A Question – Poems for January

A distortion in the fish’s eye.
A heavy splotch pressed against the world
Of corners.
Vibrations. The presence
Rattling the walls.
At least the fish knows something
Is there.
But if some other shadow
Emerged above the sky
And prodded our sun…
Of course we would notice.
It would be an unavoidable occurrence.
But how long it would take
For us to get acclimated, to forget
The other race, the other world
Pressing beyond intelligence?

No More – Poems for January

Though peace has now been grasped,
My heart sits there, beating its war-drum.
Decorated, adorned with various medals,
It fought valiantly on the fields of Love.
Valiantly. Now there’s a silent window.
Its gaze blurred across the glow of leaves,
Across the voiceless gardens. Ash and dust
No longer cling to the sun. This is what
Has been achieved. Yet, my heart
Beats its war-drum from its hidden room,
From its tranquil shadow.

Target – Poems for January

I had a talk
With the thought,
Asked why
It was doing this,
But it evaporated
Into skin. The day
Puddled into dark
Where I became
A minor reflection.

Later: it came back,
Didn’t even need
A door, pushed away
My food and laid
On the kitchen counter.
Why, why, why.
This time it decided
To stay with its own
Silence. And I had
To forget hunger
As it spread
Into a new room.

A few moments passed
And now I’m 83.
The thought became
Its own door as I froze
In white blankets,
Sterile lights, colorless
Walls blanking starely.
All things converged,
Including me,
To the thought
As it sauntered over
To my side.
Why…Why…
An answer hissed
Through its teeth,
But it wasn’t there.
Smiled as the light
Stepped through
The window.

Years and years later
And I’m still alive
And so is something else.
The sky is cement
Against my back
As I struggle to walk
To the grocer.
There are no more
Faces, a few memories
Left rattling in the pockets,
And the thought
Waiting at the curb
Waiting in delight
For me to turn around.

Inspiration – Poems for January

The world’s greatest poet
Decided to go for a walk.
Birds swirled with the clouds,
The sun curled inside
The pavement as he stepped
Through the morning.
“Are you working on another
Masterpiece?” But the poet
Did not answer, only smiled
And continued on. Through
The park, the grass rose
To meet him. “Excuse me,”
The tiniest blade asked,
“What is it going to be about?
Love, death, breakfast?”
But the poet did not answer
And smiled, and left the grass
Behind. The sun slid
Into red, shadows curled
Between the buildings,
And the poet was still
Walking. Walking. “Hey,”
A voice popped-up from
The garbage bags.
“Where’s your poem,”
Asked one of the racoons.
“Where is it?” But the poet
Did not look and moved
Down the alleyway until
He found a hidden entryway
To a shady den donned
With graffiti and foul scents.
A shadowy face emerged
Before him with a faded glare.
“Well, hello again,” said
The face. The poet gulped.
“What do you need?” The poet
Struggled for his words.
“I need a line,” he said. “Or,
Just a few words. A phrase.
Anything!” The face twisted
A grin. “Aw, but a man
Of your talent? Tsk. Tsk.”
The poet’s eyes cast down
And the face continued
To grin and led him down
A hallway.

The creature in the corner,
Pile of flesh, an eye
Opening as the two entered.
The poet stared as the small
Creature sighed.
The poet approached it
Slowly, placed a hand
On the soft yellow flesh.
The creature moaned
And the poet’s eyes fell
Backward and everything dropped
Into a pit.

The poet woke-up
On damp ground.
The creature’s eye closed,
Drained once again,
Wheezing.
The poet rose-up
And led out of the darkened room,
Out of the shady den, paid
The grinning face and stepped
Through the night. Foul.
Foul. But as he walked
He noticed the stars hovering
Above the rooves and soon
A few words seeped
Into his mind. He continued
And a poem started to glow
Before him. He got home
And the poem raced across
The page. Perhaps,
He thought, this would be
Another classic. He nodded
To himself and went to bed
And the day gazed its light
In his room, satisfied once more.

Somewhat Truthful – Poems for January

Today i only have a limited amount of time
To describe the barren and beastly fixtures
That cloister this mind. That is all these poems
Have really amounted to. They’re not really here
To communicate an idea, but to convey
The same wretched state the world
Is already witness to. But it’s a good thing
That this is the path i’ve been nudged;
I could have been dropped into a rich estate,
Groomed for statesmanship, another
Well-constructed senator with reverie
For a voice, using a lofty position
To deal with some inner-wants
Regardless of benefit. Fortunately,
For you and i, i’m just an innocent
Without a nugget of power, whose tools
Consist of pens, notepads and cheap
Black tea, writing poems i hope no one sees.


Written for Stream of Consciousness Saturday/Just Jot it January, Word of the Day Challenge, and Fandango’s One Word Challenge. For SoCS, I picked-up Hermann Hesse’s “Strange News from Another Star,” closed my eyes and my finger landed on the word “ignoble.”

Made of Metaphor – Poems for January

Know how to consider the mind I’ve gained:
hardly a sophisticated river, it riots green
and thoughtless fish. Or maybe
it’s a throbbing coal churning dim-fires,
a burning creature gripping at eyes
edging towards sleep.

Sometimes, it’s a theater
of you, a theater of grotesque
misshapened figures
clamoring memory, clangs of piano throats,
drumming voices busting air. A music
becomes as i try to settle the moment,
maybe focus on work, but performances
shoot across the eyes, make a noise
of my skull.

Tonight, it’s a stick
tattled by wind, bound
to a torrid song
pouring from the sky.
A stick that doesn’t desire,
but sits in shaking.
And tonight, i watch
wishing it was softer
than blue. I wish i can
sit beneath the window’s
blue hiss. But the only shape
that can be occupied
protrudes against air.

Blackout Poem – Poems for January

A certain fortitude comes in

When you have to write a poem

But you have no power,

And all the pens have dried out in protest,

Your computer is dead,

And all that is left is this phone, which has to be alive enough to wake you because work stills awaits at 8, yet is so close to fading…

Actually not fortitude, just a silliness of a world you slip on as you hear an ambulence and talks of distant fire.

The wind rushes through the lively dark uninhibited by hungry windows and squinting streetlights.

Advancements – Poems for January

All of everyone and all of you–
made of tiny rooms
that we cannot enter.
Maybe through some machine-
eye we can see a touch
of darkness, but there will
always be limits.
In a few thousand years
we will be completely different
just through sheer change
of machinery and placement
among star-clusters.
Different beings, but even then
the rooms will still be dark
to us. Parts of us, parts
of out-there will come out
in whispers, some may even
sight some glimpses,
but we will only know yearning,
or at least for some of us.
For most, the darkness-promises,
the ever-close whispers
are barely noted, perhaps
out of necessity, perhaps
because there are better things
to worry about.