Chris Appleseed

Songs, poems, sketches of little thoughts

When I See You Shrunken

When I see you shrunken,

Wrapped up in invisible storms,

With your body so tight and trembling,

Silenced by personal, terrible forms,


I wish that I could show you,

That I really can relate,

But your demons are so distant.

So I’ll show how long I can wait…


Wait by your mouth, poised to pounce,

On the whisper of any fleeting whim,

I’ll bust into action, make it happen,

And get back to waiting again.


Until a flake of armour falls,

From your nest of coiled limbs,

I’ll work a shelter of silence around you,

Where you can rebuild your faith again.

Commuting

I am blasting through climates,

Cool blue morns,

             Ripping storms,

                           The eyes of hurricanes,

                                              Hail and rain,

All slam and break across my wind-shield,

As I course over the tarmac,

Late for work.


The early morning funeral motorcade,

Mourns the loss of a thousand breakfasts,

Blank expressions fall row-upon-row,

Million-mile gazes cased in metal,

And nailed to the road.

The Mad Critic

You spend hours sweating,

Deliberating over those first lines,

Finding the roots of blooming feeling,

In a garden over-run with vines.


After searching through the stems,

Prizing apart their mossy hold,

Finally reveal a gateway, or two,

And with a leap of faith, enter through,


Into some enchanted land.


The words finally falling,

Upon each others backs,

The mad critic, the writer,

Gently paves his track.


Making connections, where

There are none to find.

Proclaiming truth in a land,

Composed entirely of lies.


And when he exclaims the poem done,

His weary soul,

Dies.

Fragile Storms

I look up, above the purple felt,

And gaze with reborn eyes,

Upon a face familiar,

But barely recognize.


Slipping through the tumbling curls,

The smoky haze of hair,

Those slanted eyes and swelling cheeks,

Motifs in my memory.


A face, that carries mysteriously,

A record of my past, since my love bloomed,

I can trace it in the changes,

Your form’s been going through.


I see the lips that knew deceit,

And spun its subtle veil,

Like a mist drawn through my skies,

Now bearing a different smile.


I see the eyes that knew I watched,

As we hung, stoned by the heat,

On shelter-less rooftops,

That was a different time. Now I see…


Ocean frames, shining wet,

Bordering like turning storms,

The endless calm in the pits,

Of the pitch dark windows of your soul.


In the center of these tiny storms,

Glittering on the pacific black,

My own reflection staring back,

My own reflection, the form…


Of the one with which your love is shared,

The one that you see in my place.

And kept apart by those bright blue storms,

It’s a shame,

We will never meet face-to-face.

Image On The Front Cover

Stood side by side in the tide of their times,

Awash with punk slurs flung at their skies,

And walls smothered with the spit they exude,

On the passionate explosions of expressions they used.


They hang-out, in colorless shape,

In a front cover black-and-white portrait,

With a knowing smile that goes misconstrued,

After decades that chopped and buried their views.


The books got words like hooks,

For the fishes that long to be caught and wrenched,

Above the confusion of the watery trench,

And laid down on the cool grass of the past,


That grows under histories habit,

Of organizing the desultory collage of life,

Into something with a message,

And real things to say.


Now I stare at the picture,

Dreaming of their recognition,

And what it mean to be the ambassador of the past,

That is now,

Some day.

The Sun’s Gone Down Again (song): Finished version

Oh good lord, the Sun’s gone down again, 

And the roads are looking so harsh in the bare moonlight.

Stars are flying cycles overhead,

And the sky filling my eyes is spinning out.


My heart feels its way,

Through a night that empty,

Of signs, gateways and guidelines to get me around.


A gaunt and haggard face,

Is taking my place,

And the hopeless truth is plain whene’re it talks.


It’s an endless torn-up shameful road to walk.


Please take me, to where velvet covers the walls,

Where the woman, adorned with diamonds, are six feet tall.

Touch me, with lips that know my name,

And my innocent ways have no place at all.


My heart feels its way,

Through a night that empty,

Of signs, gateways and guidelines to get me around.


A gaunt and haggard face,

Is taking my place,

And the hopeless truth is plain whene’re it talks.


It’s an endless torn-up shameful road to walk.

The Sun’s Gone Down Again (song)

Oh good lord, the Sun’s gone down again, 

And the roads are looking so harsh in the bare moonlight.

Stars are flying cycles overhead,

And the sky  behind my eyes is spinning out.


You’ve opened this door many times before,

And you’re no stranger to what it has in store,

But suddenly it doesn’t make sense anymore,


And your smiling face runs screaming as you see your soul.


Come, take a walk on a Summer’s day,

The Sun will  beat a sleep into your veins,

Lulled away on a airy haze,

Before the darkest timeless circle descends.


The city horizon is a shining dust,

In a night pitch black from the feet up,

Through the darkness, a curious face saunters up,


And the smiling face runs screaming as he sees your soul.


And the smiling face runs screaming as he sees your soul.

Two Fingers To Your Soul

As days of flinging images against frivolous backgrounds rage by,

The stinging feeling sometimes causes a grimace,

As my eyes are forced, in guilty dissent,

To watch these constant,

                                   Monotonous,

                                                      Boring,

                                                                Offensive,

                                                                            Slights to dignity.
 

A man with a well formed bone structure makes a grotesque impression,

He doesn’t take it seriously,

And the reality of the movement slides off his laughing cheeks,

Greased with disregard,

So everyone finds it hilarious.

The man’s a fucking philistine.
 

How do you escape from the daily grinding down,

Of a childs eyes?

Your build your art around you, and hide,

But these glass walls only serve to remind,

Of ideals,

Already proven too green for the real world.

Music Of Experience

In the misted mirror he smiles,
And smoke floats from the glass,
Burning on a retreatful sentiment.
He is young and discovery is still new,
He is discovering that…

The music in the halls of experience,
Wavers with a dreamy nostalgia.
And kind words here from the aging youth,
Are tainted with a tone of necessity.
Here, your inner child is paralyzed and confused.

He moves, by this belief:
That the old regain their goodness,
In a miraculous metamorphosis.
Their dreams, too heavy too keep by their sides,
Were dropped so that nature could shine from their eyes.

Poem In The Dark

Take a walk again,
Out through the streets,
That have no end in the darkness.

Over heavy stones,
That trundle and crunch underfoot.
And the sound of passing cars,
Is a deep tearing sound in the night.

Nothing is in the air,
But looking up, there’s Mars,
Holding its post, vigilantly,
In the constancy of the stars.

The monolithic magnitude of the sky jars,
With all my Earthly desires,
The emotive things that drive and define,
Pale to insignificance,
In a timeless and confounding illusion,
Confronting everything alive.

Young shoulders swear they feel,
The weight of the universe on these nights,
But it’s nothing even to write about.
So commonplace a plight.
But still…
It’s sofelt.

There’s no light to be shed on this,
Matter made of empty space.
But if only out of recognition,
I’m trying to fly a fragile spark,
Over a midnight sea,
The flare shows my place,
A bottled a poem in the dark.