In a desolate corner of the Ross Island graveyard
I found a 19th century memorial stone.

Inscribed "Lawrence,4 hours,
Opened his eyes to the squalor around,
Shed a drop of tears at the misery,
And closed his eyes".

Waited not for the love to blossom,
Cared not for the bud
Blooming in his mother's eyes!

There's a girl out there
Who in her
Hopes and dreams
Writes to you
Every day with, the wish
One day you, she will
Be able to reach
The one she writes to
She doesn't, know how
To not write to her
Who occupies her
Every thought
Day and night
There are many who
Say love is a tragedy
And maybe she is the
Very tragedy, herself
Her walls built so high
The woman hiding in
The dunes of adolescence
She fears reaching above
Herself
To touch the hand of
The one
She so desperately is
Occupied by
But writing of love is so
Cliched, is she not right
To sketch out her heartache
Heartbreak
Not the butterflies, fireflies
Which sit within her
Unaccustomed to
The body
They lay
Within.

On your (my) mind.

© Sia Jane

I just can't seem to think clearly anymore

My

             Thoughts



Aren't
     Aligned


                              In


               Any      Way

I just need the loving touch of an angel
To bring me back to sanity

                           Sweet and gentle man

I ask you

                      Gently and carefully




Let me bathe in


                                    Your aura


         Of hazy night, and deep raspberry perfume

Composing Hallelujah

Fractious lines crack,
holiday decorate the spirit inferior,
while each note upon the priest's guitar
penetrates the aspirin roughened interior,
face slaps me, daggers and accuses,
you're not composing hallelujah.

So I mislead, big deal,
composing the anti-hallelujah,
yeah, I was ******* with you,
as you sit across from me electronically
pretending, me to you, you to me.

Lie to each other with smiling faces,
you too have reaped,
been emotionally *****,
by what our minds see and sow,
scowls and howls,
we've both grown our own demons.

My secrets, maybe are all there,
maybe, writ loud and clear,
in the songs I choose to share,
and in the unrevealed ones,
buried alive, held in reserve,
but not, for your average, rainy day,
could be today, you have no say.

Are we not all veterans of a kind,
don't we all have ribbons on our chest,
stripes and stars on our khaki blouse,
a record of our own great campaigns,
including the war to end all wars,
the never ending one,
the one the ******-historians renamed,
"The 24/7 Year Conflagration"?

It used to be just my secret, no more
don't need a cartoonist to tell me that's
the enemy is us, and there are moles, traitors,
hidden deep in our intelligence organization,
planting seeds, urges, pushing to
out the identity of our communist friend,

Depression

I don't mean the ordinary, garden variety,
a mere moody blues recession,
when funk is sourced from gray clouds,
served up proper, cold and wet,
then travels on when sun warmth
clarifies temporarily, the aspirin kicking in.

So I misled,
composing the anti-hallelujah,
yeah, I was ******* with you,
sit across from me and lie to me,
lie to each other with smiling faces
we reap what we own,
scowls and howls.

A chorus of harmonious poseurs
inside your own City Center,
vocalize the lyrics of the anti-hallelujah,
a composition of questions directed at
whomever in tonight's audience deserves it,
asking, nerving, to sing too loud, at decibel speed:

Are these verses, curses
about D,
our mutual acquaintance,
or just research notes for further followup,
part two of a pas de deux, and,
did you go this time, too far,
or still not far enough?

-

I went to a funeral

Of the father of a man,
I liked and respected.

It was a two hour drive,
Each way.
I missed a day of work.

People were impressed.

But the calculation was easy.

Thousands of hours yet to live.

Even if but twenty four, yet to tally,
How many men do I
Know and respect?

Born with two hands,
Would only need one,
To make this calculation.

One is greater than twenty four.

Pen the archaic writer, once mightier than the sword
Suffers ignominy of disuse, since man succumbed to keyboard
Pen on paper is now derelict, broken is the pair’s link
With penning of thoughts long gone, dried up the once flowing ink.
I still crave for a smooth pen to take me on an inky write
Form words on paper neatly lined, dancing on crispy white
Jot in blue random rumblings, what mind wants to craft
A piece of thought the heart designs, a poem or love’s first draft,
To dip the nib in the *** of ink and feel the throb of quill,
Go once more on a rolling ride, get back yesteryears’ thrill.

As the dawn broke into the night
A call pierced my eyelids shut tight
It was a weary and painful cry
Of a sadness bleeding under the sky!
The night was thinly hanging still
My eyes slowly opened against their will
Within echoed someone ‘it wasn’t right,
To keep her at bay through the night’!
In the attic little throats were parched
Hungry mouths frantically searched
Blind eyes pined for softness
Yearned for her licking embrace!
The night had not gone down well
In her eyes dewdrops did dwell
Time seemed to move cruelly slow
‘When would open the window’!
Her eyes asked as I let her in
How I could be so awfully mean
As to not know in the mother’s breast the pain
When forced to be away from children!