dark poetry

Nighttime Fascinations

I am fascinated by how

Still the night can be

How everything stays tucked away

Quiet and peaceful

The lack of movements

The voids of the sounds

And everything and everyone,

Guided by starlight,

Shining like beacons in the nighttime skies

I am fascinated by the whispers

Of the nighttime winds

Their misleading breaths,

Which lie to me

In the sweetest ways

I’m amazed how such a cruel and uncaring world,

Can look so docile

And so safe,

So comforting

And so easy

Never a glance to

The watching eyes

Never paying mind

To the hunter at large

And if the great powers allow,

If we are lucky enough,

There will come a midnight rain

A rain

To wash all the small cares away

To cleanse the body

And this clouded, yet nearly perfect world

So we might rest again

In the stillness

Of the night

© Dicky J Loweman 2015


Party Of Six

Churchill, Van Gogh

Ford, Hemingway

Martin, and the Queen Mum

Seated in the back room

Just like they did

Every Saturday night

A mis-mashed group

All famous in their own ways

And always drunk by sundown

Vincent liked the wine, poured heavy and red

And never stopped fussing with the spot

Where his ear should have been

Winston and the Queen sipped on expensive pink champagne

And mumbled incoherently back and forth,

To only themselves

Dean was a bitter old fuck,

Liked his martini’s extra, extra dry

Ernest drank the Majito’s by the gallon,

And chased them with swigs of Absinthe

He would bitch about how they weren’t as tasty,

As they were in good old Havana

And then there was Betty

The old broad would suck down

Airplane fuel, if you set it

In front of her

Good old girl

And every Saturday night was the same

The same stories,

The same arguments,

The same chauffeurs and coachmen

To drag their dead asses back home

Here’s to the good ones

The world is a smaller place,

Without your repetitive stories

And devilish ways

© DIcky J Loweman 2015


A call out
A summons to engage
A contest of skill
Of strength
By its very nature
This serves as the battle call
A special effort put forth
A contest to test
There is a demand for explanation
A challenge to look past the expenditures
The treasure
The outcome of it all
There is difficulty in it
An undertakeing which will stimulate to no end
But to what end?
And will it be worth it?
From this distant angle
It doesn’t appear so
© Dicky J Loweman 2015


Readily perceived by the eye
Or the understanding
It’s all too evident; obvious, and apparent
plain gesture
Not without love, but lacking sentiment and depth
All in error, but covered up, quick and neat
Everything relating to conscious feelings, ideas, and impulses
Have been thrown to the fishes
That contain repressed feelings and untouchable voids
To make this clear or evident
Requires smoke and mirrors
So, to the eye or the understanding
Nothing is exactly as it should be
Nothing can be shown for what it truly is
Instead, sculpt your approval with a hearty and heavy laugh
To prove and put beyond any doubt, or question
The evidence of the guilt 
Which drips at the ports of provident destinations
Nothing more than a list or invoice
Marked for your approval
© Dicky J Loweman 2015

Nothingness Of Time

In the moments like these

Times melt away with the filth

With a need to be scrubbed

And scraped, of all the dirt

The skin hides the dank

The darkness, screaming to be set free

All the muscles in the world

Do nothing to aid

Hanging in stillness

Consumed by the stress

And semi-contracted

For an extended period of time

The eyes don’t see the way out

No light bright enough

All lights burning till blind

There are no sounds worth hearing

And a touch would be a savior

But this world has no saviors left

Not for you

Not for the radiated skin

And atrophied muscles

Not for the burnt out eyes

And no touch to save

No hand to grab

As the water rushes over the head

And you slowly sink

To the bottom of your soul

Yes, time takes a toll

A collection of all the good

But, time replaces as well

And leaves you, in return, with nothing

And nothing is huge

Nothing is heavy

Nothing hangs from your neck

And nothing is the weight

Which finally pulled you down

© Dicky J Loweman 2015

Broken Wing

Four in the morning

Caution lit up, thrown to the wind

The good birds don’t sing, anymore

The moon is almost hidden

And I’m on the rise

Soft spoken words

Filled with twists and turns

Left this head spinning

As if on a ride

It moves too fast

I don’t think I can get off

So I twirl in the darkest part of the eve

Caned by all who look on

Flogged by fools

And mocked by the masses

Mistakes were made

Promises were broken

And now I’m left

With one broken wing

And no way to get home

© Dicky J Loweman 2015


Names In The Dirt

Damaged and used up

Spit out, thrown to the wolves

Bent and cramped

With eyes that falter

The long shadows are screeching

With the names of those now long past

There will be no consolation prizes

No raffles with promises of big wins

There will, however, be long nights

Cold nights

And thoughts which bring brave men

Crashing down to their knees

There will be soft whispers

Of all you don’t know

Of all the wasted time

Spent dreaming of the better ways

The impossible, impassable, linger on

Long past their prime

But with little else to do

Except scratch names in the dirt

The names of the hidden, of the few

Who sought out this world

However, had no choice

But to view it through fogged eyes

Damaged and used

Thrown down with careless abandonment

Only to hesitate, waiver

Slowed by the process

Which was never forgiving

And never sympathetic

© Dicky J Loweman 2015


Greys Of Carbon

Rummaging through the ashes

Looking for the lost

That we know we won’t find

That of which can’t be brought back

The memories were hidden away

Tucked between the greys of carbon

And all the questions we don’t dare say out loud

The secrets can’t be rebuilt

The lifetime of memories

And yet the thoughts of it all

Will carry through the darkest nights

The longest of hot days

And all the time which sleep steals

© Dicky J Loweman 2015


Jenny and Michael were dipping sticks in the incredible liquid

A substance they’d never seen before

Tommy and I were busy throwing rocks through the few remaining windows

The smashed glass raining down and sounding like thunder

Paul and Liz were busy holding hands and whispering to one another

What a way to spend a day, which should have been spent in school

At its height, this factory plant employed 20,000 persons

Part of a conglomerate, which brought fortune and fame to this once great city

There were still boxes piled high against one wall

Huge chains still hung from giant I-beams, in the rafters

The walls had been covered with spray paint

Spelling out words like “cock” and “pussy”

You could see where fires had been set

But this hulking old metal box would never succumb to such small inconveniences

It was so vast, that to yell caused an echo

A fun time, tested by all

There were rows and rows and stacks and stacks of barrels

55 gallon drums just left rotting and rusting in there now permanent positions

And there were long troughs sunken into the floor

Which looked like a pit for mass graves

Soon Paul and Liz wanted to go

They had grown board, and it was much to dusty and dirty for Liz

Tommy and I had actually worn ourselves out, for the windows we threw at were quite high

But Jenny and Micheal were still busy with their new-found, mysterious friend

We all went to see what they fuss was all about

After all, they hadn’t explored any more of the plant since their discovery

We all slowly gathered around and watched with amazement

As Jenny dipped a piece of wood into the liquid

Its sheen was metallic, like that of my mothers flat wear set

And it would all run off the wood, back into the drum, without leaving any remains or markings

Someone said not to touch it, for something that intriguing and captivating

Could be nothing short of dangerous

Paul agreed, and told us both he and Jenny dipped the tip of their fingers in it

And it ran off just the same, but now their fingertips burned a little

Soon the fun of it all had worn off and Liz had turned into quite a nag

It was time to leave this place

And the ride home was a quiet one

I had a headache, and was all to happy not to have everyone shouting over each other

Then, out of the silence, Jenny said she was feeling dizzy

Like she was on a spinning ride

Michael too, said he didn’t feel well

He thought, in fact, it would be better to pull over because he might be sick

And then he was

Without any further warning, he began to vomit all over the floor

The ride home was long, for we had to stop several more times

Neither Michael nor Jenny returned to school that week…

As time passed, Jenny’s family moved to Vancouver, B.C.

Michael’s family stayed in town, just as the rest of our families had

I can’t say of Jenny, for I never spoke to her again

But Michael was always different

He was often sick, and sometime had lengthy stays in the hospital

Eventually Michael went mad

The people around town whispered it was hereditary, as his mother had been committed a year before

Not one of us ever spoke about Michael

It was best that he was forgotten for good

Not one of us spoke of our trip to that abandoned factory, either

We all hid our secret well

For we knew the truth

We knew what really happened

And even though Jenny and Michael may not have known what it was

The rest of us surely did

© Dicky J Loweman 2015

Number 2 from Scourge


Public Service Announcement

As the killing season gets into full swing

The poets are becoming oh so more aggressive

Here’s what the literary behemoths want you to know

A simple set of rules to avoid becoming a victim

–This very season brings out the nastiness from the writing artist

–This timely increase is not an isolated affair

–It is certainly not confined to a specific geographical area

This has been a public service announcement

Thought you’d like to know

© Dicky J Loweman 2015


Number 3 from Scourge