The storm came rolling into my life,
While I was rolling out of bed.
I didn’t hear the glorious thunder,
Over the horrifying news on the t.v.
I didn’t see the spectacular light show,
‘Cause I was too busy reading the sports pages.
Damn, the Cowboys done lost again.
And then the cleansing rain came;
It soaked me through and through,
But I can’t lie to you,
I didn’t feel it,
Because I was too occupied drinking,
My corporate green tea.
The wind started blowing,
And the birds just float in its,
Awesome power,
But I’d rather let the money,
Carry me to my misguided dreams.
The storm came rolling into me,
But I just looked away.
-Nate Munson
15 January 2011
12 January 2011
Summer Nights by Nate Munson
I miss those summer nights,
back near the T,
where the railroad tracks,
passed by Dairy Queen.
I miss,
when the air was still,
except for an occasional breeze,
that strolled in,
from West to East;
headed from Fort Worth to Dallas.
A summer night in Texas is a wonderful thing.
The country-side is quiet,
and every star seems close enough to touch,
as we would lie in the bed of my truck.
The mesquite trees would surround us,
as we meandered through Blue Bonnets,
and Indian Paintbrushes.
But,
then you were gone,
and,
I would take my truck out to a pasture,
and just lay in the bed,
by myself,
during these lonely times.
The galaxy seemed to float there,
just out of reach.
That was my comfort,
that’s how I would get by without You.
Now,
those days are just memories,
and I traded my truck,
for a Humvee,
and my trustee M-16.
But,
I’ll never forget those,
warm summer nights,
lying barefoot in the bed of a pickup truck,
and letting the stars vibrantly settle in that little piece of Texas,
that I called my home.
back near the T,
where the railroad tracks,
passed by Dairy Queen.
I miss,
when the air was still,
except for an occasional breeze,
that strolled in,
from West to East;
headed from Fort Worth to Dallas.
A summer night in Texas is a wonderful thing.
The country-side is quiet,
and every star seems close enough to touch,
as we would lie in the bed of my truck.
The mesquite trees would surround us,
as we meandered through Blue Bonnets,
and Indian Paintbrushes.
But,
then you were gone,
and,
I would take my truck out to a pasture,
and just lay in the bed,
by myself,
during these lonely times.
The galaxy seemed to float there,
just out of reach.
That was my comfort,
that’s how I would get by without You.
Now,
those days are just memories,
and I traded my truck,
for a Humvee,
and my trustee M-16.
But,
I’ll never forget those,
warm summer nights,
lying barefoot in the bed of a pickup truck,
and letting the stars vibrantly settle in that little piece of Texas,
that I called my home.
purple yarn by Nate Munson
the beets are looped in grass,
the squash is on our plate,
the river runs so smooth,
while the rapids take their break.
the trees begin to sway,
at the slightest hint rain,
but there’s nothing we can do,
there’s nothing we can say.
my toes begin to curl,
when the fan is turned on high,
your heart begins to race,
when the bullets hit your thigh.
the sauerkraut,
and carrot sticks,
are never done on time,
leaving us the thoughts,
of a dream world gone awry.
there’s nothing I have heard you say,
that will take away the pain,
there’s nothing you have done,
to close this little gate.
my trust is so gullible,
to the sound of open arms,
your deception was the pawn,
that swept this poor king’s heart.
forced upon my knees,
with a trademark on my arm.
there has got to be a way,
to remove this purple yarn.
the squash is on our plate,
the river runs so smooth,
while the rapids take their break.
the trees begin to sway,
at the slightest hint rain,
but there’s nothing we can do,
there’s nothing we can say.
my toes begin to curl,
when the fan is turned on high,
your heart begins to race,
when the bullets hit your thigh.
the sauerkraut,
and carrot sticks,
are never done on time,
leaving us the thoughts,
of a dream world gone awry.
there’s nothing I have heard you say,
that will take away the pain,
there’s nothing you have done,
to close this little gate.
my trust is so gullible,
to the sound of open arms,
your deception was the pawn,
that swept this poor king’s heart.
forced upon my knees,
with a trademark on my arm.
there has got to be a way,
to remove this purple yarn.
Black water by Nate Munson
The morning hours strike the clock,
but there’s no sunrise behind these clouds.
They seal the sky from the Earth,
and cage the world in a monotonous sphere of rain and wind.
They send us further into the shallows,
hoping the waves do not overpower our little boat.
Our oars become heavy with sorrow,
as the water continues flowing with tragedy.
The port closes the levy behind us,
leaving us to fight the writhing sea,
without an escape.
We push on further,
but we’re so tired and our energy dampens.
We hear the white-caps laugh at us,
as they destroy our tiny boat with their amazing force.
And slowly,
we sink into the ocean we don’t understand;
we sink for the sins of man.
but there’s no sunrise behind these clouds.
They seal the sky from the Earth,
and cage the world in a monotonous sphere of rain and wind.
They send us further into the shallows,
hoping the waves do not overpower our little boat.
Our oars become heavy with sorrow,
as the water continues flowing with tragedy.
The port closes the levy behind us,
leaving us to fight the writhing sea,
without an escape.
We push on further,
but we’re so tired and our energy dampens.
We hear the white-caps laugh at us,
as they destroy our tiny boat with their amazing force.
And slowly,
we sink into the ocean we don’t understand;
we sink for the sins of man.
Hell On Verse by Nate Munson
The dark shroud of midnight,
covered the valley that evening,
and the demons were released,
from within the ink,
of the poet’s pen.
As the sulfuric acid spewed from their unholy throats,
a world of evil was created,
by the poetry of a distraught man.
A world,
where murder was the least of one’s worries,
and rape was a common household practice.
Little children were chased by monsters,
in every stanza,
that his trembling hands would frame;
and I was crucified on line 45,
and everything Good perished with me.
The poet’s light brown hair,
was barely noticeable underneath,
his Boston Red Sox ball cap,
and his blue eyes were hidden,
behind the black frames,
of his scratched up glasses.
Beside his moleskin notebook,
was a NIV Bible,
which he used to reference righteous things,
in order to write their opposites into being,
in this hellish world he was creating,
with every verse he wrote.
The demons were gathered around his desk now,
taunting him as he wrote.
Jeering they said, your work is awful,
you’re a complete disgrace,
we wish you’d quit,
you’re making us sick.
And he believed every word they stabbed him with,
because he couldn’t possibly assure himself that,
he had more worth than this.
The shadows still dance about him,
their fangs glistening in the light of his lamp,
and he kept writing the awful things,
that his evil imagination would insist.
A certain demon he knew well,
the servant of hell, Despair
was now perched on his shoulder,
and whispering in his good ear,
Why don’t you just die already?
Is this pain not enough for you?
“My friend,” I’m simply trying to help you.
God knows not your suffering,
so why pleasure him with your anguish?
Destroy him in your writings;
in this world of hate you’ve created.
The demons kept circling him throughout the night,
hurling at him their hell-bound lies,
and above them all the angels watched,
weeping for the blue eyed poet.
Yet,
he kept writing,
destroying,
murdering,
stealing,
in this new hell he had created.
It was Hell On Verse,
and it had captured him.
The night moved further towards the dawn,
but the sun never rose,
for the young poet that morning,
and the East he would never see again,
as his heart came to rest,
in the plains of the Western horizon.
covered the valley that evening,
and the demons were released,
from within the ink,
of the poet’s pen.
As the sulfuric acid spewed from their unholy throats,
a world of evil was created,
by the poetry of a distraught man.
A world,
where murder was the least of one’s worries,
and rape was a common household practice.
Little children were chased by monsters,
in every stanza,
that his trembling hands would frame;
and I was crucified on line 45,
and everything Good perished with me.
The poet’s light brown hair,
was barely noticeable underneath,
his Boston Red Sox ball cap,
and his blue eyes were hidden,
behind the black frames,
of his scratched up glasses.
Beside his moleskin notebook,
was a NIV Bible,
which he used to reference righteous things,
in order to write their opposites into being,
in this hellish world he was creating,
with every verse he wrote.
The demons were gathered around his desk now,
taunting him as he wrote.
Jeering they said, your work is awful,
you’re a complete disgrace,
we wish you’d quit,
you’re making us sick.
And he believed every word they stabbed him with,
because he couldn’t possibly assure himself that,
he had more worth than this.
The shadows still dance about him,
their fangs glistening in the light of his lamp,
and he kept writing the awful things,
that his evil imagination would insist.
A certain demon he knew well,
the servant of hell, Despair
was now perched on his shoulder,
and whispering in his good ear,
Why don’t you just die already?
Is this pain not enough for you?
“My friend,” I’m simply trying to help you.
God knows not your suffering,
so why pleasure him with your anguish?
Destroy him in your writings;
in this world of hate you’ve created.
The demons kept circling him throughout the night,
hurling at him their hell-bound lies,
and above them all the angels watched,
weeping for the blue eyed poet.
Yet,
he kept writing,
destroying,
murdering,
stealing,
in this new hell he had created.
It was Hell On Verse,
and it had captured him.
The night moved further towards the dawn,
but the sun never rose,
for the young poet that morning,
and the East he would never see again,
as his heart came to rest,
in the plains of the Western horizon.
Her Seasons by Nate Munson
When all was done,
the daughter had nowhere to run.
She sat on the porch in the middle of June.
She laid in the hay as October neared.
She swung on the tire,
when the snow came in December,
and then she did it all again.
The girl couldn’t wish for a new world,
when the old one still captured her memory.
She would cry through the nights,
hoping someone would hear her sobbing tears,
but she knew nobody was near.
The stars would shine through the clouds on some nights.
Yet,
The clouds always knew how to cover them again.
She wandered the pastures for days upon days,
upon days.
She crept through the hedgerows,
as her grandpa had during Overlord.
She would watch the other children play at the park.
She wondered if she hadn’t grown too old to join them.
Had she?
I wouldn’t have said ‘yes’ if she asked me…
Sometimes the sun would pour down the promise of a shiny day,
but the girl would always turn the other way,
where the skies were always grey and dreary.
The daughter was caught in a moment when reality was a nightmare,
and nightmares were promises of a better time.
Mother might have made her hot cocoa on those nights,
when she would wake up,
whimpering in fear of the things,
that haunted her sleep.
Father would have stood in front of her,
when the black clothed man,
came to get her.
-
The seasons would always change,
as they always had,
as they always do,
as they always will.
Yet,
she did not know how to change with them.
Spring was no different than winter,
and Autumn almost appeared as fiction.
So,
she continued to just wait,
for whatever it was,
she was waiting for.
She would swing on the tire,
when the snow came in December.
She had laid in the hay,
when October neared.
She slowly faded away,
on the porch,
in the middle of June.
When all was done,
and there had been nowhere,
for her to run.
the daughter had nowhere to run.
She sat on the porch in the middle of June.
She laid in the hay as October neared.
She swung on the tire,
when the snow came in December,
and then she did it all again.
The girl couldn’t wish for a new world,
when the old one still captured her memory.
She would cry through the nights,
hoping someone would hear her sobbing tears,
but she knew nobody was near.
The stars would shine through the clouds on some nights.
Yet,
The clouds always knew how to cover them again.
She wandered the pastures for days upon days,
upon days.
She crept through the hedgerows,
as her grandpa had during Overlord.
She would watch the other children play at the park.
She wondered if she hadn’t grown too old to join them.
Had she?
I wouldn’t have said ‘yes’ if she asked me…
Sometimes the sun would pour down the promise of a shiny day,
but the girl would always turn the other way,
where the skies were always grey and dreary.
The daughter was caught in a moment when reality was a nightmare,
and nightmares were promises of a better time.
Mother might have made her hot cocoa on those nights,
when she would wake up,
whimpering in fear of the things,
that haunted her sleep.
Father would have stood in front of her,
when the black clothed man,
came to get her.
-
The seasons would always change,
as they always had,
as they always do,
as they always will.
Yet,
she did not know how to change with them.
Spring was no different than winter,
and Autumn almost appeared as fiction.
So,
she continued to just wait,
for whatever it was,
she was waiting for.
She would swing on the tire,
when the snow came in December.
She had laid in the hay,
when October neared.
She slowly faded away,
on the porch,
in the middle of June.
When all was done,
and there had been nowhere,
for her to run.
Bookstore by Nate Munson
Head hunched over,
his eyes meticulously,
devour,
the words printed before him.
These books,
are his daily home;
Between Noon and Two,
his extended lunch break
he sits alone,
in this dusty ol’ bookstore,
and everyday I watch him,
sink his teeth into these,
words of authors,
poets,
intellectuals,
artists,
completely apathetic to the bustling commerce around him.
Our physical world is devoid of anything valuable to him.
The stiff pages of new books,
snap back to their place,
when his thumb releases them,
greedily gripping another as he turns the page,
to delve further into the world of words,
gently resting in his hands.
The older books have a distinct,
Wise
smell to them;
a cologne he’ll wear forever—
a fragrance he’ll carry to his grave.
Lost amongst these words,
as he drifts further,
and further,
into this literary sea.
Fading,
his jeans rest loosely at his hip.
His black jacket strewn across the book aisle,
he’s currently sitting in.
With his head hunched over,
the pages of these books,
his eyes continue to meticulously,
devour,
the words of the past and the present;
of fiction and reality
printed before him.
He’ll forever sit alone,
in this dusty ol’ bookstore,
until every last word,
has faded from these decaying pages.
-Nate Munson
his eyes meticulously,
devour,
the words printed before him.
These books,
are his daily home;
Between Noon and Two,
his extended lunch break
he sits alone,
in this dusty ol’ bookstore,
and everyday I watch him,
sink his teeth into these,
words of authors,
poets,
intellectuals,
artists,
completely apathetic to the bustling commerce around him.
Our physical world is devoid of anything valuable to him.
The stiff pages of new books,
snap back to their place,
when his thumb releases them,
greedily gripping another as he turns the page,
to delve further into the world of words,
gently resting in his hands.
The older books have a distinct,
Wise
smell to them;
a cologne he’ll wear forever—
a fragrance he’ll carry to his grave.
Lost amongst these words,
as he drifts further,
and further,
into this literary sea.
Fading,
his jeans rest loosely at his hip.
His black jacket strewn across the book aisle,
he’s currently sitting in.
With his head hunched over,
the pages of these books,
his eyes continue to meticulously,
devour,
the words of the past and the present;
of fiction and reality
printed before him.
He’ll forever sit alone,
in this dusty ol’ bookstore,
until every last word,
has faded from these decaying pages.
-Nate Munson
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)