Poems

 

 

Michele McDannold

 

 

SECOND STORY WINDOW

 

From the second-story window
I see sunlight pouring through the white curtains.
The fresh scent of spring wanders in with the wind.

The sound,
oh my god,
that sound
pierces my ears
with its bitter sweetness.
A young girl screams in the sleepy afternoon.

From the second-story window
I see old men sitting on the corner,
watching life slide past them.

They are playing checkers
until it's time for them to die.
It could be years from now
or that could be him....
Stepping down on us again.

From the second-story window
I can see her.
She's screaming
No one will help.
They just sit there and watch her blood spill
all over the clean streets.

Death rides in on her
during that lovely day.

From the second-story window
I watch as the glass breaks
and falls to the ground
in a shattering wave
of blood and broken skin.

I hear myself screaming
and wait to die.

 

 

 

COLLISION COURSE

 

I don't mean
ANYTHING
unless I've got some
GREEN
just another
BODY
pumped into the
MACHINE

 

Society grinds on
without a care
with blinders on
no one's aware
 
We cost you
MILLIONS
don't you know
We're the people
in this
HORROR SHOW
 
bandaged cuts
the mark we make
screaming out
for sanity's sake
 
The key to survive
COLD
and
DISENGAGED
to save yourself
the trouble
of feeling our
RAGE
 
Behind the iron curtain
the descrution that's inside
Keep it hidden well
so our world's do not collide.

 

 

 

WAITING

You make me feel like
a rotten, gutter whore,
scrounging around for
left-over love.

Not like the beautiful woman
fit for your complete adoration,
but as lowly as a rusted-out can
to be kicked about the streets.

I ache for your acceptance,
to be part of your life,
to be gazed upon with desire,
knowing your body yearns for mine.

So much more than mere lust,
but a driving need from deep within.
To realize all dreams
in that moment.

All the joyful, wondrous, glorious things
in that one point in time,
sealed forever by the
shear grace of it all.

But once again,
I turn to reality
and not yet tonight
have you looked my direction.

So I sit in wait,
a whore and a lady,
in hopes that you
might turn my way.

 

© Michele McDannold (2004)

Published by Panic! Poetry and Arts™