Daily Archives: September 2, 2013

Edge of Unspoken Dream

This poem was written to reflect that part of our nature that is so hidden away, so volatile, so soul destroying that we can only hide from it – and deny that it lives within us.  Stalin, Pol Pot, Ho Chi Mihn, Hitler,…..  These men did not kill millions of people.  No man could do that.  We,… did that.   If we ignore this nature then it will chase us in our dreams.

I wrote this long ago but only recently added my recorded voice to it.  I chose to present it as a dream, and I think that it works – somewhat….  I hope that you will enjoy my small effort here…  Thank you for visiting

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Edge of Unspoken Dream

It lives.  Just beyond the face of normal.
Everyone denies it.
Everyone decries it.
Choosing to live in a dream.

But it lives.
Breathing the dust of darkest corners
Bleeding the lust of Hell’s mourners
Whispers of death on a moon beam.

A fly in the butcher’s case
Blood stained marrow on glass
Havoc hides in the deep crevasse
Of a child’s curdled scream.

Slice it thick
you fucking dick
or I’ll kill you where you stand.
I beg your pardon, Ma’am?
“We’ll have the leg of lamb.”

It lives in a crack of time
where dreams begin to end
where your closet shadows bend
And the covers can’t hide your soul.
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To be offered up to the great poets at dversepoets.com “Open Link Night” on Tuesday, Sep 3rd………  Please join us some Tuesday

© 2012 John Richter


PC Called

PC Called.  He Said the King is Naked

The raven, black as night,
rising within her mortal flight
to reach most unholy heights….
And we, as fools, shudder in fright
upon her shivery sight……

T’ was you?  T’ was I? In a most decisive way….
Defining moments, locking words away.
For never an ear, nor the light of day
should pass lest these passions say:
I fear thee…….
Yet, come what may…….

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© 2013 John Allen Richter


Seasons Dreams

The elm of old Hyde Park still stands,
her memories stretching across the sky,
ending only at the tip of every sprig.
And where might her memories find you and I?

Hiding from the sun on a glorious summer day,
finding backrest against her weathered shell?

Or kissing softly beneath her barren twigs
on a street lit cold winters eve?

Dancing joyously amidst her fallen leaves
while stealing away our parents cigarettes?

But how could it be?  None of these things were.
Yours was a different elm.  And so was mine.

Her memories are but season’s dreams.

Things that never were but should have been.
Hope lives within her.  And I.

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© 2013 John Allen Richter