eyes,
    Blown by grasses and anchored by stone?

    The white deer of our spirit was in the mountain
    And also rested on her shoulders.
    How many generations she will breed
    Be run off cliffs
    Pierced by the insatiable arrows
    Dragged away by a mountain lion mouth?

    Then we shall flank the grove of milky white pine
    And fill its lungs with Arctic animal spirit.

    We will ever dream so intensely,
    And love so dearly, our tears
    Will become rain and our desire blackened soil,
    And golden leafy dreams will spiral down,
    Floating through the stars
    Giving birth, like an angel,
    To the next door we open,
    And the path of dreams blossoming in
    The dew of the night’s first dawn.

    Then our song will never
    Be written, but instead,
    Be sung.

    ©2009 Stephen Pickering. All rights reserved.