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The Poetry, Story Poems, and Short Stories
of
Paul Ballinger
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The Writing Forum’s Writer of the Month - June 2010
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AUTHOR’S BIO:
I've been writing since about l965 and have written numerous short stories, and two novels, one of which, “Cellmates” (a collection of short stories about prison life) was just published through lulu.com, and another is in process. I’ve also written a whole bunch of poetry.
I've traveled down enough roads in life to discover where the bumps and detours are. I'm an ex-convict, ex-alcoholic, ex-druggie, etc. I was a real "loser" until I surrendered my life to Christ about 20 yrs ago. The roads haven't exactly been smooth since then, but they are less bumpy. I have been a "biker" for most of my life, but as a member
(and chaplain) of the Christian Motorcyclists Association I'm trying to change the public opinion about "bikers". I’ve been an ordained minister for a little over two years.
To read my short stories published here at The Writing Forum please click here.
To access my story poems, please click here.
PUBLICATION: My book, “Cellmates”, is available at Amazon.com and at Lulu.com. More information is available by clicking on either link below:
For Amazon click here.
For Lulu click here.
My Email: Standupbrother@aol.com
PAUL BALLINGER’S POETRY
Click on any button in the list below to be
linked to that poem’s location on the page:
WEBMASTER NOTE:
As a courtesty, any poem title below bracketed by the * symbol indicates
material that may not be suitable for the young or more sensitive reader.
 Lady Of Stone
Alone
But I Can
Fragments
Santa Claus Hates Me
The Boy and The Monster
She Let Go
Treasure Buried
The Aftermath
When
Encounter
Santa Cruz Summer 1970
paper souls
Adarian With Autism
she lies there...
flowers
Old Man and the Sea
No Escape
Madness
As for love
Another night
Aeris
alone again
Your Eyes
Grandma's Mason Jar
That Cross
The Homeless Man
think you I...
unbidden
How Wood I?
the sleepwalker
Dungeons
* first love *
why...?
Mona
The Guy In The Mirror
Lady Of Stone
Home of birds
who mark their stay
with splatters of filth,
at whose feet swirl
polluted waters;
tin cans,
garbage,
dead fish;
symbols of civilization.
Stone Lady,
stone eyes weeping
heavy tears of shame;
her children
are killers,
rapers,
gun-fighters and thieves:
"Where do you come from,
little man?
where do you go to?
why are you?"
Her sobs echo silently
out to sea.
Do the waves hear?
No one else
will listen-
rather would they
scream of justice
while bombing churches,
preach of liberty
while denying freedom,
spout equality
while starving the poor.
The wind
moans across the land,
down the streets,
through the alleys
and open tenement windows,
bringing to her stone ears
the cries of the hungry,
the curses of the greedy,
the prayers of the lonely.
Stone arm
stretching toward ther sky,
stone torch
no longer burning,
no longer lighting the way
out of the darkness.
Stone Lady,
stone features
hiding a countenance full of sorrow
and compassion,
neglected by all but the birds
and impatient sight-see'ers
more concerned witht he boat ride over
than with such abstracts as
freedom,
justice,
or
equality.
Stone ears
now picking out the sounds
of shooting
within the boundaries
she no longer
has dominion over.
"Give me your tired, your poor,
your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,
the wretched refuse of your teeming shore.
Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me,
I lift my lamp beside the golden door!"
Sorry, Stone Lady,
you are no longer meaningful.
You,
and we who hunger for freedom
are buried
beneath the wretched refuse.
Alone...
Alone I came,
alone I leave.
If I loved you once
I'll always love you:
what has that to do with Time?
Merely it was a place
to turn around in,
to catch our breath in.
Lonliness is diminished by love;
not slain.
Alone I came;
soul in rags and trembling-
alone I must leave
taking only memories.
A portion
of the sorrow of Gilgamesh
forever not-dying,
yet
not living;
only watching.
Alone I came,
alone I...
But I Can
I can't touch the stars nor
reach the moon;
my songs will never be sung
by others such as I.
But I can kiss your lips
and whisper your name
in the deepest caverns
of my mind.
I'll not leave any footprints
on the beaches of history,
nor inscribe my name
in the clouds.
But I can
follow you wherever
your life leads us,
and I can love you as I do,
with my entire self
and all my future selves.
I cannot charge through the world
on a silver chariot
as some may do,
But I can walk by your side
and slay all the dragons of lonliness
with your smile.
Fragments
Like wreckage strewn about
on some deserted shore
bits of your memory lie exposed
and I stumble over them
while seeking refuge
from the lonely.
There is no peace, I find
as I gather those broken fragments
in my arms and try to
love them together again.
But something is missing...
something is...
You are missing.
Santa Claus Hates Me
I know Santa hates me,
he's proved it o'er and o'er.
'Cause he never ever brings me
the stuff I ask him for.
I only want some money,
(a few million would do),
but I never see a penny.
(Did he drop it off with you?).
It would sure lighten his load
if he answered my request,
'cause he could cross my name off,
and focus on the rest.
But he never even answers
the letters that I write him.
So in the very last one I said
I hoped Rudolph would bite him.
A yearly disappointment
for me it always is,
(he doesn't like my attitude),
and I won't mention his.
But hope springs eternal
within the hearts of men,
and so I know for certain
next year I'll try again.
The Boy and The Monster
I found an old photo
while looking through some stuff,
and it sent my memory back
back far enough
to picture that little boy
in my mind's eye.
When he was seven
he began to die.
His hair so blond-almost white,
crooked smile and blue eyes bright,
no shoes, no shirt, ragged pants;
he'd run and play at every chance.
Always eager to play a game
till the night the Monster came.
It snuck into his room
disguised as love,
the boy watched him
towering above,
and at first no fear he felt,
till the Monster undid his belt.
I lay the photo on the shelf;
the boy was dead-buried him myself.
Aye, the boy died that night,
his laughter was stilled,
his spirit was killed,
so I buried him with his fright.
I shuddered at the memory
of that boy I knew abiding
deep inside; not buried,
but still simply hiding.
She Let Go
She clasped it to her breast
tightly, fearfully,
with love.
Her soft hands I knew
to be so gentle in their caress
gripped franticly
(a choke hold),
her thin arms now
nearly translucent,
wrapped around herself;
a look of grim determinaton
in her teary eyes,
teeth clenched,
lips compressed
in a forced smile.
But she finally let go,
relaxed completely
and let go
of life.
And I, too, was dead again.
Treasure Buried
In that unmapped place
between sleep and
wakefulness,
between almost-reality and
almost-memory,
I found the fragments
of an old abandoned dream:
pieces strewn about
as if in anger.
I knew not whose dream
as I shuffled through them
until a fragment,
only a fragment
of your image...
and I wept.
The Afternmath
Past the aftermath,
beyond the afterglow,
when love is done
and you must go,
will you remember
and not forget
how we loved
and how we let
the world coast by
on its awkward way
while we loved
as 'though the day
would last forever?
But the hours flew
into this memory
I'll have of you
should the aftermath
and the afterglow
all fade away
after you go.
When
When the scent of you
had faded away
and I rise and curse
another day
and pretend that I'm
like other men
who love and lose
and love again-
when your smile and laughter
are here no more
and I force open
another door
on another day
with emotions now dead
and all these tears
I'll never shed-
where do I go
from this lonely place,
and what new sorrow
must I face
for my brief stay
amongst the living
and the respite
you were giving?
When all is said
and all is done
I'm back to being
only One.
Encounter
Though we've just met
I feel I know you well;
I've known others
like you,
and in exchange
for a few dollars
we shared ourselves
through the night.
Nights are so lonely
alone.
We won’t speak of love
or of sin
or what might have been;
just lie here
with your head on my shoulder
while I lie awake
remembering someone else.
Spend some time with me
because
nights are so lonely
alone.
I won't use your body
and you wont use my mind;
let's just share some memories,
perhaps even
a dream or two,
until the sun turns off the dark;
I need the warmth of
another person,
and perhaps you need
the rest.
So let's lie here together
because
nights are so lonely
alone.
In a few hours morning
will send us to
our seperate corners
of solitude,
but hold me tightly
until then
because
nights are so lonely
alone.
Santa Cruz Summer
1970
Sitting beside you
on the warm sand
I watch the sun make
gentle love to
your sleeping body.
Hidden behind your dark glasses
I think you
might be watching me,
so I smile.
The shadow of a gull
glides swiftly
across your loins,
and softly
I touch you there
remembering the pleasure
we've shared,
the happiness
we've created
for ourselves.
Sleep a little longer
my love,
let the sand and the sun
enjoy your body
as I have.
And later we'll run
splashing through the surf
once more and perhaps
get lost for a few moments
behind that arm of rocks
stretching out to sea.
paper souls
shreds of paper tossed
before the wind;
tumbling down vacant streets
and deserted boulevards-
thus are we cast
into the eddies of fate:
tumbling from empty days to
empty days,
and fluttering wildly
down the chill corridors
of naked nights.
how can we know
where we go
when we know not
whence we came?
Adarian With Autism
A seven-year old miracle
I call him: "Doodle Bug"
as he climbs into my arms
and gives his special hug.
He touches my face,
my beard and my hair,
he giggles, then he laughs;
a burst of joy we share.
Then his eyes drift away
to a land that's all his own
and wonders only he can see
in a world I've never known.
I so often wonder
just where it is he goes,
and even how he gets there;
that place only he knows.
"How could God do this!?"
so many people wonder;
"In all His great wisdom
did He somehow blunder?"
I confess I know not
the mysteries of God's mind
or why Adarian lives
in a world that I can't find.
But I know God loves him
and with His endless grace
has made for my Doodle Bug
a perfect Heavenly place.
So I'll love him now in laughter,
and love him now with joy-
my very special grandson;
this angelic little boy.
she lies there...
standing on the freezing corner
of a filthy windblown street
she begs
for something to eat.
pass her by the people do
too busy with living
to care about giving.
and in the morning her frozen form
all of nine years old
lies stiff and uncaring
about the cold.
"someone should have helped her."
everyone declares;
the blame is others'
never theirs.
still, she lies there...
flowers
lovely flowers
so bright and warm;
reds, yellows, whites,
baby's breath daintiness:
a rainbow of soft colors,
of quietness and peace.
a blanket of beauty,
a veil of color,
a curtain of perfume
separating the living
from she who rests
in the coffin.
Old Man and The Sea
I've never tired of the ocean,
I've not forgot the sea,
but mighty waves and salty spray
shall wash not over me.
Time has bent and warped my bones
and worn my muscles thin,
so I'll no more man a lonely helm
or sail the seas again.
So many years I stood the deck
and loved the oceans deep,
for in the sun she helped me run,
and rocked my in my sleep.
Sunny days and calm green coves
and nearby playing whales
are such a part of a seaman's life
as stormy skies and gales.
So many ports I've anchored in
so many coves and bays,
so many islands in the sun
knew me in my younger days.
No, I've not forgot the ocean
was my mistress and my wife,
and been my home and lover
through forty years of life.
Aye, she can be a gentle wife
or a violent lover she can be,
and a man must have a mighty soul
to venture out to sea.
There is no place for withered flesh
nor ancient,weary men-
upon the ocean's lovely breast;
so I'll not sail again.
But I've not forgot the ocean
and I've never tired of the sea,
though astride a wooden rolling deck
I never more shall be.
And though I cannot run the reef
with other sailing men
I can at least walk the beach
and stare out to sea again.
No Escape
Love is no escape
from loneliness;
always there will be empty rooms,
cold coffee in the bottom
of chipped cups and dusty roads
leading to the depot and the next
bus out of town.
There is a certain music
in the sound of anything
traveling to far distances;
digging into the hidden pockets
of your heart and awakening
a yearning that seeks ever-new dawns.
But the bus only goes to tomorrow
and lonely walks down windy streets,
and an emptiness in the bed
beside you each morning.
Yesterday you found an old love letter
and pretended it was for you,
and you almost missed the bus.
Today, you push away
the empty coffee cup,toss some change
on the formica counter, ignoring
the juke box's mournful love song,
and walk out to the dusty road.
Love may be around the next corner;
but the bus only goes straight.
madness
I can't lift off my madness
like a dirty rag;
it has become me-
I breathe used-up air,
I drink second-hand water,
I live empty days.
You were my altar;
I laid down before you,
no alms,
no sacrifice,
just me.
When you spread your
wings to the sky
I sewed
my fist into my mouth
to silence the scream.
I'm not waving out here;
I'm drowning.
There'll be blood
on the carpet again.
As for love
As for love
I've had a few good moments.
Though sometimes the
emptiness in between
hardly seems worth the effort.
Still, I've had a few good moments.
Most of them were with you.
The best were.
And now that you've gone
and I find myself back
in one of the empty periods
I feel the hurt a little deeper this time:
the memories more vivid.
I know that I'll get over losing you,
sometime,
after all; it's only feelings.
I'll rise and begin again the empty search.
Soon, maybe.
But I think I'll just sit here awhile;
I need to catch my breath.
Another night
has dribbled away into
the anemic light of an empty day,
and all is left is a hint
of someone's presence:
the scent of cheap perfume,
stale cigarette smoke,
an odor of now-faded lust
in a vacant bed.
I no longer recall her name
as she has surely forgotten mine.
But she helped me survive
another night.
So I open another six-pack
and toast her memory,
throw the stained sheets into a corner,
and curse the desperation
that brought us together.
Who lost the most: she, or me?
Aeris
This difficult challenge she faced
with a serious and solemn look,
paying such close attention
to every move she took.
As unpracticed fingers
are twisting, pulling, turning,
grim determination
within her soul is burning.
"It's no big deal!"
the uninformed might say,
But for a five-year old
it's a momentous day.
'Cause she wont surrender
tho' she's not faced this before,
and so her struggle continues
right there on the floor.
And at last she overcomes
and, excited with the news
calls: "Grandma, Grandma;
I tied my own shoes!"
alone again
sitting alone
in the silence listening
to its accusations,
clutching your picture
to my heart.
I can't see it.
the room is dark
as if it too,
has reasons for hiding.
I can't see you.
I can't hear you;
there is only
the vanishing echo
of the door clicking shut
as you left.
Your Eyes
Who dwells there
behind your eyes?
In that hidden place
no one has ever seen
or entered?
Who is it
that looks out at me
and what does
she see with
your eyes?
Is someone hiding
behind your eyes
hoping for solitude,
or, perhaps
waiting to be found?
Who lives
behind your eyes?
Is it someone I know?
Is it you
behind your eyes?
Or some stranger
unknown to either of us?
Behind the beauty of
your eyes,
beyond the mysterious depths of
your eyes
does that person
I can't see
see my love
has a lifetime
guarantee?
Do your eyes
truly see
me?
Grandma's Mason Jar
Grandma's mason jar
sat on the shelf,
sittin' there all alone
all by itself.
It held not a thing
that any eye could see,
but it was full of memories
especially for me.
A plain blue ribbon
was glued 'roud the lid,
its ends hung in curls
like they always did.
"See this here ol' jar?"
Grandma once had said,
"let's fill it with memories
for after when I'm dead."
I was so young and wild
wantin' to go out and play,
and couldn't even imagine
my gtrandma goin' away.
Now I stared at that mason jar
it was sure dusty with age,
with a hint of cinnamon,
maybe thyme, perhaps sage.
No need to remove the lid
I could see nothin' in it,
but a flash of memory came
and made me pause a minute.
I recalled Saturday breakfasts
at that formica-topped table,
and Grandma's blueberry pancakes;
I ate all I was able.
And Sundays after church
her made-from-scratch dinners,
and all her home-made pies
that were always sure winners.
"Just an old mason jar." I thought
"Why do I recall so much?
Like Grandma's rockin' chair,
and her soft tuck-me-in touch?
And all those summer evenings
sittin' on her porch;
the night lit by fireflies,
not flashlights or modern torch.
And the tales Grandma told
of life so long ago,
held my young heart in rapture
better than any drive-in show."
To my eyes the jar held nothing
perhaps some old stale air,
but my heart saw the memories
that Grandma said would be there.
So I'm gonna take it with me
as I shut the house up tight,
and I recall with love
that Grandma sure was right.
Yeah, Grandma's gone now
but she'll never be too far
while I"ve got her memory
in this old mason jar.
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That Cross
It was just an old rugged cross
standin' on the hill,
it stood between two others;
a prophecy to fulfill.
An instrument of torture,
and instrument of pain,
where hung God's Son
wrapped in sin and shame.
Just two chunks of wood
nailed together there
where they placed a Savior
hanging in the air.
He didn't save Himself
as He so easily could,
so He paid the total price
on those two chunks of wood.
Yeah, just an old rugged cross
made from some dead tree,
that became a bridge to God
for the likes of you and me.
The Homeless Man
Nowhere to go
and nothin' much to do,
I wander the streets
alongside of you.
I'm in your sight,
but really: not,
I'm just that homeless man
that you've forgot.
I spend my days searching
for something I might use,
perhaps an old shirt
or maybe a pair of shoes.
Or maybe a coat
someone's thrown away-
or even a drop of liquor
to help me through the day.
Sure I need a bath
I need a haircut too.
Maybe then you'd see me
as someone more like you.
Yes, I'm a man like you
though all my dreams are dead,
but "all men are equal"
or so I've heard it said.
So when you see me on the street
as I slowly shuffle by
don't be afraid to say; "hello"
or look me in the eye.
I promise not to touch you
or delay you very long,
though I might ask for coins
to help me get along.
But I ask a simple favor
as you settle down tonight;
say a little prayer for me
that God will hold me tight,
and will finish up my mansion
that I know's in store,
so someday I will be
a homeless man no more.
think you I...
think you I
am some gilgamesh
continuing forever through the passing
of loves and friends,
times and places?
I perish...
I perish in the fading of your smile.
all lost and alone somewhere
between your joy and your sorrow
I seek freedom
from the pain of your going.
but there is none...
I perish.
I perish in the silence of your missing heartbeat.
did you think I was strong
enough to continue without you?
think you I
am some gilbralter
standing unscathed by the waves
of lonliness pounding within my heart,
immune to the emptiness crashing
within my soul from that vast
sea of bitterness?
I crumble.
I crumble to pieces and break
apart.
you whispered goodbye
and somehow that word is all
that remains.
unbidden
unbidden death
slipped in and snatched
our last treasure,
then was gone-
leaving the door ajar.
everyone knows
you can't live in a jar
so we all left too,
closing the door firmly
behind us.
when grandma died
we saw we were still
on the wrong side of the door.
How Wood I?
I awake, it seems
to countless wooden mornings
carved on a plank
salvaged from some forgotten
shipwreck.
The sun-
a knothole about to fall out
of its wooden heaven
amongst the trees;
mere splinters existing only
to slip quickly
beneath some thumbnail:
a drop of blood moistens
my wooden world,
a gasp of pain
breathes life into
the sawdust figures around me.
the sleepwalker
breathless
you watch the sleepwalker
move among the good china,
brushing past the crystal
closer than the kiss of death;
moving unaware between
the finery and crockery,
the pewter mockery
of plastic plates and jelly jars
that don't match.
the sleepwalker pauses,
seeking...
closing your eyes you pray
to remain hidden, unseen,
safe.
but the sleepwalker
whispers your name
and moves past the silverware,
the silent oil lamps,
the brooding coffee pot,
the hungry carving board.
shuddering,
you surrender
as the stainless steel paring knife
begins to pare.
Dungeons
I dreamed you
when I was alone in a
damp dungeon. I had no light,
nothing to hear
except my empty screams
sliding off cold walls-
and my pulse pounding
in a rhythm measured by fear.
I said:
if I pretend long enough
hard enough,
you will appear.
So I dreamed you
and gave you skin smooth
the shade of honey-
I gave you a smile
to light my darkness
and laughter
to light my mind.
I talked with you as Time
fell in on itself,
and grew, and diminished.
I made poems to you and scratched
them on my chest
with a ragged thumb-nail
for that was my only tablet.
I gave you virtues,
and imperfections,
and power to protect me in the dark.
I dreamed you in a dungeon,
and when I finally again
to the sunlight was led,
I couldn't bear to part from you.
So I built you a dungeon
in my mind
and wait for you to call me.
* first love *
you are my woman,
my love,
the only woman in all my world-
and I would have it
no other way.
we go through our world
sometimes in peaceful silence,
sometimes in laughter,
sometimes in whispered love-poems
created fresh each heart-beat.
we walk through the garden
and, brushing your golden hair aside
I kiss your brow;
my heart bursting with joy
while my tongue stumbles
over the clumsy words I have;
words inadequate and awkward
with ineffectiveness,
words never able to convey to you
how much I love you,
how grateful I am for you,
or how loneliness enshrouded me
before you came.
you are my woman,
my mate in and for life;
a dream into which I venture
and bring forth treasures
of love and happiness.
the love we share is
something special
and beautiful,
never before seen in this world-
nor can it be ever again
after us-
for it is our love,
and it is unique in its joys
and pleasures.
I love you
in so many ways,
in such depths and heights,
with such intensities.
I pray for ways
and the time
to show you
all my love.
I love you sleeping
against my shoulder
as I gaze up at the quiet stars.
I love you reaching for me
in your sleep.
I love the moonlight
washing your body
in quiet serenity.
I love the smile
that lights your face
letting me know all is well.
I love the sunlight
caressing your skin
much more gently than can I.
I love the wind
whispering your name in my ear,
and the strength and grace
of your walk.
I love your laughter
dancing into the day like
rainbows of sound.
I love the taste of your lips,
your breasts,
your body.
and lying under our favorite tree
I love the way you touch me
softly,
with pleasure,
without restriction,
whether day or night.
I love you
for who you are
and for what you
make of me.
this is our world,
and we two are one
for our love unites us.
and in loving
we have complete sharing.
therefore, my answer is yes;
I, too,
will eat of this apple Eve.
|
why...?
why do I sit
in the dark listening
to the clock ticking away
my life?
listen:
there...another second
ticked by.
there goes another one...
I never knew about time
until you left.
the minutes drag by forever-
but are gone so quickly
they leave a vacuum
that slowly fills
with your absence
Mona
Sittin' there with that
almost smile
like you had some kind
of secret.
A secret your
almost smile
reveals and conceals
at the same time.
Maybe I know your secret,
Mona;
maybe I saw that paint-smeared hand
in places your picture
doesn't show.
Perhaps I saw that
paint-smudge
under your left breast.
Maybe I saw...
Well, never mind, Mona:
I like you sittin' there
with that almost smile
like you had a secret.
The Guy In The Mirror
You said: "Come to me
and I will give you rest."
I did that Lord
and I've sure been blest.
But You also told me
I'd be a New Creation
free from the enemy's
blame and accusation.
And though I do trust You
and hold Your Word dear,
I often have my doubts
when I look into a mirror.
For in spite of the changes
in my life I see,
there in the looking-glass
is the same ol' me.
And often those old thoughts
slither through my mind,
trying to lure me away
to some "joy" I might find.
And sometimes my childish anger
just overwhelms me still,
and my words are so ugly
Lord; they must make You ill!
And You know I hoard my time
for some project I'd rather do
and fail to serve my Brothers
as You would have me to.
And I often envy others
for their riches, Lord,
and fail to count the blessings
that on my You have poured.
Yeah, I feel those old temptations,
they fill me now with shame,
for l long to be Yours in fact
and not just Yours in name.
But Your Word tells me clearly
You've begun a work in me,
land that You will perform it
until Your face I see.
So Father, help me to see
'till it can't get no clearer,
that I am now Your child
in spite of that guy in the mirror.
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