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London F. Buss Poem
“The Queen-Sized Bed”.
© London F. Buss
A queen-size bed was coming slowly,
down the rough dirt track.
As it drew closer,
The wheels clumsily mounted on the base of each leg,
rattled like a hospital gurney on the stones.
The bed was being pushed slowly,
ever so, carefully.
By a weary old man in tattered clothes and worn-out shoes.
as he drew closer, and closer,
I saw that he was pushing his dying wife who was,
lying in a dressing gown under the covers,
in the Queen-Sized Bed.
He pushed carefully trying not to shake the bed,
excessively.
His wife's head was supported by four pillows,
she had wispy strings of silver white hair.
She was dying.
Several I.V. Bottles dangled off a hook,
And dripped painkillers into her arm.
She was awake but barely conscious,
I wondered where they were going,
but in my heart, I knew...
privacy for an hour,
I came back as the sun was setting.
I found them together sitting on the bed,
Looking over the ocean.
The old man was holding his dying wife,
in his arms… stroking her silver hair under the sparkling,
southern cross.
They were sharing her last sunset as,
the dying embers of a fiery sun faded into the ocean.
Night fell and I walked home alone,
I had witnessed love real love,
something I had never experienced,
something I had never known.
If you’re near Cowell and you look hard enough,
You may just find the queen-size bed,
with a tattered mattress and exposed springs,
quietly rusting away outside a decrepit ruin of a barn.
Take a closer look at the legs and you will find four rusting,
gurney wheels.
and if you approach quietly on a moonlit night,
you will hear soft sobbing in the whistling wind,
as it dreams of that dying sunset,
under the southern cross...
and the milky way lights up the sky,
soaring into the heavens
as the angels sing.
Copyright © London F. Buss | Year Posted 2023
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London F. Buss Poem
The Night in Question
You ask again,
about the night in question?
that night in question,
three thousand years ago
when drawing down the moon
was forbidden, forbidden to you
so very very long ago
Your fingertips touching his thigh
as you watched me g... dying leaves
fall as winter tears, falling,
stabbing at the snow
making the deadly icicles
hidden just below.
Was that the night in question
so very long ago?
I see you: lonely, vulnerable and standing
standing too close to him
as I am hidden in the ice
in the ice, under the snow
your warm fingertips just
touching his thigh, I am hidden
just below.
The Raven now is silent
Her muse is sleeping, her bed
the gentle wind
but I can hear her still: the Raven singing
singing under the ice, under the snow
Was that the night in question,
So very.long ago?
(c) London F. Bus
Copyright © London F. Buss | Year Posted 2022
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London F. Buss Poem
“The title Hell is for children,” is inspired by Pat Benatar’s song of the same name, it’s about a psychologist’s therapy session with a small child who suffers from dissociative amnesia trigged by childhood trauma.
“Hell is for children”.
You were my shadow,
But now you have gone,
River on fire
From dusk till dawn.
Shadows call….
Only mist replies,Traumatized child, amnesia with,
Eyes of pain,
Nothing to say.
Just look away,
Look away,
Don’t turn around,
No matter what they say.
Look at me he says,
When he SCREAM’S AT you.
I can’t, she whispers,
What did you say?
N..Na…nothing, I said Noth…
Fear, anger, confusion,
and in her dreams, all night and day,
Nightmares, no sanctuary.
Just hide, hoping to die.
My truth, their lies, they cannot abide,
Oh, to die in my dreams… my one desire.
What are you feeling, thinking Psychologist asks?
To be invisible, to hide, from…..,
Please, please.. don’t make you tell you,
Can’t remember anyt…
What I don’t want to say!
River of fire, please show me the way.
Reliving the trauma
all night and day.
What are you feeling right now she asks?
Nothing, nothing at all,
I can’t I don’t want to…Feel.
Her whispers, unheard?
I just want to feel something,.… anything.
Like a terrified deer in the headlights,
Frozen with fear,
She, just stares at the carpet,
on the floor, Looking for Gods mistake.
Can’t look up.
Don’t you want to feel loved?
Don’t you want to feel loved?
Loved what’s th……
Lucy, Why did you bring that PADDLE????
Well, you like me….
Don’t you?
Yes Lucy, I like you?
If you like me why wont you....ah..you know...
Why don't you hit me with the paddle?
Then she burst into tears.
and ran for the door.
Hell is for children.
Copyright © London F. Buss | Year Posted 2023
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London F. Buss Poem
“The Night in Question”.
You ask again,
about the night in question?
that night in question, three thousand years ago,
when drawing down the moon was forbidden,
forbidden to you,
so very, very long ago.
Your fingertips touching his thigh,
as you watched me g... dying leaves,
fall as winter tears, falling, stabbing at the snow,
making the deadly icicles,
hidden just below.
Was that the night in question so very long ago?
I see you: lonely, vulnerable, and standing,
standing too close to him,
as I am hidden in the ice ,
in the ice, under the snow,
Your warm fingertips just touching his thigh,
I am hidden just below.
The Raven now is silent.
Her muse is sleeping,
her bed the gentle wind,
but I can hear her still:
the Raven singing,
singing under the ice, under the snow,
And I can hear her still:
the Raven singing,
singing under the ice, under the snow,
Was that the night in question?
So very very long ago?
Copyright © London F. Buss | Year Posted 2023
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London F. Buss Poem
The Sandpipers Call
Sandpipers Call amongst the garbage
along the shore,
Tumbleweeds dance from dusk till dawn
Tumbleweeds roll as time goes by,
And time should stand still for love?
But:
Only Tumbleweeds roll roll back and fro making love to the wind.
Flying lost, in a blue sky,
never knowing why,
Doves fly when curtains Call
Crying doves. Scatter, as curtains fall,
Peregrine falcon,, hits and death calls,,
And a spray of bloody feathers,,
In a garden of angels,, watch them fall,,
As a cold east wind blows from the west
Marking the spot where Sandpipers Call.
And Tumbleweeds yawn at break of dawn
And race each other down empty streets,
only stopping to keep each other warm,
Lost again where broken hearts meet
Dust storms. Whistle a warning,
Broken windmills answer with creaking rusting calls that last forever.
For time is the enemy of broken hearts,
Leaving you breathless as,
Strangers walk hand in hand among the garbage along the shore,
where, Sandpipers Call.
Tumbleweeds play hide and seek,
.....until dawn, in the cemetery on the hill where old cowboys lie,
waiting for Jesus lost in the garbage along the shore.
And Sandpipers mourn for dying doves.
As Tumbleweeds the traveling kind
Remind us that love is blind as they March through broken windows
and open doors, a spray of bloody feathers fall.
Tumbleweeds play hide and seek until dawn
Dust devil's whistle a warning, broken windmills answer with
squeaking rusting calls and they'll sing that way for broken hearts.
Lost forever.
At last the Tumbleweeds, call to the dying Sandpipers, dying in
the rotting garbage and seaweeds strewn along the shore..
Home..
Copyright © London F. Buss | Year Posted 2023
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London F. Buss Poem
Note: Coochie Road is a real place.
"The Girl From Coochie Road"
Under a Void Moon, dying in a midnight sky,
Rain falls like burning snow.
Her burning tears fall down a wet rainbow.
She sleeps in the sage brush, where nobody knows?
She lives way down on Coochie Road.
In the desert heat, dust devils rise,
In mirages Mustangs dance with burning eyes.
You can't see love when your lost in the dark,
Hanging by your finger nails on the edge of love.
Snow fall's down like burning rain.
As this barefoot girl walks like a dream way down coochie road.
She's the girl with with emerald green eyes.
There's a dying moon, in a midnight sky.
The men from town drive by; they stop and stare,
at this girl with long black hair, a ragged coat
a torn dress, and her hair's a mess.
Her burning tears fall down a wet rainbow.
She lives way down on Coochie Road.
The preacher drives by, but he don't dare.
Spring loaded mouth, Fists full of fury, Finger on the trigger,
Glock in the pocket of her sweat stained coat.
This barefoot girl turns her back her and walk's
away and smiles with a sneer.
Emerald green eyes, wind in her long black hair,
Men just stop... stop and stare,
The fog never clears this time of year.
If it's lust or fear they can't decide?
To ask this girl to, to, take a ride,
She's an Amaretto dream, in a whiskey nightmare.
They've lost their head's, lost their mind's.
The barefoot girl lives way down on coochie road.
She walks to the corner and takes down the sign!
Now they can't find their way back, back to Coochie Road.
Her burning tears fall down a wet rainbow.
The barefoot girl lives way down on coochie road.
A White Witch with warm green eyes,
is naked: dancing alone, drawing down the moon,
In a midnight sky way down on Coochie Road..
And; The preacher is drunk, with bible in his hand
but all he knows is, is
She's an Amaretto dream in a preachers nightmare.
Her burning tears fall down a wet rainbow.
A White Witch with warm green eyes,
is naked: dancing alone, drawing down the moon,
Under a Void Moon, dying in a midnight sky,
Rain falls like burning snow.
A girl is dancing; naked under a void moon.
Memories of a lost love so long ago,
She lives way down Coochie Road.
Copyright © London F. Buss | Year Posted 2022
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London F. Buss Poem
“Cherry Blossoms”.
Cherry Blossoms
Pink
With smiles, Of innocence.
flutter,
and flutter,
waltzing,
with the breeze,
as if ?
Dancing on a slack line,
without Mercy,
Trying desperately….
not to sneeze.
And fall….. too soon,
Falling, falling, zigzagging,
Into the arms of spring.
And as fate decrees,
at Last surrendering…..
To,
Newtons Third law.
All Quiet on the Western Front.
Copyright © London F. Buss | Year Posted 2023
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London F. Buss Poem
MockingBird
Mockingbird can't fly,
Mockingbird can't sing,
She's not allowed to do anything.
Cold naked, all alone,
in dark dirty room that,
daddy calls her home.
Strapped in a straitjacket,
and chained to a chair,
hosed down and beaten every day,
never allowed to cry.
Mockingbird was never allowed to walk,
Mockingbird was never allowed to talk,
not a word,
Her daddy wanted it that way.
Daddy called it love,
The last exit to hell in,
in the city of angels, a city called L.A.
for twelve long years,
daddy kept her that way.
And she blames herself for the echo's
of her life that never was.
At night her daddy force feeds her slops
then chains her to her bed.
They found her when she turned thirteen
Labelled her the feral wild, child.
The experts and lawyers
fought over her night and day,
At the last exit to hell in the
City of Angels a town they call L.A.
Mockingbird cant sing
Mockingbird cant talk
Mockingbird can walk she hop's like a
rabbit.
She is now a free bird,
but she is still locked away,
At the last exit to hell in a town called L.A.
She dreams in echo's,
of a life that might have been, a mocking jay
In the city of angels,
a town called L.A.
And the mocking bird is now a Mocking Jay
she's in dark dirty room
that's black, blue and gray
The State of California calls her home
Locked away in the City of Angels
They call L.A.
Note.. this is a true story, when she was discovered she couldn't walk (she could hop like a rabbit). She was chained to a chair For 13 years. She couldn't feed herself, she couldn't cry, she couldn't talk (even now she cannot speak whole sentences. She is regarded as highly intelligent State of California still has her locked away in hell echoes of a life that might have been...
Copyright © London F. Buss | Year Posted 2023
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London F. Buss Poem
“Your Words”.
Your trembling lips.
My rusting smile.
your mouth moves,
your words beguile.
Tears in your words
hiding your smile.
your laughter
your sneer.
Diamonds in your eyes.
You Can’t look up.
You can’t look down.
You look at me.
don’t. my words freeze.
don’t focus on me!
Please look around.
trembling lips
Rusting heart.
Diamonds in your eyes.
Your smile deceives.
My words beguile.
Your trembling lips.
My rusted smile.
I play the fool,
You play the clown,
I'm touching her,
when you’re not around.
old, footsteps in the snow.
Trembling lips.
Diamonds in your eyes.
My rusted smile hides, my desire.
My smile deceives.
Your words beguile.
Our trembling lips,
Our rusted smile's..
and I just die!
Diamonds in your eyes.
Copyright © London F. Buss | Year Posted 2023
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London F. Buss Poem
“Santa Anna Wind”.
© London F. Buss
Don’t fear sadness, only shadows,
who come through walls,
It's always now and always then.
It's loneliness never ends,
even after you him. yes him.
Only money it seems can buy a friend.
She hates herself; ugliness never ends.
trampled under a calloused love.
She wants to die just to feel love.
Happiness is a dream?
But her daughter, she’s so young,
she just don’t know.
he danger in his eyes,
Tangled knots in her hair, isn’t love.
His lies laid bare.
Just as well it’s cold as hell,
she got summer in her smile.
He got his hand on her thigh,
hands playing with her tities.
Footsteps going, going, gone.
He wouldn’t wait a while.
What would you say?
He tore up your yesterdays,
Pink Cadillac is parked out back,
doing the back seat boogie,
Now, she got winter on her mind.
Cadillac heater making her unwind,
Rain filled heart, smoke filled fears,
your thawing out in his arms
You’re screaming in pain Steaming.... up the widows.
and you’re on the wrong side of town.
Has daddy seen you, you're not sure?
Worn out promises, practiced lies,
too late to change her mind.
He made a mess,
Cumming over your confirmation dress,
She's only eleven and got summer on her mind.
Her daddies’ footsteps sealed his fate.
Saw her panties on the floor.
12-gauge shotgun… buckshot roars.
He's just a dying, lying, twitching, on the floor.
Santa Anna winds don’t blow this far north.
He won’t come knocking on her door,
Not no more, he killed little her blue bunny,
He won’t come knocking on her door,
Not no more,
He killed little her blue bunny,
ripped it apart is lying helpless, screaming on the floor,
Santa Anna winds don’t blow this far north.
Santa Anna winds don’t blow this far north.
He won’t come knocking on her door,
Not no more,
Copyright © London F. Buss | Year Posted 2023
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