An oasis of joy and wonderment
Another day, another eye
hovering above some distant bleeding;
this time, an old woman cradling
a man taking too long to die.
Captain advises me not to use another
bullet, so my screen watches.
On the train home, lingering
on those two targets. The man,
if things were askew, would have
gunned me in my home. But amid
these passengers, I still imagine
his small dusty eyes. And over there,
the old woman quietly bleeding
on her seat as if death is just
another stop.
The Surrealists too often dreamed
of yellow lands, or perhaps it is all
the same stretch of sand tying mind-
to-mind; maybe we’re mere parts
of one thing. Regardless, I venture
through a painting tonight. A sickly
structure fleshes before me. It beings
a hand (perhaps a wave) and eyeless
birds wisp above brittle stems
and vague shapes, a pathetic population.
And behind the horizon, the melting
clocks and bent interiors of dream.
Forgotten tests, endless school halls,
women–these were the things I used
to dream. Now I walk, trapped within
a journey, stepping across sights made
by others, knowing I will no longer wake.
Written for dVerse OpenLinkNight #398 using the optional prompt of the above painting. Looking at it again the land seems more brownish than yellow. Oh well, too late to go back now.
the sun has turned
into winter
in my cave, leaves
in my backside
hibernate
until a new year
enters the sky
maybe next time
I will be better
someone who can speak
to her, someone who can
jog across mornings,
someone who understands birds
Written for dVerse’s Quadrille #238. This week’s prompt was “hibernate.”
A black eye growing
on the president’s hand.
Nothing, but strange enough
to be painted over. “He meets
1000s every day and shakes
each one, more than any
president ever.” Purple death
spreading beneath the made-up
skin, the eyes shrinking, a mind
searching for a lie. Like usual,
it’s nothing; another nation
in its final spasm. No treatment,
just watch the empire become
another name.
White eye pinned to him
as he moves through cold
pieces of this evening.
He laughs at the warm
windows of big homes,
the lives tucked within.
A tune comes to him
from the moon. These cracked
claws used to run smooth
across keys. And she
with closed eyes, finding
her low haunted voice.
A bush moves. He stops
then grins, envisions
the stars finding knives,
and a couple kids
seeing him slumped
in the morning snow.
He never needed
family or her
voice or a job or–
the bush? No, there is
something greater than
a small creature here.
The middle of this
street he realizes
you are here with him
in this poem. You,
however, can slip
behind a window,
but he has to move
along distant streets
and distant lights. You
have too much freedom,
too much warmth. He laughs
at your window, no
choice, but he never
needed one. He moves
along these cold lines.
A tune plays within
a distant place, but
it’s no longer ours.
Written for dVerse’s MTB prompt which was to write a poem using The Tableau form. One of the requirements was to describe a picturesque scene. I don’t know if this qualifies; it’s more picturesque-adjacent. But it’s an interesting form I should try using again.
When I was small it was my favorite color.
My blanket was blue and so were my eyes
and the pool glowing around me as I searched
for the deep end.
Color doesn’t leave you even as your eyes
dim. I no longer swim but there’s the ocean
grasping for me. Within its color the bones
of sailors, slaves, seekers, and fools.
The ocean was bright when we ran
along its touch and we pulled up castles
against layers of blue. The sun split in half
and shadow slid across the water.
But amid the oranges and reds,
blue was still there beneath our shadows.
And the sky was wide with blue
when mom told me you died.
When I was a kid blue was a simple thing
you could hold in your hand. It was a blanket,
or a block that goes right there. Now the sky
mutters different languages as my eyes
begin to blur above the graying ocean.
windowless home
with toys waiting
to be touched,
a door wishing
to be opened.
can you?
Written for the Weekend Writing Prompt #445.
One day, I decided to make zero.
Mathematical reasons, sure, but I knew
nothingness needed to be reduced
and made clean. You can move zero
around, and walk through it
like a harmless door. And make life
or death a mere matter of subtraction.
Written for dVerse’s Quadrille 237: Zero.
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