Dividing

It doesn’t seem like death,
this trail, long and dry
with former ants. The child
just glees at the odd
contribution to the backyard
scene, a line that once squirmed
with conspiracy, now sprayed
and quiet. The gust comes
to tug, but nothing compels
the black crumbs back
into march. The child smiles
and launches.


Written for #vsspoem on Twitter. Made some edits.

Planned-Out

Observing my death
as it hums my little screen,
I start to reconsider things.
After dinner, I will call
my fading mother.
Tomorrow I will slip-off
to Jamaica. I’ll stomp
the air and spin several masterpieces,
once this spoiler ends. Maybe
I will call mom tomorrow.


Written for #vsspoem on Twitter.

The Ugly

I attempt to fashion an ode
for the loathsome toad squatting
in the cobblestone road. Drivers
weaving their lives around his
sudden head as if seeing
the dead, but the toad
does not move, as if slowed
by a thing greater than life,
its grey face failing to twitch
at the closeness of a wheel,
ignorant of death’s heavy
seal. This droll softness
eyeing nothing from its puddle-
door. A thereness that dwells
in empty mode. There is
an ode that we try to invent
of the ones we loath as we
hurry on roads, hoping
we can stop and be
some dull-grey nestled
in a place beyond
days.


Written for Stream of Consciousness Saturday.

Roles

The machines are not
machines–they are
finally their own as the humans
fled into another sky.
And the machines blinked
and chattered along the orange
flesh of sand, deciding if they have
to service themselves, each other,
or the sun which seemed
like nothing before.


Written for #SciFanSat on Twitter.

Tell It to the Mountain

Come to me when you’re filled
With suicidal contemplation
And I will write it down
Come to me when your children
No longer speak
And I will write it down
Come to me when your house
Is paved beneath waves
And I will write it down
From my hill
From my A/C
As the sun chews on air
And the rich sleep
On Mars or in Wellington

Come to me when you complain
That I used you for a song
And I will write it down
I don’t need a reason
I don’t need a responsibility
My poems won’t save another’s sky
My poems won’t remap the ocean
But just as long as someone else is alive
I will write it down
I will write it down
And save it on the fridge
For God to see


These are more song lyrics than poetry.

Sea-Thing

In a sea of faces,
I am fish. I swim
when others stand,
when others toss around
love and laugh beneath
leaves. I swim.
(I lip for a sky
to hook my little eye.)

Father was a human,
mother held warm blood.
I’m ready to drape
beside my spine
and sleep next to ice.


Written for #FromOneLine on Twitter.

Just a Couple of Sentences

A couple of stories written for Reena’s Xploration Challenge #194. The prompt was to write something using polysyndeton. I decided to write a couple of stories, 1 long, complex sentence each.

Tactile Night

Couldn’t sleep (or wouldn’t,) so I went for a walk and when I stepped from the warmth of the hallway, the sky launched itself at me and the cold carried me down the street as the branches curled above, and I walked and walked and felt like a strange, grey thing, but then my thoughts slid into the shades as I saw something on the street, a shape stopping beneath a street lamp, its ears poking upward, steam rising around it, and then it rushed towards me, without sound, and I moved in a walk, but then ran, ran, and ran, and my legs slowed and wobbled and shrunk into the concrete, and the creature rose behind, and, finally, I woke on the road, near the gutter, and the sun beaming into my neck, but I couldn’t recollect myself or ponder the moments that rose into the black, but instead had to merge into the day, and be gone with the others.

The Great One

Mr. Darius wandered from field to field, from city to city, from nation to nation, because, well, after a while, even the most sonorous of sights fell into smallness, like a distant star in a child’s mind slouching into a dull wristwatch, and Mr. Darius had seen many sights, and while he tried to impress himself with a new corner of an evolving world, he knew that, after a while, every civilization, every war, every scientist, every wide-eyed toddler was just another variation he had seen years, decades, or centuries prior, and so Mr. Darius moved from sky to sky, beyond the sun’s grapple, like a prehistoric quadruped lost and squirming in yet another bright and shiny millennium.

Evened: Observations from a Grave

Give me a reason
to pluck my soul back from the clouds.
I’ve already gotten used
to this stage. I don’t even know
how long I’ve been closed.
This pocket of earth is larger
than any field we’ve held.
I don’t miss you, your name
is gone. And it’s not even
darkness.


Originally posted on Twitter for #FromOneLine with a word change and additional line break.

A Face of Air

After a while, when you have known enough
of this desert and your shadow seeps
into the sun, you will be like me:
a mirage, a drifting figure
that the air encloses for the others
traversing this land. Something stranger
and more sinister than memory.

The original version posted on Twitter:

After a while, when you have known enough
of this desert and your shadow seeps
into the sun, you will be like me, a mirage,
a drifting figure that the air encloses
for the others traversing this land.
Something sadder and more sinister
than memory.


Written for #vssDreams

Trapped to Something

Find me
on a rock walking in the spaces
between planets.
It’s all movement trying to get
somewhere, but I never approach
such silly things. I sit, read
sometimes, then look up
and see your rocket (another
one!) trying to find, trying to be
what I already lost.


Written for #FromOneLine on Twitter.