A Poem for No One

My poetry doesn’t sing
In the currency of dream.
There are no grand details,
No normal birds hopping
About, tied to some larger
Thing. There are no skies
Bleeding into the horizon
Of your eye. There aren’t
Even complaints. Not even
The shadows haunt this
Verse; they merely loiter.

My poetry doesn’t talk
In the currency of truth
Either. My poetry is
Just there for a time.
A droplet forgotten,
A mist leaving glass,
Pulled into sun.
It’s just a movement.
A beetle journeying
The refuse, a tiger
Eyeing the living thing.
Just an animal’s positioning.
An extension of machinery
That did not decide itself.

Mulch for a Useful Day

Monday beams its purpose.
My room glows over my eyes,
But it’s tough to break away
From sleep, even if I already know
I’m awake. I’ve dwindled another
Day, removed another year.
There were things I wanted
To do, but even in sleep I see
My bones softening beneath
A garden. Monday filling
The petals. The sky breathing
Red. All my plans looking
Down at the invalid leaves
Browning into brittle sleep,
Shaking their heads.

Ritualized

Bottle-up the great warriors
into memory, or use some other
pleasant craft. The stones here fill
with your eyes, elevating
the wordless dirt that surrounds
you and them. The little tombs
already feel the legends
you congeal.

Here is the version I posted on Twitter:

Bottle-up the great warriors
into memory, or some other
pleasant craft. The stones fill
with your eyes, elevating
the wordless dirt that surrounds
you and them. Each day is
a fiction you seed.
Each tribe, each war,
each kingdom, a tomb
you will help plant.


Written for #vsspic on Twitter.

The Walker

The moon throbs an ugly red,
Clouds lurch over the buildings.
No steps except my own, but I still expect
A face to float in the distance, within
The yellow of a streetlamp’s glare.

I move across the cobblestone,
A feeling hangs from the black
Branches. I will never get there.
The stars breathe cold and eye
The windows which never see.

When the sun reaches stone
I will be shadow again.


Written for OLWG #214.

Pursuit

Time to transfer your gaze
To a different sky, one beyond
Ideas, a sky that binds birds
To the machinery of flight.

Time to move your legs
And snap into the world.
Your room is dark
And doesn’t need you.

Time to listen. Listen.
There is a bigger voice
Than yours. Its words
Have already confronted
Ideas and skies. It knows
Where birds are bound,
It knows what the sky wants,
It knows the direction
The world tinges with.
All things bigger than you.

But you still stare at this sky,
You still wander your room
Filled with the darkness
Of ideas. You struggle
In the confined flight
Of ignorance. But you will
Never hear the large voice
Again. You will never welcome
It. You’re trying to find something
But you will fade, an empty shape
Darkening beneath the sky-gaze
Unseen by birds.

Sown

One hour left
until the sun reaches down
and picks the final flower.
One hour left
until the ocean leaps into sky,
until the air is peeled away.
One minute left
until the memory of memory
is seared across dust
and learns its new face.


Written for #FromOneLine on Twitter.

Curiosity

There is no sun today.
It wasn’t stolen, but fell
in my shoe. I didn’t know
what to do…so I threw it away.
Now the sun is sleeping
in a landfill or rolling in the ocean,
or sitting alone in the resentful gaze
of a viperfish.
Maybe someone will come
and mend a new sun,
one that isn’t so careless,
one that doesn’t seek
the earth, but simply knows.

Below is the version I posted on Twitter due to the character limit:

There is no sun today.
It wasn’t stolen, but fell
in my shoe. I didn’t know
what to do so I threw it away.
Now it sleeps in a landfill,
or sits alone in the resentful gaze
of a viperfish.
Maybe someone will come,
mend a new sun,
one that isn’t so careless.


Written for #FromOneLine on Twitter.

Mourning

“Let it end, let it end,” said Death
On his deathbed. “Let it end, finally
And without ceremony. Myself
And the whole play, let it finally implode
Into the densest heart where light
Can never see itself again…yes…”
And Death closed his eyes, recalled
The millions of wars, the billions of souls
That thought they were different,
And he almost smiled, knowing
He had accomplished and was
Finally done. All the planets, quiet
And pale. All the great tales forgotten.
“Let it end…” But something twisted
In the shadows. And Death, now full
Of life, pulled from his bed. Tired,
Rattled mind, sensing some new
Squirmings on a distant speck.
Death nearly cried.

More Short Poems

Love

sky clinging to windows,
air gathers memory,
but today was made
for seclusion

*

Examination

neither weird
or normal,
just a worm
without outline,
ambiguous form
beneath speculation

*

Spectator

Trees silent,
man writhing
on the trail
below, nearby a lizard
zigzags away

*

Scene

Pink sun ebbs to shadow–
old man below, sobbing
at the bus stop


Some more poems I had written for Poetryin13 on Twitter.