Thursday, January 13, 2011

Wilted Petals of a Once Vibrant Rose

By Adam Freeman Pockross

Wilted Petals of a once vibrant rose

Lie restless upon the ground

like the parquet pattern of a ballroom floor.

Shades of pine crisscross the new dew.

The broom will soon undo the grime

The hall again will gleam anew

Last night’s oaths are set to bloom

Amongst the scattered streamers.

zigzagged hearts will soon find out

Beginnings are not easy

And ending’s what’s become of starts.

Portrait of a Terrier and His Old Maid

By Adam Freeman Pockross

Susan Chevere,

Sits atop a sun-sagged bench.

Dampening Chekov asleep in her lap.

Her terrier Anton wanders far off.

“Anton,” she whispers,

with limited breath.

“Anton, my love.”

She pleads to wind.

If not for Anton…

Thoughts start to turn.

If not for Anton,

Her bench goes unfound.

If not for Anton…

No more.

She labors and hassles,

Three legs to his four.

Not fit for hunting,

She remembers a time

Her husband Pierre

With veins in his arms

Held her tight,

Like iron wounding wooden kegs.

Of use no more.

He must be found.


By Adam Freeman Pockross

If you were here,

I’d stroke your hair,

Rub my nails along your back.

Make little letters

Upon your mane

Lodge my thumb between your vertebrae.

If you were here,

I’d kiss your ear,

Light lips upon your lobe.

A tongue stroked dab,

Your clavicle.

Guard you against the night.

I’d keep you warm.

I’d hold you close,

Safe from coming doom.

Put a blanket on your feet.

Remove one when you sweat.

I’d fall asleep within your dreams,

And with your fears I’ll wake.

I’ll stir not a motion made.

I’ll bear it for your sake.

I’ll be the bed’s least comfortable,

But I’d sleep better still,

Than the way I’ll have to lay tonight,

Eyes open, dreams of you.


By Adam Freeman Pockross

Reeling down

A closing corridor,

I hope to stay

Up near the top.

While the weight

That weighs upon me,

Makes me wish

That it could stop.

But it can’t,

And I’m a wreck,

And I sink

Below the line.

And I pray

That’s it’s beyond me,

And that soon

I will not mind.

But the truth

Is now upon me,

And the jets

Begin to well.

And the hopes

That linger in me,

Begin to gush,

Begin to swell.

And the truths

Of who I must be,

Grip tight

Their mighty hold.


Not upon me,

My path,

It gleams in gold.

Cause the might,

That lives inside me,

Must take flight,

Cause it won’t hide.

For the right,

That one must live by,

Is the fight,

That just won’t die.

Seeds of Hopeful Ruin in the Dominator’s Plan


Adam Freeman Pockross

Our people will mate.

The invader plants his own demise.

Because i must become we.

But a mask of neutral society

Told i,

“Give me your rage,

So i can feel your Joy.”

Don’t paint me.

You’ll make me how i am.

Fuck you

and your globe

and your map.

i am the human race!

Till the tape is crossed.

i’ve seen baby’s boiled.

My own family shot.

So what am i going to do?

Keep walking.
What am i going to feel?

Keep walking.

What am i going to need?

Keep walking.

Keep eating.

i’ve got food.

i’ve got shoes.

Don’t wait for the clouds.

Together we’ll part.

Or we’ll die.


Can it be a battle

if it’s only my fight?

If it’s the only sound in the world

And i’m the only one who heard

And i can’t tell where it came from?

Does it matter

if it’s a cry or a laugh?

Walking bravely forward

is not the same as walking blind.

Eliminate your drive,

your safety valve.

Accept your evolution.

Then what?

Beyond tears,

beyond roars,


Just because it’s cultural

Just because they say it’s so

Just because i’m emotional?

And here i thought it was me.

From being alone,

to being with.

The oppressor becomes the oppressed.

Am i a part of the group

or am i a man alone?

Are those the only roles?

What part then is mine?

The hero?

Will you help me?

It could help you survive.


If the moment of rescue,


not about come and save me,

but saying I will.

If I’m the only one who gets it,

am i compelled to explain?

Not the end of something

or the beginning.

Through the rage and the pain

And the resistance and the courage

And the joy and the laughter

roaring into rage!

Like the gulf stream,

up and down again.

In the moment of destruction,

is the seed for the next.

Birth, death: synthesis.

Mated and mixed.

The willow branch,

weeping till the end,

Soon makes more fertile ground.


ByAdam Freeman Pockross


Go ahead and sing you fat bitch!

Who’s listening anyways?

Two scoops of fire and brimstone,

Swept up in a rising sea,

Churn about in howling skies,

Improbably filled with glee.

Deep neglect makes me detect,

The blood of a murder spree,

It crafts the clearest picture yet,

Of the possibilities impossibly being.

If it can’t waken the sleepy

Who travel dreams deeply,

To visions of Valhalla

Deep within,

Maybe we heathens need a dose,

Of the might this night can boast?

Set the lamb this pot to roast

Boiled deep in our mortal sin.

What crash of thunder

Can shake foundation’s core?

What’s the wailing wisdom

Thor in heaven has in store?

Do we play a role in this?

Are we pawns in a bigger game?

Do these restless feelings mix?

From all action drained in vein?

What if evil’s reasons

Are the same as for the saved?

If shocked and awed and frightened

Is how we face our graves?

Smack it!

Whip it!

Make me bleed

Make it hurt!

Throw closed my coffin,

Conceal me in dirt.

Too hard to soften,

Been too hard too often,

My soul inside’s coughing

Please God let me rot.


None of it spilt real blood.

It’s all just a symbol

To be thrown out the window,

To be better prepared for the flood.

When the night is done

And the rising sun

Speaks not of the gifts I can give,

Will the rising moon

Go and crest too soon

Cast shadows on a life not mine lived?

If the wind’s not genuine,

If culture’s creations are naturally sin,

Could that dream from my mind’s eye,

Allow me to accept then begin?

So when I wake

In a hazy shade

Of the frightening self

That last night made,

A wrecking ball of all my dreams;

I fear it could be worse.

The sinking sun seems far from set,

So should a wise man meet regret?

If Motion and Moment are really the same

And another sun cannot set?

Will I stay to mock the moon?

Whose damning deeds are done too soon?

May the morn bring back the boon,

If my prayers command an ear.


Is God in my image or am I in his?

Leave me alone if that’s what it is.

I know not what is right.

Signs and codes are all wrong,

All I’ve got is this night.

And this night seems so long.

Why should you do all the work?

If I’m the one who’s work needs work?

What was I created for,

If every door behind you lurk?

Shouldn’t I be the one doing the saving here?

Or am I too late?

Am I am what I want?

Or am I too late?

Am I just in check?

Or is this checkmate?

Was the threat ever real?

Was the danger so great?

Has it all just been training?

Do I just have to wait?

Will there soon be a test?

Does what I’ve yet done keep me?

Is this all there is to be?

Have I seen all there is to see?

Or are the days now happened

Filled with what’s of worth,

And I forgot to notice?

And I’ll soon be in the earth.


Now, at this late hour,

No other soothing can be sought.

Look back on thinking’s flower,

Cannot suppress the thought.

Have I crossed your heart?

Did you hope to die?

Did I dare to dream?

While you dreamed of me?

Or did I dream it out?

Unfortunately, the Me I see,

Doesn’t look or smell or act like me,

Doesn’t’ care or love or feel like me.

And now I want to wake.

While somehow lost so far within

That with without is how I’ve been,

With no manageable passage,

Rough waters to swim;

So here I wade in doubt.

There’s something deluded,

In all of my lust

When I wake this hour

Somewhere just before dusk.

If I can somehow know the Me,

Just for a moment once more,

Some lost bit of me

Cast from distant dreams of yore?

To dream the dream of Me I see,

To be all the dream said I could be,

Be all the Me that’s been a dream;

A sandbag in the wake of a flood.

Should my wishes be heard this night?

Please Lord let me sleep.


And so I drift

And seek again heaven once more.

Seek not what is worth dreaming,

But what’s worth waking for:

The meat is what matters

The core and the heart

The blood and the organs

Without it why start?

Only inside is worth letting out

Only Me’s Maker is ready to shout:

At the other end of waking

On top of abyss

Beyond all forsaking,

On the right side of this,

Expanse is expanding;

Bliss sits adrift in the mist.

Adam Freeman Pockross

Helpless I do not know if good intentions prevail among the elected, among the appointed, leaving me apprehensive that the fate ...