This forum is an archive for members' topics.

Moderator: negatvone

Post Reply
User avatar
The Fat Cat
Posts: 8419
Joined: Tue Dec 18, 2001 12:01 am
Tag line: Do no harm
Location: Novato, CA


Post by heinzs » Sun Aug 29, 2004 12:54 pm

My archive has been converted into a Poet's Page. You may view it by clicking on the "Poets' Pages" link in the Menu and viewing my page.
An' it harm none, do what ye will. Blessed Be.
My Poet's Page Archive | Topics I've started

Behind the Curtain
Posts: 797
Joined: Mon Dec 17, 2001 12:01 am
Tag line: Behind the Curtain
Location: Georgia, USA

Post by Berlie » Sun Aug 29, 2004 12:59 pm

twisting the throttle
as I lean into the curve
bug SPLAT on my face
My Poetry Posts | My Poetry Vault | Self-Pub.net

User avatar
The Fat Cat
Posts: 8419
Joined: Tue Dec 18, 2001 12:01 am
Tag line: Do no harm
Location: Novato, CA

Post by heinzs » Sun Aug 29, 2004 1:00 pm

Thanks for the short URL, berlie!!

:lol: :cool: :cool: :mrgreen:
An' it harm none, do what ye will. Blessed Be.
My Poet's Page Archive | Topics I've started

User avatar
The Fat Cat
Posts: 8419
Joined: Tue Dec 18, 2001 12:01 am
Tag line: Do no harm
Location: Novato, CA

Re: heinzs

Post by heinzs » Sat Mar 15, 2008 12:53 pm

Ok. Since Poets' Pages are fairly "defunct" I might restart an archive here, or in "my" forum... lol.
An' it harm none, do what ye will. Blessed Be.
My Poet's Page Archive | Topics I've started

User avatar
The Fat Cat
Posts: 8419
Joined: Tue Dec 18, 2001 12:01 am
Tag line: Do no harm
Location: Novato, CA

Re: heinzs

Post by heinzs » Sat Mar 15, 2008 12:57 pm


The sound of mortar shells
barely invades my consciousness.
I walk the trench
on morning patrol,
stepping over the corpses
of last night's unfortunates.
Tracers zip by overhead
like annoying fireflies.
My mind is blank -
an untuned instrument
waiting for the maestro's touch
to turn the slack strings
into objects of creativity.

Here's the upper half of Harold -
we went to school together...
millennia ago.
A mine or a grenade -
nasty handiwork.
I should write his mum tonight -
he won't mind me taking his fags.

Another siren - mustard gas again.
I look and feel like
an alien from Mars
in my heavy bug-eyed mask.
Jerry's really on the offensive
this morning - Christmas Eve -
by the Sergeant's calendar...
Christmas in Hell by mine.

I'm holding on by sheer will alone -
blanking out the world around me,
for if I should
acknowledge its reality
I would be mad...
maybe I already am.

"In Flanders Fields the poppies blow
between the crosses, row on row."

After evening mess
a deathly stillness falls.
We all look about in anticipation -
waiting for the "big one" to go off.
... nothing.
From across the blackened field,
like wisps of smoke
through the barbed wire spirals,
a snatch of song... music!

"Stille nacht, heilige nacht..."
so out of place in the Devil's kitchen.
As a man the platoon chimes in -
"All is calm, all is bright..."

I cannot hold back the tears any longer
but add their moisture
to Harold's bloody scarf.
Sobbing, I wrack with the pain.
Is this that single shred of hope
that manifests true humanity?
Then the artillery starts up again,
and I return to my mindless state -
concentrating only on survival.

Thirty years later the shells
once again would fly
and blast the flowers
with fire from the sky -
but they would grow again,
keeping their secret eternal.
Silently the poppies
turn their heads toward the sun,
as they will when man's time
on Earth at last is done.


Quote from:
"In Flanders Fields", by John McCree, 1915

~Waking Dreams~

Early morning reveries -
half asleep, half awake -
are these random thoughts
that invade consciousness?
Traveling to strange places
oddly familiar...
peopled by acquaintances
dead and alive,
events beyond control
bring forth deep fears -
anxiety rules this land.
Shaking, I force myself to rise
while memory clings tentatively
to the corners of my mind.

Setting aside day's discomfort
I greet the morning routine,
glad at the distraction
from darkness' penetrating stare.
But not too long does ennui last,
as events unfold to belie calm
and take the plunge into despair
that I had thought beyond reach.
Skys darken, storm clouds thicken -
the wind rises from the south
and soon tornado warnings blare
their raucous hoot to wake the dead.
Time foreshortens as I lose
my grip on fragile sanity...
am I dreaming still,
or is this nightmare real?

I seem to wake again
as from a swoon -
one eye sees not, my hand
comes away sticky with blood.
A sharp pain in my chest -
a stick of wood (either
a segment of doorjamb
or a fencepost) rests there
imbedded between my ribs.
The house seems a shambles -
daylight streams through
where roof should be.
I search the horrific rooms
and find human segments
roughly strewn.
Here a leg, pale and bloodless;
there an arm, hand extended
in supplication;
bloody pieces of flesh dangle
from the leaning walls.
I am convinced this is still
my dream...
... or is it?

In this dazed state
I stagger into the street -
searching for any sign of life
or reason.
The sky shifts from grey to red
and hellfire rises
from the blackened ground
licking hungrily at my flesh.
Every inch of my being screams in pain
but I can utter no sound
in the surrounding silence.
The meat melts from my bones
and I stand alone
a skeletal effigy
tribute to man's accomplishments.

(to be continued?)



~Waking Dreams II~

Written in the ink of Time
the Past cannot be undone.
Indelible though it may be,
selective memory does mock truth
and subverts it to fit devious purpose.

I travel once more through green fields
where eohippus roams free
(now a semi-lifeless desert plain).
Crisp Pleistocene dawn
assails my flared nostrils
ready for the day's hunt.
I join the pack and together
we bring the megatherium down -
the pups will feed well tonight.
One of my littermates has been injured,
but the pack cannot wait
for him to catch up.
We touch noses
and with a final whimper of understanding
I pick up my portion of fresh meat
and pad after my companions,
looking back only once
from the top of a rise.
Within two days there will be no trace
of the kill or my brother.

Memory or imagination;
truth or fabrication;
what are these waking dreams
that permeate dawning thought?
Twisted fantasy, filled
with confusing half-truths
and sordid imagery -
the waning of night's power
over psyche and soul
rife with dark fascination.

(to be continued?)

November 2003


Waking Dreams III

The gallows stand ready -
waiting for dawn's first blush
to pierce the dark of night.
Padre has been and gone,
taking with him my absolved sins
but leaving me guilty as charged.
And yet I feel as innocent of crime
as the first day of Spring.
They come for me and I follow,
hands bound behind.
The executioner says naught -
checks my wrists and places the noose
around my sweating neck.
I refuse the blindfold,
preferring to carry to my end
the memory of vision
and the faces of my accusers.
And so dawn's first rays
strike the gallows beam
and my judge nods assent
to my silent hooded companion.
The lever is pulled
and I feel the sudden jolt
as the platform drops
from beneath my feet
and then darkness once more reigns.

It has been shown
that if the noose does not immediately
break the neck of the hanged man
as the clever placement of the knot
is designed to do,
it can take five agonizing minutes
kicking against the air
until the subject is at last dead.

(to be continued?)

November 2003


~Waking Dreams IV~

Well past the "witching hour"
time stands still
but the mind races on
like a rocket aimed sunward.
The nearer to light's source,
the darker all seems to become.

Alone atop the Himalayan peak
where Winter's chill never wanes
I listen for the Yeti's call
to cry out the approach of Death
like the Banshee of Erin's lore.
One by one I watched them fall
the lack of air taking its toll
and the cold doing the rest.
Hands unable to wield the ice axe
lose grip on the rope as well
and the combined weight of two
drags both into the crevasse.
I eat snow against the drying wind
knowing it helps chill me more…
a strange choice between dehydration
and freezing,
though in the end the ice will win
and my frozen corpse will lie where it falls
for however many centuries
before another dares these slopes
and finds the evidence of my passing.

(to be continued?)


Waking Dreams (V)

Vortices swirl
just millimeters beneath the skin.
Reflecting inward from closed eyelids
scenes appear
in stark colored realism –
like memories
of someone else’s experiences
or watching a movie for the first time.
Often there is no dialog,
as if the sound track
is missing from the tape.
Othertimes whole symphonies play
the complex score.

A woman enters the room
and begins to undress.
Voyeuristic instinct steps forward
to catch a glimpse of attributes
reserved and private –
an invasion made moreso
by her unaware innocence.
The predator awaits his chance,
savoring the anticipation,
his inner beast
gorging on the bloodlust.
In a brief temporal moment
a life is interrupted,
but for her
an eternity of fear and pain
imprints the crime scene.

The dreamer dreams on
unable to interfere
if he is witness to fact
past or future
or just the scenario
from some perverse novella
played as "entertainment"
for a late-night audience of one.

Weeks later newspapers abound
with the gruesome details
so clearly seen in the dream –
articles the dreamer will never see,
leaving him unconscious
of his clairvoyant premonition.



Waking Dreams VI

Footsteps over my shoulder
in the dark corner
the glint of a reflecting eye
or a shiny tooth -
fear grips my throat
in icy fingers -
I can barely breathe.
The silence is broken
only by my labored aspirations
and the heartbeat
pounding in my ears.
A chill travels down my spine
as i stare into the darkness
for any sign of movement.

Fear, though the source
may remain undisclosed,
is the most powerful motivator...
and demotivator.
It can move nations to rabid action
or cause such xenophobic isolation
that all progress ceases.
It hinders peace and tranquility
and hamstrings personal development.

"We have nothing to fear but fear itself!"
....Franklin Delano Roosevelt



Lying Eyes

Eyes shut,
lest sight reveal
the unwanted truth -
and yet the mind
conceives such a desire
and flails in contradiction.

Eyes open,
averted from the stark vision
whose clarity makes a lie
of all we have been told -
and yet we struggle to believe
and deny our own senses' veracity.

Honest eyes,
they cannot hide what they see -
only our minds
reject their unbiased data
and choose the path
of obfuscation and deceit.

Lying eyes,
staring into our own
from the reflection in the glass -
their glazed-over expression
all our own doing -
seeking to reveal the truth.


Yeux Menteur

Les yeux ferment,
de peur que la vue indiquent
la vérité non désirée -
mais l'esprit conçoit
un tels désir
et fléaux en contradiction.

Les yeux s'ouvrent,
évité de la vision rigide
dont la clarté fait un mensonge
de tous que nous avons été dits -
mais nous luttons pour croire
et nions la véracité de nos propres sens.

Les yeux honnêtes,
ils ne peuvent pas se cacher ce qu'ils voient -
seulement nos esprits
rejettent leurs données impartiales
et choisissent le chemin
de l'obscurcissement et de la duperie.

Yeux menteur,
regardant fixement dans nos propres
de la réflexion dans le verre -
leur glacer-au-dessus de l'expression
tout notre propre faire -
cherchant à indiquer la vérité.



In the Glass

flesh on sagging flesh
Are these Age's wages?
Deep crevasses
concealing legions
of dermatophilic germs.
Dust spawning dead layers
skin deep beauty a convention,
not a truth.
Where the vigor of callow youth?
Capitulation -
resigned to Time's passing
in dark despair
or joie de vivre...
not too late to choose.



On War

The brave young men
with hearts of eagles
go where sent
while at home
hawks and doves
fight in great halls
but shed no blood.

The brave young men
enter the cock ring
to die or live another day
while at home
elected ostriches rule
and no one wins
but the vulture and crow.


Sleepwalking in Gaza

- seeking the word
that will express the mood
the ennui
- tedium of days
- weeks
slippery time
the illusion of progress
- regress
"there's nothing new under the sun".
It's almost like anguish
- languish
burnt out

the shopping cart man
becomes invisible
in the sea
of GI boots

- sorrow
a dull ache
somewhere in the heart
a thirst for more
than the CRT reveals

the rats have won the race
by default
- they've eaten all the prizes

- sad to think
what potential has been denied
- indolence
the ruling force
and the muse sits
to watch armaggedon
from our comfortable sofa
where the children's cries
cannot be heard
above the headset static.

- mindless
sleepwalking (in Gaza)
with eyes closed
while all around
the inferno rages

An' it harm none, do what ye will. Blessed Be.
My Poet's Page Archive | Topics I've started

Post Reply

Return to “Members' Poetry Vaults”

Who is online

Users browsing this forum: No registered users and 3 guests