A Home is Hard to Find

By Mark Bishop

I just want a place to go

Away from the gorging waves

which  make their portion the once familiar coastline

Away from the winds that howl

as piece by piece the scaffolding of this life they carry off

I shout back

"It wasn't finished yet!

Give me just a year!

A year or two more!?"

But what's the use

I have yet to see the winds bleed

or the ocean show remorse

What Cannot Be Forgotten

By Mark Bishop

Somewhere between the hands

The roads

The calendar pages

The slippery grains which count the ages

I find

That the yawning, lanky yellow line

Stretched across this ribbon of time

Tough a friend more loyal than breath

Makes not a mark upon my thought

Instead my mind holds to this:

That once every star sang of heaven

Once I bathed in the ocean's waves

Once I wept in the rain, in the bitter cold

That once we laughed, embraced and said farewell

Oh more precious than a thousand more dashes on the pavement are these to me

Though dashing suns shut the door you see

When I wring this life

When I pour out my memories I do not find a steady stream

Only drops

Only moments

Land of Understanding

By Mark Bishop

How many wordless hours have I longed here in the wood
And known the stilling of my heart when still so far the heavens stood

How many thoughts have wandered the dusty winding trails
And found in these a better home than plasterboard and nails

How many tears have had their birth and run their course into the stream
In but a moment swept away to join a grander dream

This soil grows the silence somehow the trees have understood
This place that only listens knows me better than I ever could

Lifeboat

By Mark Bishop

The salted breeze swept stranded cries from yonder ships just out of sight

into ears and over neck they disappeared behind the night

Then 5, 10 a hundred more they shook the hulls and mast

from those unknowingly into this maelstrom cast

Theirs was the ocean of chaos and ardur

Which calously devoured  both palm and harbor

These plights of the sojourners harried and cold

Clawed at the sails and fought my rudder to a fold

Oh to be done with this jagged horizon let me see it straight and sweet

Let the crashes and the roars find in the depths their sleep

if not for me than for those tears that deepen each briny cascade

For what sailor has by happenstance this fearsome voyage made?

On nights like tonight

as the compass needle spins

when the blue pitches and yawns mocking my desperation

I dream the world were not so fickle a place as this

But this is where I live

This water is my home

I will spend my days amidst the breakers and the foam

I like those who cry am wed with the waves and the currents

I must endure these hurricanes and fight the crashing serpents

I would leave, yes I would go if it were up to me

But my story is on this ocean

and my world is the raging sea

Instead of Crying

By Mark Bishop

There's a sadness that doesn't come out to shed its tears anymore
Something so sad it's lost
There's a pain that doesn't write letters from war
Something so hurt from paying the cost
Of being human
Of being dust
Oh to hell with us
    or not

The waiting is the worst
bearable at first
but now I wonder if there will be anything at all left for you to resurrect on the last day
You've promised me sorrows in the stay
but every heartache borrows what little I have left to give
left to live
just left

Tomorrow's joys don't seem to mend a broken heart
grant at least that I may grieve
at least that is a start

Uncommon Worth

By Mark Bishop

Coincidental meetings and happy greetings

spur horses of friendship and long manes of correspondence

brushed and splotched as stars on night's canvas

to find in the bramble such flowers as these

it is a rare thing

Syrupy black words worth their weight in gold

pumped in full authenticity from the broken red craigs

treasured, refined, distilled and drank down

to find in such a flower nectar so sweet

it is rarer still

Diamonds, lacking purses big enough to swallow them

languor near a caverns silent stream chamered by the stone 

longing to be seen

daring soft hands and fickle feet to delve and there uncover from blackest coal that which is precious

these are everywhere

As The Rain

This is some Photoshop work inspired by the final line of a poem by E.E. Cummings called "somewhere i have never travelled,gladly beyond"

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

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?"

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

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.

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.

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

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

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

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."

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

Moments Forever

 by Mark Bishop

Rhymes without rhythm
Melodies without music
Entreat the ear but themselves betray that there is something more
So this beauty

These moments haunted by longing
Like a dream too soon discovered to be nothing more than fiction
The joy is real yet flees too swiftly

Would it but stay
Would it but rest with my soul
And cease forever this weary chase

To capture to have to hold
To die to wilt to lose

A cage is no place for freedom and grace
Nor would I fetter beauty

Though it pains me to know their lack
And in their absence long I wander
Still they visit when they choose
My tired heart grows ever fonder

Once More Around These Walls

By Mark Bishop

And I, with hope and dreams not my own
bleed forth my cares before your throne
This rescue is so near and far
The sun and yet the faintest start

These thoughts echo in my head
they ring with hollow truth
They shatter on my fortress heart
Besieged by its own walls.

This city of the sick and dying
sits atop the promised land
And all my days I march around it 
yet these ramparts stand.

They laugh over this silly trek
these aimless circles run
How strong how proud they mock my course
as though You have not won.

My God you taught me how to march
and lead me to this city
You said its mortar cannot stand
that ruin would come swiftly

Oh Lord destroy this evil place 
take back your rightful crown
Sing loud upon this Jericho
and bring these high walls down

The Proud at War

By Mark Bishop

My enemy advances

with spears and firebrands

toward banner proud

made low upon the hill on which it stands

This golden standard I've raised myself

will not last through the fray

It's hacked to pieces by the horde

on this my strength's last day

Though the army marches onward

o'er the torn flag of my soul

you claim as yours this tattered heart

you wash it white and make it whole