Monday, December 30, 2013

Friday, December 27, 2013

Paper Trail

Factions distractions precipitate dissolving days
days without anchor without skeletons zombie forward unheeded until the bite
Why can't I just sleep at night?
But even the day's like a dream
like water in a stream slipping, stumbling toward the ocean found no more

they feel like nothing.

A quiet burning of a book I always wanted to read
whose pages black no longer support their inky inhabitants
I was told I had a chance to make this almanac a story
filled with adventures boring into the hearts of it's hearers
oh but I fear there's been a mistake
because all my pages are blank
yet the epilogue is coming

Then
like laughter from a joke no one told
like giving hope to a man who is old
who long fret a watershed of shame and ocean's blame
I caught a glimpse beyond this vapor stage
There I stood upon the waves but for a moment

There just long enough to see

I have not days, but they have me

Wednesday, December 25, 2013

Houses

by Mark Bishop

Veiled in white power
icy peaks and piping chimneys line the streets
drawn in tightly 'gainst the hollow winter wind
fluffy coats fall along tin scarves draining mushy gifts
to gray shawls paved in winters mold
all shrink in the growing cold

Some are flecked with shimmering lights
others stark against the night
doors guard hearts with laws and rights
what are they like inside?

Only the best is on display
windows cast a subtle play for stop signs and parked cars
countless bars of repeating white shells along stained decks
craned necks perched on fences posting bail for privacy

If not for the biting chill would playgrounds swing and porches fill?
would talking, laughter silence kill?
This spring of sunlight waits until
another day I'm left here still
asking "what are they like inside?"

Monday, December 23, 2013

Memories

by Mark Bishop

I used to have a jar
which had every word that you had spoken to me
I kept it on the mantle
Where the fires I kindled each night would keep me warm
and when the fires were not enough
I unfolded each little paper 
and I saw you
like looking through slits in a fence
to a field of wild flowers stretching out into the sun

How I longed to hop that fence
How I longed to run along the rivers edge
to be laughing, drenched in the pollen,
the sweet nectar of your heart.
To catch the dazzling sun lest it be claimed by the horizon
and fix it in the sky to light the beauty of that field

But this land could not be purchased
It could not be claimed
as each night in sight of a thousand glowing embers
I placed that jar back on my mantle 
to weather the cold nights and howling winds
in this old drafty house
I vowed to add to it tomorrow

Now I have boxes
In an attic, in a creaky house, far away
with thousands of days etched on endless pages
I don't visit them very often
I don't make fires any more
There's so much you've said that I've forgotten

But when I'm standing by the river 
and catch sight of that old wooden fence
When I wake up covered in nectar 
I don't miss my little jar
because I am journeying
deep in my beautiful field

Sunday, December 22, 2013

Hybrid Car

By Mark Bishop

Should I pray now?
Should my hands find the steeple
with all God's people
casting forth amens like old pillows.
Weeping willows bowed low and dreary?
Eyes tired but not driven to tears.

Some days this vehicle takes us high above the clouds
into that resplendent throne room where the angel choir crowds
where warm welcomes wash barnacled feet and dark desires flee

Some days it can't quite make the drive
Instead this lifeboat springs a leak and gives us to the sea

Is it not good that wields both blessing and cessation?
Is it not for my own sake I bear this pain?
Perhaps oh Lord I do not want
to be as good a man I claim

Yet discipline unasked and un-kept
Produces as before this lament:
that I did not suffer more truly those trials he gave to me.
instead I sought escape
and I cried out to be free.

Saturday, December 21, 2013

And I Bled Ink

Poetry is what comes out of me when I'm cut.
When I bleed it's ink,
it's words which pour and weave 'long parchment roads to arrive at places I never will
to stand for things I can't support.
Lasting languages, promises, purports
to know and feel more deeply that which was once mine
but now I've passed on.
Poor words.

Why should they suffer this pain.
Why should they hear as I hear?
Oh why create them at all?
Because I am lonely?
Because I want for company
and words are just the friends.

They will reflect and demand nothing.
With thoughtful care they will console
In their forms mirror my soul
Their's is the script of the heart
Be born fair words 
and listen thus.

Friday, August 30, 2013

Today's Prisons

 by Mark Bishop

He got a poster today
it covers up the black and gray, well at least in part
He wakes up every morning straightens that colorful square on the wall of his cell
and prays for a roommate to talk with and wish well

He got a friend today
And all those things he had to say found listening ears
Every night they talk just before they go to bed
and pray for a candle to give them warmth and light for stories they haven't read

He got a lamp today
Every joyful golden ray chases darkness from the cell
after his roommate falls asleep he stays up late with a good book
and prays for a nice meal to fill his ache and warm his heart

He got released today
He had to leave the poster and the lamp.
His friend still had another 10 years.
All for which he'd hoped and prayed was gone, a sentence idly paid.

Yet this was freedom, surely this was good,
but still he longed to see again his friend his bed his black bared door
but knew he never would

Tuesday, July 9, 2013

Hallow

By Mark Bishop

This shining globe
this golden orb is rotten from the inside out
dying for another fix
another drop of value from humanities puddle of borrowed time

Absorbed into the desert of self to quench the heart and wet the tongue
Well I grow tired of this addiction, of these sponges to oft' wrung
These melodies just tell of these happy breaks from pain unsung

So I'm giving up on living because I heard I'm going to die
and I've said farewell to laughter for I'd so much rather cry
As for love it's not about me so I find it hard to swallow
but I'd rather choke on life's full course
than live and laugh while hallow

Friday, May 10, 2013

Read On

By Mark Bishop

I've got a list of favorite places
favorite foods and favorite artists
Where you went last weekend, no idea where your heart is

I can pick out your face in a hundred photos
see your age and who we both know
from these pages black and white I have the facts about your life

I can even know what hurt you
hear all about that thing you went through
how he did this, she said that and every word could be true...

But if I just learn where you've been I miss out on who you are
These periods of time aren't just dots at the end of a line
These sentences pronounced over actions and words
These paragraphs, these chapters sad endings and ever afters
are what capture the glory behind what's authored 

If I can talk about your life but haven't lived it for a minute
careful not to touch the sticky ink upon these pages or stepping out and being in it

What good are lists and likes and looks
because people are novels not textbooks

Saturday, May 4, 2013

When the Stars Seem Silent

By Mark Bishop

On a starless autumn eve in a graveyard at rest beneath the shroud of darkness sat a maiden, fair, and sorry for life's toll
She mourned for life cast too soon into yonder field and stoney bosom
Time, anxious to leave this piteous haunt hastened onward until the moon shown bright above the leafless trees and cast it's glow on every quivering tear
They fell from beauty and smote themselves upon the sod

'round the corner of the sepulcher at which the maiden wept
a ghoul waited in silence enchanted by this twilight dirge, this fount of crystals
For a long hour he stood and stirred not as the maiden cried
And all that was dead amongst his crooked limbs and gnarled flesh yearned for life

He shambled forward startling his midnight guest
She gasped and cowered backward
Her form, pale as it was awash in the warm lunar tide became frozen and ivory
The ghoul stopped. And spoke softly.

"Tell, what sorrow spurns sleep and bids even the night to suffer broken hearts?
Perhaps two may bare more patiently the afflictions of life."
These words seemed spoken by the darkness itself, for surely the tattered lips before her were long since bled of such kindness
And yet his gaze from gentle jaundiced eyes extended to her the same offer

Seeing that, like her, he was well acquainted with death and suffered still under its heavy hand
She replied to the darkness and added to its depth
"Here lies the body of my father, his soul not yet accounted for
Perhaps the stars can tell but tonight they hide
how can hope be such a small light? such a distant thing not radiant but flickering... and almost gone"

Her words struck the ghoul where his heart should have been for he had been a father
and he had left a son
and he would come, and cry, and break his soul against the walls of stone and lose his voice among the rocks

"My dear, there is pain so great not even the stars dare answer,
Even the watchman of the ages cannot hold back the night.
But hope,
hope is like the moon,
It shall rise and show most brightly on the eve of your despair.
It harkens you to daylight and reminds you of the sun."

Saturday, January 12, 2013

Dead Weight

By Mark Bishop

Dozens of prophets and laws and psalms
Wrapped in 400 years of dust and tears keeps me low to the ground as I walk around
Wondering who is left for me to trust?
Oh God have you deserted us?
You spoke of redemption! You said we had hope!
But the days linger
Our oppression grows stronger
And I think I would rather be dead

Wait
A star with radiant tail wreathed high above this barren land.
It is so far, oh that it would but come
That such a brilliance would not so far off stand
A chorus
A melody more beautiful than all the songs of men
I dare not gaze upon this host
I fall on my face and then
"I bring you good news of great joy!"
He spoke about a baby boy
A little life in a world of death
A hope which for centuries had gripped our hearts keeping darkness at bay
But seemed until now swallowed up like dying star on a silent night.
Could this be the Messiah?
Our King, our help, our deliverer!?
With such a host and proclamation of joy the world has never know
Yes this must be the one to come and sit upon king David’s throne.
But oh right now he's just a babe

I hope I live to see him save
Once for all this broken race
Until then
Even the dead
Wait