Birth of PoetryI tangled my fingers in the curls of the universe,Birth of Poetry3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
pulled. The earth fell out: round, warm, spinning.
Awkward and shy, she wondered how she got here; how
a rock that got wet and grew moss could be significant.
So I scooped her up in my fingers, breathed her scent:
(lilies and oceans and ozone and forests and fish and birds
and whales and rain and the empty elegance in wolf howls)
death and life. I found chaos
and knew beauty.
if a tree falls in...a fenceless gardenif a tree falls in...2 years ago in Haiku & Eastern More Like This
defenseless and unguarded
she watches you grow
now accepting applications...the smoke beneath your bed finally finds younow accepting applications...8 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
staring crooked in broken mirrors
for the fire of your former features
forever and ember
still breath and false starts
'til it whispers
the universe is big business
but the fact of (the) matter is
it desires you deposit d.n.a.
demanding genetic building blocks
on which to lay its foundation
and though the future of father's daughters
the sun set's assured
I'm eagerly anticipating the arrival
of the non-linear one-liner
yes it all implodes in infinity
but buildings retain their names anyway
mountains and their silhouettes sit still
yet oppose portraits on general principal
the stars think they're brilliant
the general population favors vague impressions
most allow the words
(to escape unnoticed)
Quick Fire SketchA man walking. A dog barking. The man's head is on fire. The world is on fire. The fire is on fire. The fire burns unevenly down one side of the man's lapel. The man is naked. The man glows from within, red razor slash smile, concrete eyes. The man is gone, and a moon appears. It rises quickly and disappears. A tree is barking. The woman's eyes are taped with black electrical tape Xs. She looks for the man, then leaves with the trees. The fire has missed her somehow. The dog is barking at god. God is on fire. These words are on fire. You are on fire.Quick Fire Sketch2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
another doomed doomsdaymankind set their clocksanother doomed doomsday3 years ago in Haiku & Eastern More Like This
the omniscient unknowing
slept through the rapture
Grass AngelSunsplashed buildings, clear blue skiesGrass Angel3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
No traffic, no pedestrians; silence.
The end of June, the end of music.
No birds, no wind, no dreams
except this one.
This clinical, sterile dream,
Inside looking out
As the sun slowly makes its way
across the sky,
The only sound is the ticking clock.
I'm going outside to make a grass angel.
DrownBlackness at three AMDrown3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
Books of hymns
Ribbons, wreathes, smoke
Phone calls from the dead
These things I know
the end and also everythingthe end and also everything3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
listen with the skin
I've lost the album of my life
vistas and their episodes
ones that you were in
the wind is warm
than nights or vessels
the wind is
all there ever is
it comes: the universe
is not adding
light to darkness
we are the shadows
we'll leave the outside
from one to One.
rhetoricrhetoric3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
they say insanity
in failing strategies.
what is living,
What is loving
forget about meforget about me2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
don't listen for it, anymore:
the ugly balladist, the poète maudit
unbosoming his delustrants,
strangulations and subglossal annulments.
i want you to find my secret life, the arrhythmia
of spoondrift oblivions.
open out your palms to me; i'm over-swelling with octonaries, octonaries!
that is where i've been these years,
in the night between kneeholes.
Willing FleshFlesh the means, spirit the end,Willing Flesh2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
yet still the unintended. While deep
embedded in the pulsing rhythms
of the body's routine life, it transcends
physicality, flourishing in realities
never imagined before. Spirit is the key
to unlock the heavy door, to make
the great discovery of joy.
made from killing sleepmade from killing sleep3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
has murdered you;
poppies and feathers and gray impressions
are all that's left
RecessionA man on fire walked calmly out of the building, through glass doors that were maybe there, maybe not. Hit the bricks, pound the pavement, skin a cat or two. I saw what he was thinking, it formed a black cloud above his head.Recession3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
He thought of old photographs and wicker furniture, of how dark it was inside for all of those plants to thrive. He thought of chances taken and opportunities missed. The monologue in his burning head was a constant buzzing fly, a death rattle.
Old TV shows, bad poetry, seasons, songs and metalworks; nothing could shut out the memories or calm the storm inside. Treading water, he wished that he could fly again. Over the horizon he walked, never seeing the starving child scuffling along behind.
A man on fire disappeared from the picture plane today, through glass doors that were maybe there, maybe not. Hit the road, Jack, make tracks, don't step on a crack. Leaving dust and ash, smoke-feathers and birthday candles, he receded.
Rainy Day Waltzi.Rainy Day Waltz2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
The missles fall
like rain in a water-starved world
quenching thirst with blood
that runs wasted in the gutters.
The rounds fire in 3/4 time
while civilians waltz delicately in circles,
brushing steps with Death and his dance partner
The grenades flash like the snap of a camera.
With the click of a pin
Time freezes -
caught between two futures.
In one I die;
in the other
I wish I had.
18. She dreams...she dreams of18. She dreams...2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
sprouting wings and
soaring, to the place where
every alleyway, every side road
brings promises of new adventures,
she dreams of
walking, among the solemn
winged lions that watch with eyes
of stone, the insignificant ants,
scurrying, always hurrying,
knowing they would snort with contempt
if they could (she would)
she dreams of
crossing those frowning bridges
over the green glass (it moves), perching
on the steps that lead down to a world beneath
and listening to the deep voice of the man rowing past
singing in a language so sweet
(she won't understand, but you
never have to understand beauty)
she dreams of
sitting in the plaza, watching
the people pass and understanding
what they're talking about, and maybe
after that, she would go find
the old man that
sold her the clay whistle
(shaped like a bird bath)
that trills like a bird,
whenever she adds just the right amount
of water and wind, and maybe
they could talk, without need
of a translator and feed the pigeons
Meditation on ThoughtBegin the quiet storm of fidgeting,Meditation on Thought3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
a drum, a drum:
fingers through hair,
the insides of my lids.
My mind grows scrublands.
"What do you mean?" and,
"What do I mean?"
I tend slowly toward the abstract.
Pine trees sprout from my hair,
a forest of church steeples.
Whippoorwill am I,
and my fingers stretch
to build me bridges of stone,
a whole cathedral of bone archways.
My Michelangelo eyes sit restless
in a face of white and green marble.
The smallest drop of rain
against the window
and my thoughts collapse
I must begin again.
There is a secret
as the drops of water
roll down the glass.
september fourteenthshe fills me with smokeseptember fourteenth3 years ago in Haiku & Eastern More Like This
clouds crowning slumbering sky
night gains its lustre
the gift that keeps ungivingher dark artsthe gift that keeps ungiving3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
and pale arms
lunar tics these
half-witted quips and
verbal cheap tricks my
seems she sees
this mess as
want to be
not the oft
un- or sub-
and dashed hopes
of dusk and
sparks & signs
of possible light
of passable life
of that one last
at getting it
immediacyimmediacy2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
this new little truth
this robin egg
brooding in skies'
for a mercy
damn this featherbrain
with its wilding
'till they burn
to a soft nilpotency -
i'll make a bed
here's my nirvana: the ache of the ramrod's
slow dreaming death
in the waist - oh
i hope i'll be replaced
with pure eraser white
in a comfortable beheading -
there's no telling
with one less
and the parting
Love Songs to the MoonHe's lonely, just another dreamer-boy with his head in the clouds.Love Songs to the Moon2 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
For a boy who would never be loved, he had so much love in him.
She runs her tongue along her teeth. Are you afraid of dragons? she asks.
I imagine her with scales and wings, breathing fire. I tell her no, I'm a knight in shining armour.
Oh, she says with mock seriousness, you're fearless then.
I'm afraid, I say softly, I'm afraid of falling.
She leans in close. I feel her breath on my lips as she whispers, What about falling in love?
I forget how to breathe. The world starts to spin and I close my eyes.
Then she kisses me full on the mouth and my spine turns to feathers. I feel hollow, weak, like I just might blow away in the wind with this fairytale reaching across my tongue. I feel her lips against mine; my heart starts to beat too fast and I feel a tingling sensation across my chest. I think my lungs are going to catch fire.
He likes to run the broken sidewalk and sing love songs to the moon. He doesn't ne
Drown MondaysThe best way I foundDrown Mondays2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
to catch my seven-twenty train
is to miss the seven-o-five, be late
and grow a glut of yin
from the corpses of yangs
drown mondays to breathe tuesdays
but I nibbled cake and kept it too;
I caught the seven-o-five
and the hands fell off the clock,
fell off my wristwatch
Grandmother's HouseThe smell of hot concrete rising from the sidewalkGrandmother's House3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
and the tar on the wooden bridge
The sound of trains coming and going
So close that the small house was rattled
It was always summer, there.
Screen doors and a small rotator fan were enough
to keep out the mild heat of June
The train whistles sang me to sleep at night
With their wistful traveling tune
It was always summer, then.