The Curbside Poet

Postcards & Paintings

I’m finally putting some guitar to these lyrics, hopefully in the next few weeks I’ll have the full song, but for now here are the lyrics: 

                                      “Postcards and Paintings”

Painted roses, in the winter, come to your doorstep,
But you move slowly, very fragile, because your hearts been all but spent, 
Take your time, brush the leaves, they won’t smudge and fade away, 
And you can look on, 
Passed the garden, 
Passed the trees, 
And you’ll see me, 
My smile won’t smudge and fade away, 

And the ticking clock turns the sun; it’s getting colder every day, 
We look for the warmth, 
We look for love to stay,
We’ve been hurt, 
And we’ve been warned, 
Don’t get closer every day, 
But these painted roses won’t go dying, 
My smile won’t fade, 

I’ll send these to you, 
I’ll send these to you, 
When I’m oh so far away, 

I’ll paint you the sun, 
I’ll paint you the sky, 
Just so you’ll have a place to stay, 
I’ll paint you a garden, 
Blossoming flowers, 
Anything to make you smile, 
Won’t let that go and fade away, 
Don’t you see what you deserve?
A wounded heart don’t heal but once, 
If that does mean anything, 

Postcards and some paintings, 
Pieces of hearts and mending, 
The wind on the beach, 
Sand in our faces, 
But laughter in our voice, 

I’ll send these to you, 
I’ll send these to you, 
When I’m oh so far away, 

I’ll come back and take away the pain, of it all, 
Just look for the paintings, 
Look for the words in the ink, 
I’ll look for the girl on the doorstep, 
Fragile and open, 
I’ll look for the girl in the songs, 
Just promise me you’ll hum along, 

Because there’s a voice buried deep inside, 
Won’t let it hide no more, no more, 
Such a beautiful brain, I’ll paint it the same as I see it, 
And I’ll make you smile, and believe you are it, 
And it is wonderful, 
And inspiring, 
It is fair,
But so very far from where, I lay my feet down at night, 
So until some change, 

I’ll send these to you, 
I’ll send these to you, 
Postcards and some paintings. 

Red Dye Number 9 …. Another Unfinished Short..

For some reason I am drawn to post another unfinished piece, if you find interesting due tell me, maybe it can get me off my ass and finish these up, among all the other work I am in need of doing. 

                                Red Dye Number 9- by Joe Kibler

Beauty… in a department store lined with makeup and hair products for all types of women, women trying to be other women. You see the brunette who wants to be a blonde, the blonde who just can’t handle the stereotypes to which many have grown accustomed to; and then… there’s the redhead. The glaring eyes of women from all directions, women striving for that correct mixture of color, a color which you won’t find in that red dye number 9, that neat little box. It’s that color you can only get from the natural breeding process. In aisle five of the local beauty store on Broadway and 41^st stands Lilly or Lillian as her Mother of 24 years calls her when that narcissistic need arises.

  Those beauty pageants they have, Miss Iowa ’76, Miss Missouri ’88, Arizona ’90, Texas ’92. Like some sadistic counting game, these women count, count the years since there victorious wins, there 15 minutes. Each year that goes by only means one thing to them, another year they don’t have. Gone. Less desirable. More miserable.  Lilly grew up in Michigan. Her Mother, Miss Daisy Delaney. ’83. She was the desired catch for every jerk, slob, half wit male within a 30 mile radius. It wasn’t coincidental that the following year she would give birth. Also the same year she decided to pick up and leave. If you’re wondering, which lucky bachelor made his mark? Or should I say was the last to make his mark, at least for a little while. Well, he wasn’t lucky and he certainly wasn’t a bachelor that much is for certain. So Daisy moved her way through countless cities. She never did win another pageant, though it wasn’t for lack of trying. All with a new little bundle of joy, “The kind of joy you get from the dentist”, Daisy exclaimed on many of an occasion.

Poor girl, years of striving to be just like her mother has led her here.

Aisle Five, Hair products.

When you stare at the models on the boxes too long you begin to realize that it’s basically one model; One model sporting all styles, colors and volumes, Photoshopped, of course. In the old days when models did that, the only hair styles they’d sport from then on would come off a rack. Lilly’s big eyes screen across the rows and rows of new colors, new experiences for her to try. That desire to be just like mommy has gone down the drain, along with that pony she always wanted. The little girl with big dreams is no longer around, instead here’s the girl who slides from Strawberry blonde to Auburn. Her little feet, almost lost in sandals too big for her, but what was she to do? She was rebelling, those sandals, her mother hates. Lilly bought them at a thrift store because they had butterflies on them, she couldn’t resist. How would she know that those sandals would result in an event that would drastically change life as we know it? That would cause years and years of oppression for an entire race. The reason and very basis to which our story has spawned.

If you thought this was our starting point, I’m afraid I’ve let you down. Or perhaps, just began what most would call a prologue. I’ll choose the latter.

—

Pressing his feet hard into the cold runway, Lupin stood shoulders back, legs straight. He was perfection; Masked in eye shadow, covered with the finest clothing and perfume on the market. Lupin stood and stared out into the bright lights, too blinded to see all the eyes that gazed back. Woman after woman after woman; all dressed in black, all emotionless. To them, Lupin was what you’d call Product Zero. He wasn’t alone, though he set an example for each new product on the market. Nothing could compare, they tried, but even the greatest advancements in genetics couldn’t beat natural beauty.

It was a time of change, a time to set new standards. A Woman’s rule was in place. In the new world men were always raised by women, no contact with another male until well beyond the growing process. It was thought to be safer that way, less chance of developing bad habits.

The perfect male was like a piece of metal. Some would become showroom cars, the rest…machinery.

Production and Procreation.

On the showroom floor, people can see new designs, new concepts being put into work. They could also purchase, a kinda sign and drive special. Though these men, like cars, do depreciate in value the moment you’re off the lot.  No one was about to buy Lupin, though a few heads of establishment did have there eye on him. But he had eyes to, although the countless years of upbringing taught him that his desires were bad, a caged animal, however tame, is still an animal.

Not everyone was ready for what was to come. But then again, no one exactly had a vote on it, it just happened. Time took its course, it was inevitable.

Those who didn’t adhere to the rules were either jailed or vanished; this was before the establishment of bar-coding the entire population. A feat which really took the individualism out of tattooing. These men and women who fled would come up on the radar every now and then, or be heard about, only through rumors.

Secretly, Lupin longed for that life, though you wouldn’t know it too look at him. He dreamt of escaping all the rules, the daily routines, the exercising, the women, especially the women. It wasn’t a truly fair judgment on Lupins part but what did he know? Women weren’t like what they were. Faint memories of the only truly beautiful woman Lupin has ever known still lingered in his dreams. “Who was she?” he had asked himself constantly, awaiting an answer that would never come. Not here at least. Back in Lupin’s room, which consisted of five white walls; each with three single slits of window panels that only revealed a fake tropical backdrop. It was supposed to stimulate positive thoughts, but Lupin longed for snow. He had read about it in a magazine once, before the overhauling of all media. It was left, tossed away near some sewer drains. In it, was a section circled in red pen, it was a picture of a mountain. For a moment, Lupin felt connected to the stranger who had circled this. He knew that they had a desire he had shared.

For now, only the thoughts of that woman, that girl, would be with him. Her smile, and the way she brushed her Auburn hair away from her green eyes…

Descending to Happiness… An unfinished short story..

So I came across old files on my external and found an unfinished short story, why post it? Because maybe the fact that it is unfinished makes it all the more interesting, or perhaps I’m just bored and slowly losing my mind, either is a possibility, you can choose. 

                           Descending to Happiness- by Joe Kibler

The moment you bite into an apple it begins to oxidize; from bright and beautiful to discolored and well rotten…looking, at least for the moment. The discoloration that occurs in apples is the work of an enzyme called polyphenolsoxidase, which oxidize phenolic compounds in the tissue and causes them to condense into brown or grey polymers. Even though this has nothing to do with why I’m standing here on the observation deck of Rockefeller Center enjoying my lunch…alone; I thought it symbolic in a way. The apple that is, not the sitting alone part. I watched it, every bite I ate I watched as it slowly began to change colors. That browning of the apple made me realize how inconsistent something can be, how unpredictable. Even though I know it’s going to happen, yet, still I am caught off guard. As though something I’ve loved, maybe someone I’ve loved for many years decided one day that they weren’t happy or satisfied with there current situation. That situation being me, and so they left, leaving me there with nothing, nothing but a brown bagged lunch.

  So here I am. Alone. Even the brown paper bag found better places to go, high above everything, sailing through the wind the bag sways back and forth, still near enough for me to see. It’s as if it’s taunting me, I would grab it, I should grab it, and I know this to be right. But the presence of my laziness could never be clearer than it is now. I guess it’s that never ending need of mine to let things be, to not tempt the waters. God forbid I cause some influence to the world around me. Some people fear never being remembered, I fear never being forgotten. When I die, I want to be dead, I don’t want my name to be used to carry out arguments about what I was trying to portray in my latest painting, or the political stance of my book. Not that these are things I’m currently pursuing, I should be so lucky. I just want to have a say when it comes to my name, seeing as I only truly know what’s going on within my head; I believe it to be a fairly reasonable request.

   Staring down at all the people below me I see an endless sea of hands coupling together. Side by side, they’re taunting me; they’re right there along with the brown paper bag. It’s been 3 years, and 6 months since I’ve been single, it’s also been exactly 10 hours since the break up, and one of the worst things about it is; now I’m tie-less. You see, Sarah, that’s her name by the way. Damn, I never introduced myself did I? Well, let’s get through this part first, I was always a horrible fucking story teller, dammit I cursed, fuck I’m sorry. If I was home I’d have to put a quarter in the curse jar, what that money was going towards I’ll never know, it was just one of Sarah’s rules… But I guess that doesn’t apply any more? Right? So let’s move the fuck on.

  You see, after helping me get my first job as a mailroom clerk for the New York Post, which turned into my only job which coincidentally turned into my ex job as of oh…8 hours ago. Sarah’s father is Senior Editor, even I could figure out where this was going. Anyway, Sarah thought that I needed to look “respectable” now that I had such a position of honor. A position that I would have gladly turned down if it wasn’t just handed to me; again, I’m not an idiot. So she proceeded in finding me the right suits, with the matching shoes and the ties. The one joy in my meaningless, dull existence at that place was wearing my ties. I had ones for each day of the week, for each mood, you pick the occasion, I had a tie for it. Birthday parties, the cornflower blue with a yellow strip pattern; Funerals, Black but with a hint of Grey, to keep from the cliché all black attire. Every morning, id get up, do my daily routine as I’m sure you have, then I would kiss Sarah goodbye as she tied my tie. We never talked about it, but she knew I had no clue how to do it myself, I guess she knew me too well to know that I had never had a reason, not one whatsoever to wear ties before. She also knew my lack of desire for new knowledge. So she did as sweetly as she could, standing there, with our eyes locked, her smile, infectious, brimming me with joy. But now it’s gone, okay so second thought, maybe it isn’t the ties I miss.

  Now that that is over, my name is Edwin Donavan. Or Ed. I’m 28 and I am currently unemployed and homeless. By the way, it was her house I left every morning to go to a job given to me out of pity, that maybe one day I would marry off mister Senior Editors daughter and in some miraculous leap somehow make a name for myself in this City. The man had dreams he never let me in on, how could I possibly fulfill that? But that’s me, not to be confused with who I am. Who I am is the question that brings me to the top of this building today; no I’m not going to jump, besides I don’t even think I’m physically capable to get on top of the railing. Before I joined the real world I had dreams, dreams that one day I would be a photographer. Yes, I do or well did have a creative bone in my body, at least I thought. My favorite place however cliché, a word being tossed around a lot these days, my favorite place was here. It wasn’t the landscape I was interested in though, no that was something that was never appealing to me. It was the peoples reactions to the landscape, the open mouth expressions of wonder, or the saddened looks to the realization that “yes, maybe we are just ants in a really big complex maze”. For hours I would photograph these people. Never noticed though never ignored. I was there; they were there, that was it. Then there was that smile, infectious. A week later I stopped coming here as often, then never. If I wanted to keep that smile I had to be on call, waiting for her, wanting her, knowing I was nothing without her. Just a man with a camera; Now I don’t even have that.  So I sit here taking picture after picture in my mind, in some way I guess I’m hoping to relive my past, not with a new girl, just her. As if I could magically will time into turning back….

My reaction to Just Like Heaven…

After having listened to the song Just Like Heaven by The Cure rigorously, I felt I had to make my own response to the song, through poetry, artists learn from artists, the thing is, my poem has no direct connection to the lyrics of Just Like Heaven, rather the experiences I’ve created around the song. So here it goes, my is titled “Only Twenty-Two” Yes appropriate for the day after my birthday, see? Method to the abundant madness my little mind encompasses. 

                             “Only Twenty-Two” 

We sparked a match, 

Which sparked a laugh, 

Teenage ways for which I passed, 

In my head, such silly ways, 

Though now I wish I would have stayed, 

In the moment, just like you all, 

Instead of waiting for a call, 

I was nineteen with a five-year plan, 

While you were staring at your hands, 

And getting such a kick, 

The cloud it was so damn thick, 

The one inside my lonely tomb, 

While you were smoking in your room, 

You waited for me to reply, 

But I just talked inside my mind, 

    Only twenty-two and yet I feel so far from you, 

    You my friends I had so long, 

    Long ago, those times are gone, 

    My memories a catacomb, 

    My company when I’m alone, 

We have drifted oh so far away, 

Spread between three different states, 

We always wish each other luck, 

But somewhere inside we all are stuck, 

Ten years from now we may all meet, 

But we will be shaking in our seats, 

Will they remember me? 

Me today or how I use to be? 

Will we forgive our silly ways? 

And why we never stayed, 

My dear friends I love you so, 

Let us reach a new plateau, 

To leave our past crimes, 

It’s an elegant state of mind, 

Until you ask me if I’m fine… 

    Only twenty-two and yet I feel so far from you, 

    You my friends I had so long, 

    Long ago, those times are gone, 

    My memories a catacomb, 

    My company when I’m alone, 

This is my warning to those who read, 

Don’t try and seize your memories, 

Just try and be, 

To look back is to react, 

In a very different way, 

So live your life today, 

With your friends show all your love, 

Don’t regret what you have done, 

Because I do, 

While I write this to you, 

Take this as a caution sign, 

Don’t look ahead, 

Don’t look behind, 

Just drive, drive, drive… 

And you’ll be fine, 

    Only twenty-two and yet I feel so far from you, 

    You my friends I had so long, 

    Long ago, those times are gone, 

    My memories a catacomb, 

    My company when I’m alone. 

Two Word Poems

Here is my first in a series of poetry I will be writing based off two words my friends send me. Tonight the two words are: Passion & Green from Armen. 

                   “What It Means To Be Free” 

There was a boy with no shoes on his feet, 

Thought the other side of the world would be green, 

His passion grew stronger for a place to be free, 

Never settle his mom would say, 

You have the heart to go far, but you must disobey, 

So the young boy was off the next day, 

A long travel stood ahead, 

Lonely, dark thoughts, spun in his head, 

He feared he’d be let down like so many times before, 

Hoped a window would open when he closed that door, 

He stepped out onto his new plateau, 

A bright, blessed boy is what he planned to show, 

This young boy was let down, 

The green grass was all brown, 

Sadness grew, and a subtle fear, 

His passion weakened, but only one tear he let by, 

The only green he saw was from the greed in their eyes, 

A society that took for granted, 

The simply pleasures of life, 

So he spent his days in an apartment in the city, 

He drew, sang songs, living in simplicity, 

And through example word spread, 

Of a man who always stood his ground, 

And kept up his head, 

No matter the angry words on the street, 

He kept a happy rhythm tapping in his feet, 

For he knew, just how free he could be, 

Not too long before others joined in, 

Sad faces and frowns turned around into grins, 

The word of a selfless man who gave all that he could, 

Spread across each city, town and neighborhood, 

Until finally he had planted the seed, 

To turn all that he could see, from brown to green, 

His passion ignited an entire society, 

So never underestimate, the power of you, 

What it means to be free. 

Love & Scales

I think we all want to feel loved, it’s probably one of the purest emotions we could possibly have, whether from a friend, relationship or even in the form of having fans.. what’s a truer love than people who you never even met, following your creative experience, and not only understanding it, even respecting it amazing, but for someone to feel as strong about the words you speak as you? That’s an amazing type of love. Facebook, Twitter, Tumblr, they all work in the same way, we want someone to listen, someone to “like” us and be our friends. But, enough about my ranting and raving, this poem, it basically talks about what I’ve been saying above, 

                    “Love & Scales” 

You lay your head on my chest,

I’ll be your bulletproof vest,

And when the world is upset,

We’ll hideaway and just live,

Start counting in signatures,

Let the beats be our cure,

And when the note is resolved,

Our vocal chords will call,

Out there,

Someone is waving,

Out there,

A life worth saving,

Out there,

We are waiting,

I’ve never been a numbers man,

Could only count my loves on one hand,

And when I finally couldn’t care,

You were there,

A simple figure of speech,

You were a reflection of me,

And when you knew me best,

I was a miserable wreck,

Out there,

Someone is waving,

Out there,

A life worth saving,

Out there,

We are waiting,

Some say a game of chance,

A romance at a glance,

And I thought time would tell,

Oh how you knew me well,

We would talk about our scars,

While driving in your car,

And every redlight we’d stop,

My heartbeat would drop,

These telephones are getting old,

And the warmest room is getting cold,

Without you for me to hold,

The saddest story ever told,

I’m not a man of god,

But whoever made our hearts,

They made them incomplete,

Cause it takes two to make a beat,

Out there,

Someone is waving,

Out there,

A life worth saving,

Out there,

We are waiting,

A love worth making,

Eyes worth gazing,

And though you’ll always amaze me,

Your comfort will save me.

Narrow Trees

For some reason I find myself always drawn to birds in my poetry, using them sometimes as a metaphor for people, or maybe just idea that they truly have the ability and freedom I think a lot of us desperately wish we could (Even though if we really think about it, and trust in ourselves we can as well) OR maybe it’s just my early fascination with Edgar Allan Poe and “The Raven” hmm… many possibilities. Anyway this poem has a lot of references to birds, and I felt a foreword would at least provide an understanding to the reader that yes, I am overly aware of it’s placement within this piece. Enjoy. 

“Narrow Trees”

If I be a sparrow in my dreams, then set me free, 

I’ll sail amongst the wide and narrow trees, 

Over and beyond the electric, violent, night city sky, 

For fear if I don’t, I’ll burn and be consumed, into all their frenzied eyes, 

Ravishing teeth and looks to kill, 

Be all yours forever, forever and never still, 

Toxic, twisting, bitterness inside me, 

Lie to me, or leave me be won’t you please? 

So I can live to see beyond the narrow trees, 

I won’t be a murder, leave that for the crows, 

I’ll be a host, a host to overthrow, 

Those that gather, gather to form a scheme, 

Because gossip is an unkind look, 

Worn and splattered on those painted faces I see, 

If I’m witness to a painful reality, then here I’ll be, 

Tucked away beneath the wide and narrow trees, 

Why are there friends that suffer, while other friend’s greed?

Off the pain and anguish, vultures ready to feed, 

If I don’t do something, than what makes me better than those I see?

I plead, for talk show like woes to be buried like seeds, 

Though seeds must grow, into vines they’ll twist, 

Around the wide, and narrow trees, 

Beneath, I sit, 

I won’t be a murder, leave that for the crows, 

I’ll be a host, a host to overthrow, 

Those that gather, gather to form a scheme, 

Because gossip is an unkind look, 

Worn and splattered on those painted faces I see, 

We’re sprouting lines just to get us by, 

Coming up with crimes just to pass the time, 

And though I try, to just negate the past, 

It never lasts, we are moving fast, 

And I’m after, a world, 

Beyond the overcast, 

And the city lights, 

Beyond the cold dead night, 

And a friendly fight, 

I’d be a bird, if only in dreams,

In full flight, so you can come follow me, 

Just close your eyes, 

Beneath the wide and narrow trees tonight.