Types of Poetry

This is one of the Types of Poetry. A poem about The Bridge, outside "The Red Robin" - a little collage bar.
Types of Poetry

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The Bridge

by
Richard A. McCullough





Clutching up
from the dark hole of my body
the bridge yawns before me,

its steel jaws
clenched against
the dark suck of oil green water
reflecting,

rippled with light
of neon green blue
and steel girders
in brown shadows
beneath me trembling
< br>and the light of cities
bent in lust locks
beckons
its red flecked fingers
at me

and I wait there
above the water,
held in a mass of bulging steel,
contemplating,

lost in the sheer bliss
of conjecture,
waiting,

while the wind whips supple fingers
through my frame
the river sucks teasing
at my feet,

clad in feet of girders,
clad in concrete,
the silent suck beckoning,
awaiting my decision

to cross
and disappear
into the cold green of street lights,

to walk
as nights before
clad in rain,
waiting for something to happen,

or to stand here,
slipping wind across my tongue,
waiting,

or to leap there
with hands outstretched
to grasp that last instant,
with cold light beckoning
and chill fingers licking my bones,
I surrender
to the arms of space
and rushed passing
and quake there
in mental attitude
with a rush of air
to fill my ears
with screams of singing
and I know this
as I face the waters spread
with shadows of steel brown
and lights in neon reflection

that here,
beneath the shadowed reflections,
brown of shadows
and smears of reflected light,
I know

that I will find the clear light,
the wicked bleached white light
to drain my skull
and make me free,
to let me soar
in totalness of being
with the sun

or sink,
merely sink,
in groggy stupor
to murky depths of pollution
where fish swim
and tin cans lay in rusting
and a threadbare tire
becomes my cushion
until I should bloat

and rise
to greet the dawn
and hooked pole
of a harbor policeman.
Types of Poetry
And both of these I rush to,
breath sucked long ago
from out my lungs,
screams left to clutch the brown
of shadowed iron

and again to these
I plummet
in terrible expectation.

Away,
away forever,
to be free,
to join my maker
and be free
from his unkindly grasping,
away in plummet blackness
on-rushed through darkness,

away from the age
of wicked uselessness
clutching against her breast
a grocery bag
filled with nothing
but her despair,

away,
away from,
away all of this,

and there beneath the cool green suck,
waiting,
divided from my discernment,
the clear light
to bleach my skull
of all question,
of all doubt

or a mere oval
of slimy rubber
through which a fish swims
in clear polluted dejection.



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Write on...

Richard A. McCullough

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