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Steve Garland reads the works of Ricki Shiers

Reaching Out

Reaching Out
summertime was dying off quickly and she loved watching him squirm
she was his heroine, saviour of sorts
they fit together like needle and spoon and unlocked each others barred hearts
it was all in vain, he just used her for his own happiness
but you can’t feel lonely when the sheets are occupied
and the warmth of not caring is lavishing you
in recent times, however, his condition is sickening and weak and his arms collapsed
she’s still there and the dark times are gone but he can’t lift his arms any longer
with his head laid on feathers she feeds him from her plastic chalice
and lays a line of kisses starting from his head, to scarred body
(too many battle scars and war wounds have invaded him)
but he doesn’t move,
no more eating either,
the door is always locked and the wallpaper is peeling
and his books are spread around their bed that he can’t leave
but she keeps pushing herself onto him, hoping she can help him up again

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Steve Garland reads the works of Ricki Shiers

I Found Her in a Winter Dress

I Found Her in a Winter Dress

she slept through it,
december, january…
and she owed this betrayal with makeup
and hibernating, her eyes remain closed
and she is more silent, now

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Steve Garland reads the works of Ricki Shiers

My Exit Song

My Exit Song
there’s no reason to be afraid to die
because when the end comes,
we’re all carving our eulogies
into burning trees, until the ashes hit the sky
but eulogies are just words,
and humans are just skin,
but we all chase our dreams until
we lose our breath, towards the end
but for whatever reason we have
the fear of death, wrote upon our senses
but we’re all just like silly flies
so in end there’s no reason to be afraid to die
my only true fear is that my words will
translate into dirt
if so, I’ll build them until they have a worth
and if we each pick apart a piece of the puzzle
and place them back, then we’ll perchance have an idea
of how our lives will play out,
reducing the fear of death

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Steve Garland reads the works of Ricki Shiers

Home Next to Home

Home Next to Home
fog rolls
in a town that’s not mine
a place more soothing however
so I’d rather call that home
an abundance of Bookstores
keep coming back
one dollar for the bus, easy
satisfaction is worth it

I hope the letter is never
returned to sender;
I have to leave

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Steve Garland reads the works of Ricki Shiers

Note on the Pavement

Note on the Pavement

walking home I found a piece of paper so crippled
that her ink was partially invisible. out of curiosity and reluctancy
to arrive home to my uncaring habitat, I picked up and search it for evidence of anything

I was automatically enamored by whoever drew the portraits
that person, I imagine, wears their thrift store shoes with laces like unbound snakes
and a jacket so dirty that it is a gradient of brown and blue
this child, however, is the kind to spend their entire day scribbling on pieces of paper,
losing their self in between the lines to put a brickwall between their self and the parental neglect
that they believe anyone and everyone receives.

The picture this person wrote is so distorted and uniform that it
is symbolic and practically the embodiment of childhood itself
the crooked heart in the center of the squaretriangle
house has a small crack
that seems so large I could write this poem in it more than once.
the attic is empty except what appears to be a string, probably swaying back and forth
like the young artist’s shoelaces when they are running outside to play on the cement
by the parking lots

I’m happy to know that the artist left their name off so I never know them and never have to
meet them, and I can now live with my own thoughts of who they may be. I can live with the
ideas and galleries they framed in my mind, and I never have to ask them, what I thought
the whole time: “hi, how are you”.

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Steve Garland reads the works of Ricki Shiers

Lust and Lists and Lies

Lust And Lists and Lies

lists upon lists of listlessness
tired and no pressed lips to lick
luck leaves and life loses
lie, lye, let you lust love run over one
leper have you let your heart went
leave life
love loss, and leave less please
lore and basilisks
blasts of blue and bleakness

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Steve Garland reads the works of Ricki Shiers

For Virginia

For Virginia

Oh, Virginia
I’ve been searching for your bones lately
I know they’re here in the river somewhere
next to the stones in your fading dress
if I can find them soon I will hold them
and try to conjure an image of you while writing my eulogy
I’ll look, somewhere deep in the seamless water
I will empty out the mud from your heavy armor
and mix it with the medicine that drove you to drown yourself
I’ll see you soon, Virginia
I’ll be with you soon, Virginia
You’re always here, Virginia

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Steve Garland reads the works of Ricki Shiers

Long-Hand Writing for Short Term Memory

neurons and synapses and um…
I forgot again, did my birthday pass again?
my brain’s probably fine still,
but I just forget anything
not set in moments or a polaroid
not the meds, nope
just a dumb self with a short shelf-life
bland, bland
what happened before I fell asleep?
sixteen hours finally gone
eighteen years, 18,000 moments and polaroids

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Steve Garland reads the work of Ricki Shiers

In Certain Sunlight (revised) (‘13 edition)

when the lights dim, we can all seem attractive
but when bulbs of sun bring brightness, our skin is deformed
the high-definition mirror of ourselves amplifies every individual pixel
bringing the beauty to a state of terrifyingly ugly
in certain sunlight, this is where models are born and some die off
this is where we feel the differences of confidence and shame
the only goal now is to turn the brightest lights off

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New Readings from poetrymanusa ,

Michael Lee Johnson

here is

Sadly, We Die

Sadly, We Die

By Michael Lee Johnson

Sadly, we die in little black suitcase boxes,

cave into our fears and the top falls down.

Save the laughter, celebration, thunder clapping,

rats experimentally test shed light at end of life’s tunnel.

Death is a midnight stoker, everyone living goes home.

All windows bolted, all smiles switched off.

Sad on examination tables,

in little rooms, red, with lightening we die,

move on.

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