Posts Tagged ‘poem’

Here’s a poem by Jean Jones. Jean writes: A made for order Angel of Death poem based on reality”
And quoting for the UK’s “Telegraph” newspaper (http://www.telegraph.co.uk/news/worldnews/northamerica/usa/6080582/Model-murder-suspect-Ryan-Jenkins-was-a-good-guy-businessman.html):

“Model murder suspect Ryan Jenkins was a ‘good guy’ businessman

But the manner of his death could have been scripted for TV: as police
investigated the murder suspect’s suicide at a secluded Canadian motel, they
launched a manhunt for the mysterious young woman had checked in with him. The
dramatic end came at an isolated motel at the edge of British Columbia’s
mountainous interior, on the outskirts of Hope, a town known for its giant
wooden carvings made with chainsaws and as the site of the first bloody Rambo
movie. . .

The motel manager said the woman paid cash for three nights and when the couple
didn’t check out, he unlocked the room and found him dead.

“I cracked the door and there he was, hanging there in front of me, feet
touching” the floor, Walker said. “He definitely wanted to die. I smelt death.”

THE ANGEL OF DEATH CHECKS IN AT A LOCAL MOTEL

“You did well, Ryan, you did well. I liked the business with the teeth and
fingers. Pretty through.”

“I’m so tired, so tired.”

“Yeah, I know. Look, tell me all about it.”

“There’s not much to tell. The killing went by quickly. It was cutting her up
that took up so much time and trouble.”

“I bet you couldn’t believe that they used her breast implants to identify her
body!”

“That bitch.”

“I told you to cut off her breasts.”

“I was done cutting.”

“Well, we’re safe now. Near mommy and daddy.”

“I want to go to sleep, to forget, to sleep forever. . ”

“That will come soon enough, darling. Listen, I need for you to get some rope
from the trunk of the car.”

“Rope?”

“We have one final thing to do.”

“And that is?”

“To wrap a pretty picture and story for the media. I mean, I have a reputation
to keep.”

“Who are you?”

“Let’s not go over that, shall we? Suffice it to say that I’m one of your
Calgary ‘girlfriends.’”

“But I don’t remember you.”

“But I do you. I like the spectacular ones, and boy, you are spectacular.”

“What do you want me to do now?”

“Get the rope and follow my instructions.”

“Will I get rest then?”

“Yes indeed, my darling, yes indeed. . . ”

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Hug me!

Take my hand
help me
hold me
comfort me.

I'm not ready yet
to stand alone.
I'm scared...
so scared
that I'll fall.

Don't let go.
No, don't leave me
alone – come
back.
Help me.

Hug me!

By Bruce Wheelton
June 24, 2009

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Altered States in Poetic Dreams

There is one
difference
in my use
of hypnotic
patterning
in poetry...

I do not write
a poem
with one reader
or listener
in mind.

I write
those things
that have
altered
my consciousness
in the most
intense
ways.

So, the question
is not
can you be
hypnotized,
the question is
can I find
the language
patterns
that will
be most effective
in altering
your
consciousness.

By Bruce Whealton
June 24, 2009

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Meaning and Purpose

I don't know why I spend my time
writing these words,
unaware of whether anyone
is even reading the words

and so to whom
are these words written
and for what purpose?

Like a letter
to a lost,
deceased
loved one,
I wonder about
the futility
of my actions.

I write alone.
My following
is quite small
but in my mind
I dream of something
much bigger.

I imagine
that eventually
these words
will reach
the ears
eyes and lips
of others...

who knows who
or when
or how
but then
my actions
as a writer -
or poet -
will have meaning.

This is just one
of a small number
of ways
in which
I try
to find meaning
in my life.

by Bruce Whealton
June 23, 2009

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Dear God,

I know
all things are possible
for you
and you know
my passionate,
no desperate,
needs
desires
hungers...

Yes, this is
that same prayer.
How much
more passionately
can I present
my supplication?

I don't
know what
to do.

How would I even
know
if you did
choose
to grant
my supplication?
What would I need to do
differently?

I sometimes
feel
completely
and totally
directionless.

By Bruce Whealton
June 22, 2009

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The Induction

In this poem
	I'd like to alter your
consciousness 	and help
you to begin
to find
	a greater sense of
re -     lax -   a   -   tion
and you will be able to return
          to this place or state
of mind
	and this poem
whenever you need
to do so.

And each time
you repeat this
you'll go deeper
and deeper
in relaxation.

Now begin
with a a few deep breathes
and as you do,
with your eyes closed,
imagine or pretend
	you are walking
along a wooded path...

approaching a safe
and comfortable place -
	your place.

You've reached
a clearing
overlooking a town
below...
you notice
		the sounds
here
and the sensation
              of the air
against
your face...

You notice
	whatever it is
that is most pleasant
about this experience
and whatever it is
that is most
helpful
in creating
a feeling
of relaxation.

And you begin
to wonder
and imagine
what other
pleasant things
may await
your
discovery.

By Bruce Whealton
June 16, 2009

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Poetry is hypnosis

Poetry is hypnosis,
whose success
is measured
by its ability
to alter
one's consciousness -

and yet
not every good
poem will
create the same
trance in everyone...

sometimes it's the
reader's voice
and the empathy
between reader, poet
and listener.

June 9, 2009

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What really matters

On some beach
that never ends
I'm with her
in my mind...
and just for a few moments
I can pretend
that things never change
that sometimes we
walk hand-in-hand
forever.

This is my dream -
to stop time
like it seemed
to happen
long ago...
when, in those moments,
I had nothing
else to do,
no other responsibilities...
nowhere to go
no deadlines,
no to-do lists,
and just for a while
there was no one else.

That is what I remember!
Moments
frozen in time.

That is what love
seems to be...
those moments you
remember...
There is something
in those moments
that has a certain meaning
that endures -

a feeling...
an image...
something said...
or shared...
certain sounds
in the background...
whatever it is you
remember
is all that really matters.

By Bruce Whealton
April 24th, 2009

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Shelter

A place to stay

It was like yesterday
when I met this vampire and
nearly moved in with him.
He offered a place to stay.
He drank from me for 24 hours
leaving me in a dream-like state.

I still see those teeth
and the shinny bald head.

I was amazed at how
he controlled that dog of his,
too amazed to notice how I
slipped into some trance
from which I might never
have awoken.

Somehow I escaped
without a scar -
I can barely find the puncture
wounds – it seems like it
was just a dream.

For a while there
he followed me -
no it wasn't my imagination,
others told me
they saw him
following me.
I'm not sure why
he gave up
some time ago.

By Bruce Whealton – April 2009

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New Title:

Buffy thinks

this is her playroom

Until I got my kitten
I didn't notice all the cords
in my home...
hanging cords, drooping cords -
hours of entertainment for kitty.

All these cords
setup just for kitty!

See her leap through a web
of cables and cords here
and run across the obstacle
course that is my living room.

Items fall
but kitty keeps running
or playing.

By Bruce Whealton
April 2009

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