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[ahauntedtypewriter]

Atlases

We are the graveyard shifters The takers of orders, The shelvers of cans They who live by the work of their hands

We, the visibly invisible, The face at the door Often passed by Like so many before

Though we be transparent It is not as it seems To each minimum wage Clasps a lifetime of dreams

Though the pursuit of happiness It is not as it seems We the Atlases shoulder a world in dreams

-a haunted typewriter (C. I. Smith)

[ahauntedtypewriter]

Gardens

In this tumultuous world of sin and virtue He had a simple dream Sweet and ephemeral Hung in his mind as a mural Like a road map to a moment

Thus he works sunshine and rain Past sickness and pain Brick upon brick Beam up on beam He builds from dust the dream breaths beauty into despaired dirt The world spun from his hands A garden from the sands.

He knows it will not last forever. Life, dreams and his flowers it seems though sweet, worthy of attention are ephemeral. He knows well the clock, its urgency But he knows better, Life is a flower, And only a fool passes by a rose Without the joy of a nose

-a haunted typewriter (pretty sure I put my actual name in at least one)

[ahauntedtypewriter]

Windows

A vast concrete colossus Punctures the landscape Resolutely human and yet lacking humanity A modern monolith to metropolitain monotony A Symbol of life in our urban lobotomy

But like the sidewalk slabs beneath, Buckled and broken by the very weeds they sought to smother Here too, nature permeates, piercing its concrete cover Shining one thousand different lights, Through one thousand different windows, Out onto the damp, cold snow. Pour scenes from one thousand different lives Onto passersby on the streets below. Each one a framed polaroid snapshot of the life within Revealing comfort, company, solitude, youth, age, or sin

Here framed on this grey colossus, Man made, yet still inhuman. Busts forth humanity anyway, In one thousand different points of light Radiating out into the cold december night.

-a haunted typewriter (I think I published this one somewhere?)

[ahauntedtypewriter]

The Past Is Like a Bed

The past is like a bed.

Be it cold or warm

Be there a dream or nightmare

Be it inviting or discouraging

It is all the same, familiar.

And all the same we must leave it

And rise into an unfamiliar morning.

[ahauntedtypewriter]

Burn like Magnesium

Some say to “glitter like Gold” Others say to “shine like Silver” I’d rather burn like Magnesium.

Gold is too vain and lofty And Silver tarnishes.

Yet, humble grey Magnesium, Absent the beautiful lusters Holds within a searing light Which, if sparked, no ocean deep, Nor tempest, nor torrent too Can extinguish.

Although it not a noble metal It burns true, with light that, for but a little while Shames even the sun itself In startling brilliance you shan’t soon forget.

Let them keep their golds and silvers and for but a while burn like magnesium.

[ahauntedtypewriter]

Loss

It hurts in spurts, As we shuffle our feet past the loss. Though the losses differ, the feelings are the same And perhaps it is not the loss itself we dread,  But the feeling of what comes now, in its stead It is the dreadful change, The gaping hole, the void, the fresh cut wound It is the summation of the question, “What comes next?" What lives on in blissful memory Of what we knew, what we lost, Now irrevocably consumed to entropy Slowly paved over and overgrown by time, It is ephemerality we fear most. But lest we forget In all our remembering, There is real wisdom in knowing While the cherished past is gone Our present too is temporary. Beyond the winter's midnights, lies the summer days. Beyond the ugliness, eventually so too will follow beauty, In the flow of tears, so too, in time, laughter drips.

-C.I. Smith

[ahauntedtypewriter]

To Laugh or To Cry

In this life of tragedy, We are given two choices, To laugh or to cry. To longly live or slowly die.

When it rains, It pours. In the weather, life closes, All its’ doors.

But yet, a choice...is yours, be brow beaten by rain, Or hold your head up high And search for sun to shine again Through that murky sky.

-C.I. Smith (ahauntedtyperwriter)

[ahauntedtypewriter]

Life is an Ocean

Life is an ocean and

You need not find the calmest waters

Or greenest bays

You only need tread water

Without motion,

though we keep breathing

We drown

Life is an ocean

One must only keep treading

-CIS

[ahauntedtypewriter]

I found out in a field A man who still believed His brow was wet And dripped with sweat Under a sun that seethed.

I found out in a field A man who was at peace For, in that sunbaked field He knew his task had lease

I found out in a field A man who was self-freed, The master of his feet through untrod grass Choosing where they lead

I found out in a field A kind of earthly bliss That tastes of summer nights and crisp moonlights They call it happiness

I found out in a field Another man to be For in that field, I found, The man I found, was me.

[ahauntedtypewriter]

It is a strange contradiction

When our conviction,

of the lines of

truth and fiction

Come to a matter

Of diction

And depiction

[ahauntedtypewriter]

hi! i like your blog :) i'm just starting mine out, would you mind giving me a follow back? i'll be posting a bit of everything + my original poetry :)

Sure, absolutely!

[ahauntedtypewriter]

One Reluctant

I am but one man, Doing the best I can, In a world predestined To tear itself apart And though I long To flee the throng I cannot rest 'til I've done my best To still it's aching heart

[ahauntedtypewriter]

Is it Candidate Worship?

Among the manicured grassroots Are Political pied piper’s with political flutes Leading us into the swamp They’d promised to drain Flooding it further With promises rain’d From that pantheon, high So quickly they’ll lie Beneath the chrome, polish and pretty faces So common in political races Is the candidate manufactured In a nation so fractured A partisan product is what they sell We’ve bought it so long we can’t tell They’ll tell us what we feel elect them, we must Compromise, "make a deal" Tell me not your crisp, grassroot deeds It just gets lost amongst the weeds.

C.I. Smith

[ahauntedtypewriter]

Do you believe in movies?

Do you believe in movies?

Little flecks of light

Brilliantly alluring

So simple, a sight

dangerously assuring

Like plastic dreams,

But in my own life,

I have yet seen scenes

So perfect, so vibrant,

So supernatural

The moment bewitched in technicolor

still intransactable.

-ahauntedtypewriter

[ahauntedtypewriter]

Sketch of a Cereus Repandus cactus flower. 

[ahauntedtypewriter]

A sketch I did a while ago of I-25 looking south towards Socorro, New Mexico with the Chupadero, Socorro and Magdelena Mountains in the background.

[ahauntedtypewriter]

Magdelena

Does your desert sun miss me? The warm breezes that used to kiss me. What of your rocky paths and ways? The sacred canyons where the pinon prays.

Does your ceiling of cobalt blue Know that I was ever true That I never loved anything Quite like you

Does your shimmering silence miss my heartbeat As I miss your license In my own two feet

Of what degree and range Were your landscapes strange Of what tales your canyons know Their Wisdom pines will only show.

-ahauntedtypewriter