8: 02 P.m.

8 people standing in the rain,
Only 7 umbrellas.

7 people knowing it all,
I have no clue for you.

7 people have caught the train,
While I was seeking shelter.

7 people now heading home,
As the rain gets to know me better.

poem by John Walls (2007)
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The Song of a Statue

A lone baritone balladeeer beneath the Battersea Bridge,
Sings out a sonnet for the Madonna.
Big Ben chimes, he becomes locked in Lover's time,
As his copper-skin is wrapped in night and the cold armor of patina.

c.2009 John Carroll Walls

poem by John Walls
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In Memory Of Mattie Stepanek

Farewell fountain, life spring.

I thank you, as do many

For leaving your Heartsong behind.

We all need to sing and be reminded to sing,

Especially in times when the heart's torch,

Begins to flicker,

Upon the less traveled path of peace.

Farewell fountain, little Buddha.

poem by John Walls
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Merlot

Dear dark bitter wine,
Take these thick damp clover questions,
Cast my pondering, upon the arch of the raven's wings,
Fade them bloody juice to skyward oblivion.

For I can no longer be chewed to the bone
With midnight's hidden longings.
My hazy hazel lenses hang on
To empty hollowed scribbling.

I must cheat one night,
Oh grapes be true and kind,
Away, now raven in flight
The blackest sleep for the grayest mind.

Copyright ©2008 John Carroll Walls

poem by John Walls
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Dear H.

In better 'human' weather,
Whether my eyes greet your grace or not,
I'll place you upon your favorite patch of heather,
If you dear Heather weave me through a fragrant mile of forget me nots.

We'll exchange prose, poems, and
When we part again, out of love or sin, we'll begin are apologetic letters.
At least our beast doesn't burden its feathers to fly when the blue canopy is calm,
Still, will our Wills will ever be sustained in fairness, in unfair weather.

c.2010 John Carroll Walls

poem by John Walls
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These Days Don't Mean Dust To Me

(For a certain shade of artist)

While caged in blue, I ponder.
I simply cannot embrace the common,
The 9 to 5 hamster wheel,
Nor night's dim lit lovers.

I wake, I search,
Coffee, glasses, and an outdated paper.
The day governs me like most
Until the point of the Inspiration's arrival.

These days don't mean dust to me,
Soon I too will be swept under the carpet
Of green growing nature.
With no words, no lines, or poems,
And my headstone will be a detour sign to guide the Inspiration
To the doorstep of the next prisoner of blue.

Copyright ©2008 John Carroll Walls

poem by John Walls
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Carrying A Print of Starry Night Home

For Vango

Heading home, the day obeys universal laws

Night takes the shift, stars guard the gates

I tread upon a road of moonlight

As I pass by a purple lake.

Curious sheep surround me,

Their damp wool coats brush against my knees

The ducks startle and wobble off, quickly as ducks do.

Plunging thier leathery feet into the purple,

Paddling away, sweet sounds these webbed oars,

[...] Read more

poem by John Walls
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Abject Poverty

Abject Poverty

For A.B.

Access them early, but slowly. Before sight or text.
Meaning-full hope:
The stems of dreams: the wanton spring-picked
Full-bloomed flowers...Rx, Rx.

Don't look to the past, or ahead,
Nor down or up for that matter.
Have some manners and dial in and to what's within...
Pay little mind if you get the wrong number,
Just dial again, and again.

Spill it, vent it, scream it, cry it,
Or pontificate on the dirty soap box 'cause you stand upon It;
For the cold washing waters has not yet cleansed
The hands, head and heart...your Spirit!

[...] Read more

poem by John Walls
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Coupled in Greenery

A dream woke itself,
As love itself fell upon us.

I recanted quickly all the lofty phrases
I spoke to you but one:
I love you without dream or consciousness;
Heaven as it were and still is.

I craved you like wine once, and would pour out
All the dark poison of me out-
Depending on the year of course.

Now I only yearn to drink morning's tears of joy,
That drip off the chartreuse spears of first lover's intentions...
The dew of doing, and water of the wanton we.

So many long nights alone, but not lonely;
For all have Agnus Dei, if we can submit to that one bended
Need of knee.

[...] Read more

poem by John Walls
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