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John Harles

of

Raleigh, NC, US

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Rage so Loud

by

John Harles


Thunder and the shriek of unborn temper
Close to the sandy earth below whistles of clear wind.
Dawn resurrected with sharp cutting shades of blood
From a night sped at dawns coming, pray the night hold dark
Risks of others care not; the streets are a dream to the horse.
Mustang green/blue with a now red interior, she cried out.
A retched smell of the womb encompassing death for the child I knew
Denied for youth I look away and towards her eyes that I now have inherited.

Blood as new life death succumbs, and juvenile I am
To lie and put loud rage beside the crimson bed.
A rage so loud
A rage so loud

Loud as the tomb that never was built.


To Proud to Die

by

John Harles


Broken and blind he died the darkest way,
And did not turn away, A cold kind man brave in his narrow pride
On that darkest day, Oh, forever may He lie lightly, at last, on the last, crossed hill,
Under the grass, in love, and there grow high.

Stand high yet a morn come when the sun aches and punctures light,
Dark and dismal will be the quiet breath.
I would shy a coward child and fold head under cover.
Under a love a breast or swell of flesh I might.

Coal black smell in fresh soiled gardens,
He died the darkest way, and did not turn away.
Hearts came to play as the scent grew light, and the hill stung childs eyes.
Under the grass, in love, and there grow high.


Thoughts of the Lost

by

John Harles


Because old blue-blooded minds I wanted to fall hard
Dagger-mouthed and slow to rise
Will catch as I descend a skin pierce
As broken clots come not pouring profusely

Trailing red following a last resolution
Time comes and weather is a pheasant
Gliding intermittently with wings abandon
I take the unwanted that fear would capture

Skimming along on times allowance
Growing shorter with harsh reminders
Bash all dreams to settle for what is
The end of all finished hatreds beginnings

Cast ourselves as Gods on high
And fail in eyes of those who judge
Distance tries the generous heart to forget
But effect those who chastise nay

Spring allows a new sensation of flight
Yet stabs of old fallen leaves of hate
Winds shatter the glass of comfort
Awakening the fallen to bolster new life

Fluttering doves spring forth in the distance
Only to encounter nets of deception
Who helps the beggar, who helps the helpless?
Shots from bored mouths ground them to death

Kindness pulls the unaware advancement
Yielding virgins who feel their wants
Time allows the mind to establish hierarchy
Placing dreams on frothy silts bottom layer

Fed by needs and wants learned from peasants
Harvests yield blackened batches
Lowliness crowds field's lifeless dirt
Sprouts render fruitless abundance

Await the rain, in fact, attack it
Nourishing what grows from nothing
Making something to satisfy angers impatience
Only to find the beginning is the end again.