Tag Archives: Tony Walton

Coloring inside the lines

by Tony Walton


“The most courageous act is still to think for yourself. Aloud.”

      Coco Chanel

 

Childrens’s crayons, a clustered

pack,

little desks in tidy rows,

conforming to the lines.

Lines drawn for them

by others – don’t they know?

 

“He followed orders to a Tee,”

is no Epitaph for me.

Spirit crushed under

convention’s jackboot,

avoiding this fate is quite

the art.

So:

You of dewy bloom! Of aesthetics! Of

Imagination!

 

Silence the mourners,

muffle the bagpipes,

push back the coffin out for sail,

Inhale back that sigh!

Blast through the lines

like Pollock into a

hard driving rain, for

 

what they think of you –

does not come from thought.

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Drinking red wine on the beach this night

by Tony Walton


I swill from the bottle of wine and

with quiet eyes watch the waves soften

before me. It is that

serene hour, after the stars have

packed up those clouds – damn! – such a

delving day – exhaling me with

an exhaustive sigh, but now the

 

red burn sun bows out to the moon sitting high

with a conspiratorial chaulky smile.

It lends me its soft glow onto

 

waves dancing gently with their salty kisses and

foamy gentle thrusts

into this beach

kissing and pulling away,

kissing and pulling away. It’s all so familiar-

nature.

 

My soul is pillowed and content on this night

spread out just for me

and

her – and we

lay back onto the sand

together.

Punching the Moon

by Tony Walton


There are delving days when the ink blue sea whispers to me

in a sexy voice, “Come over here boy, and give me a kiss.”

“Hell no girl! I am not easy like that! Anyway, I have

too much to do.”

 

I want to get cashy and swagger with America,

drunk with England on cool draft lager,

dine with France on her clean white linens with shining silver,

then turn to Italy, her eyes of tawny pools, and say,

“You and I are going dancing with Brazil.

We’ll splash across the Atlantic and

samba all night!”

 

Some days I feel like punching the moon out of sight,

swatting down the stars,

pouring the oceans down the drain,

and switching off the sun.

 

There are nights when the skies thunder with revelry and streak

with disco lightning and the rain drinks champagne

and mother nature, with her thousand Arabic pleasures,

sways over to me slow thighed….

 

But I’ve got to finish the laundry now – I’ve got a ton of it to do.

A couple on a Sunday drive

by Tony Walton


There are no disagreements as we drive along,

encased safely in the car, a road

split by the center line.

Practiced vowels, consonants and syllables

roll predictably with the hum of tires. Each topic

measured as the roadside poles,

the conversation’s selected tone

mirrors the

ca-thump ca-thump ca-thump

of the the paved highway joints.

 

We stare at the windshield and

think of things that must be said – instead,

the words shift, twist, and turn

in our mouths

like worms, then sit angrily,

before we

brood them out of separate windows in

silence and

 

continue down the road

somewhere,

the receding light of the sun

searching through glass then

fading

in the rear window,

frame by frame

until the light is

gone.

Indentation in the Female Psyche

by Tony Walton


There has been an empty space to the

left of her for some time.

All that remains is an

indentation.

 

Those who slept on that side were

kind,

some she will not forget,

others are

                  forgotten.

Some stayed for just one night

faithless arms and legs entwined,

others for years and years.

 

Once

a wanting voice flailed against the

gated silence, until exhausted and left there

in the empty spaces between words,

for the less loving one was

rarely her.

 

The corners of her disobedient

dreams flash images

in which the empty space grows,

like a stain and

she is awakened

drenched in silence, her breath pooling

around her. Some time ago there was

 

a lamp on the left side, mens fitness magazines,

and a watch of some rugged wear,

 

now the leaves of the trees tremble on

windless days and their circling rings

advance into evening.          We must ask:

What will become of this left side?

 

Ah! But stop!- and not overanalyze!

Rationally  there is a tantalizing thing that

she declines to see:

 

Through those curtained windows

under these same stars that we sleep

down winding streets

humming with air conditioners

behind the manicured lawns with

cool sprinklers,

each night,

there are many such

indentations.