Working Still


—Working Still by Borg de Nobel / http://borgeous.wordpress.com/ used with permission /


ing still

flamed spoon

soars over moon


life in frames


with the reel still spin-


mountain of film



from my – my – my



from fall-


with the other thirty-three percent

muted lips




of stained

ash black

residue of life before the numb-




straight jacket





of my weakness

captured by the glimpse

of an artiest





For dVerse http://dversepoets.com/

We were prompted to write a poem from a painting by Borg de Nobel http://borgeous.wordpress.com/



I Still Love You …


If I could walk down your avenue just after a light rain, see the sunrise and smell the freshness of your beauty and freedom; I know I would still be in love with you. But why the smoke stacks? Why does blood trickle into street gutters? Why the uranium? Why the tanks. Why the shackles? Why fields scarred with mass graves? Why the language of another? Why the hidden tattoos of eastern myth? Why are birds scarce; their songs lost in siren’s scream? Why do your mothers bury their children? Why do schools burn in heaps like leaves in fall? Why does your guitar lay silent; your cello mute; your choirs gagged with red scarves. Why do your rivers kill fish? Why is McDonald’s still open and your restaurants rot? Why do your forests burn and hide the sky? Why are your beaches soiled with oil? Why are your churches empty? Why do your hospitals mold? Where are your people? Where is the face I long for; ache for; cry every night for?


Oh, I still love you and I always will. But I will never understand a suicide that kills everything but itself. I never will.


The Taste

For Layne …

 There is a sun that never sets;

a cloud that never rains.

There is a bird that always sings;

a song that never dies.


There is a town that never sleeps;

a heart that always pumps.

There is a tear that never cries;


a dream that never wakes.


And then somewhere

between the Porsche

and gardens green and lush;

an eight ball hides inside a bag;

a dragon chasing bombs.


I soloed wings

in Amsterdam;

my rig, my point, my works.

Brown sugar takes the taste away;

of life, of love, of luck.


There is a sky where dragons fly

at night when you’re in bed..

Where songs are wrote in mud and snow;

of things you’ll never seek.


There is a house in – Montreal;

where music isn’t free.

You have to ante with your – life;

and bet – on number three.


They love us all and pay us well;

white ghosts without a face.

They sell our lives to you and yours …

until our veins – bleed clear.


Brown sugar – takes – the taste – away.

Brown sugar – takes – the taste

Brown sugar – takes and takes and takes

until – the end – is typed.




The Hunted

The underside of green
below les muscles tendus
aged canopies
war dangereuse happens

le chasse
scan ciel blue
hidden like worms
knitted in dead grass
warmed by leaves fallen
stained with shadows
noir et bruised

they fear
hungry birds
rouge in des robes
scarves of couleur bleue
talons clinched blanc
recherche for les etrangers

The aliens hope with sun dipped
brushstrokes de nouveau dreams
on the warm side
de vert



If I could touch
the way
you used to be
with the hands
I used to have.

I’ve harpooned the whale a thousand times.
It just won’t die.
My ship is wrecked.
I float on splintered timbers.
And it just circles me,
the whale,
with all my harpoons protruding its flesh.
it refuses to kill me.
In fact it nestles near, begging me to grab a harpoon out of its skin
and stab it again.
A whale that can’t be killed, and a whale that will destroy everything I have,
but me.

It’s like you and the lion.
I understand.

But nobody knows,
nobody sees our beasts,
me in the sea,
and you in the jungle,
half dead,
except us.

I was going to let loose, and drown, until I found this message floating in a bottle.

If I could touch
the way
you used to be
with the hands
I used to have.

I get that,
but yesterday can’t kill today,
so we need a tomorrow.
The message isn’t about the past.

If I could touch
the way
you used to be
with the hands
I used to have,
we’d have tomorrow.

That keeps me floating today.


She Plays Me

Her sad eyes hid in caverns dark,
her bruised lips swelled and dried;
I saw her sitting in the rain,
as faceless men – walked by.

A child twined in vines of lies,
with tattered clothes and hair;
I saw her drowning in the rain,
as blind men blocked – her stare.

I asked my pop if we could stop,
and see what we could do;
he said my lessons could not wait,
and pulled me passed her – too.

Her one eye twitched as I drug passed,
her lips turned blue and gray;
I saw her dying in the rain,
and never learned – her name.

It’s why my music – cries – today;
she plays me – every string;
she lives on – beyond that rain,
inhabiting – my dream.


I See A Bee

Beneath a tree, inside a jar ………. outside a hive, I see a bee

A prison wall surrounds a bed, within a pod ……………. kept hid from light

An island lost ………… ‘tween seas of blue, a stranded soul, sunburned to crisp

All breath is crushed, as walls fall in, and crumble down …………. in clouds of dust


A prison wall, surrounds a bed …………… within a pod, kept hid from light

And tears are shed ……………… and tears are shed

All breath is crushed ………. as walls fall in, and crumble down, in dank dust clouds

A dream, a dream ……………… a dream please be


And tears are shed …………… and tears are shed

Storm clouds swirl black, unleashing rain …………. releasing fear, repressing life

A dream, a dream ………….. a dream please be

My clock unlocked, is dead unplugged, in darkness dawn …………. ‘side curtains drawn


And prayers are prayed ………………… and harps are played

An island lost, ‘tween seas of blue ………. a stranded soul, sunburned to crisp

Its sound grows faint ………………….. the buzz decreased

Beneath a tree, inside a jar, outside a hive ………………… I see a bee