Archive for the Dan Provost Category

Two Poems by Dan Provost

Posted in Dan Provost with tags on August 19, 2019 by Scot
  1. When Sean the Hitman Developed a Conscious

Clear shot of conscious for the first time in his
life, Shawn left the gun lying on the ground

lacking the hatred to shoot Maize’s
little boy.

Or was it wisdom that led him away
From this existing turmoil, beleaguered
and beaten down can be so tiresome.

Shawn has shot a few; some with anger in
his heart, others for pay from some gangster
or gutless husband who wanted rich wifey out
of the way.

This time, he looked into the reflection on the lake–seeing the
silhouette of a man holding a shotgun, ready to tear a hole
into a crop of blond hair.

A nephew?
Maybe a son he never knew about?

He just could not stand the voices in his head—the justification of
soulless rendezvous with the dregs of mankind.

The man was tired of killing.
Tired of living.
Sometimes just tired of being.

Picking up his satchel, he packs up
His warm clothes and goes,

So far away from hugging mother and child.
No, he can never be part of that.

Never.

____________

 

Playing Out the String

Winter sun-2:00 P.M.
is death, aging,
Looking up through
arduous eyes, trying to
feed out words of
heart-felt
something….

Surely, we have slowed
down, as we suck on that
same joint…trying to fathom
the human condition in
some renaissance, reflective
way…

Obsessing on new
portals to climb through.

Attempting to relive
the moment when it
was so cool to be disillusioned.

But the shine
fell…

And the vision
fell…

Then the parade ended
in a departure of broken bones…

Sealed…
Unkempt…
Unwanted…

Just another dismal failure…

Just another fade…of ideals.

Stuck within a millisecond…

Of time…

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Self-Infliction by Dan Provost

Posted in Dan Provost with tags on December 16, 2009 by Scot

 
Events you thought inconsequential…
Lightly touching my hip in the
Used book store or rubbing the
Small of back at the amusement park…
 
Probably whisked through your oblivion,
 
Meant the world to me…
 
But that was our walk through events for all time…
Never to happen again.
 
The smallest gestures, you threw away–while the
Receiver of the cherished gifts…
 
Suffered in the early morning hours
When cries are heard by one…
 
I have never spent more conscious days in my life when I was with you…
 
Every movement of step a beautiful journey…
 
A surprise—you not knowing;
                     I quietly exhilarated…
 
At every glance or stare…
 
Disregarded?  Probably, in your reality of real world milieu…
 
They were bibles to me…to take out, studied and worshipped
 
Then put away until another 4 AM epiphany starts me pacing in
My silent gallows…
 
Only the beating of the heart, or the sobbing of the one crow
Who sits alone on top of the birdbath…
 
Are heard while the world is still asleep….
 
My grief is silent…the soul is saddened.
 
I may never be home.

World Widows by Dan Provost

Posted in Dan Provost on August 20, 2009 by Scot

She dreamt of armies,
Men who fought and bled…

Different names
Different guises

All tired from strife
throughout the centuries of victories and defeats

Body counts told to grieving widows
Whose lovers were sold a bill of goods
by entrapped loyalty their men
purged so ravenously into their soul.

The women cried, present and past
Roman widows
English widows
American widows…

World widows.

We were born to suffer, not wander
as the famous song once said…

drifting into slumber…she knows
that one will not come home…

ever.