Poetry

A Modest Bestiary

Start small. With the word. The word. The Word.
Sentences grow from words coupled. Words reproduce as they are wont.
Thoughts grow from sentences lifted from the page.
Dreams are thoughts’ uninhibited cousins,
Making messes thoughts will have to clean up later.
But dreams make life interesting, so thoughts let them stick around.

Dreams also feed thoughts.
Thoughts take bits and pieces of dreams and string them together into
Sentences. The progeny of Words. Words made flesh as they
are written into existence from the mysterious cradle of the mind.
The mind borne of another Mind which spoke it into existence.
Start at the beginning with the word. The word. The Word.

(photocredit)

About an Orange

This was a spur of the moment poem I wrote over my lunch break for a former coworker, Mark Selvidge. He was bemoaning the waste of the shriveled orange on his desk that he kept forgetting to eat:

Of Mark’s Forgotten Orange

Behold once blithe fair maiden fruit
How diminished she dost appear
Passed over oft for sustenance of a different sort
Coyly, shyly yet ever hopeful, she plied her seductive citrus wares
And welcomed every longing glance of yon lusty young bachelor
But ere hunger could be satisfied, withered she before his eyes
Under relentless fluorescent glow
How could it be one suckled from mother earth
Dandled upon father sun’s accommodating rays
Succumbed to such a mournful blight which dims the fair rouge’d
Cheeks plumpt with sweet nectar and left poor shrunk old maid in its stead?
Fruitfulness entombed forevermore in dried up inner chambers
Hear the toll of baleful time’s relentless din
Feel the weight of time’s foreboding scythe
Incline your ear and pay you heed to the lugubrious song of unrequited love.

Untitled

Oh to see. I am blind.

Or at least myopic. The tip of my nose marks the

Boundary of my sight.

Are my eyes inside out?

Is everything upside down?

You. Died. For. Me.

I try to look back across centuries, millenia

To see you die for me, but my straining eyes

Fail me.

History grows stale on the page.

Give me new eyes so I can see.

Make mud again for me.

Touch my eyes with your fingers.

The same fingers that painted stars onto an abysmal canvas.

The same fingers that traced an unfolding history into the stone

For an exiled people.

The same fingers that drew in the sand to erase the shame

Of a woman condemned.

Let me see the scars you purchased with your blood.

The souvenirs of your journey into the yawning jaws of death

To snatch me away from its infinite darkness.

Show me.

I want to see.

I want to believe.

I want to be changed.

Surface Tension

I dream.
What might have been, what may still be.
Thin tensile strength of buoyant rest undisturbed.
Soul mirrors stream across a transparent stage.

I fall.
Glimpses of sun break the surface.
The bubble bursts.
Phantoms flee before the power of dawn.
The prodigal returns.

I wake.
Born again in yawning eyes.
Find sink and soak till sleep is washed away.
Waves splash from earnest hands; bring me back to life.

I see.
Caffeine completes the aftershock.
Ripples spread from core to limbs.
Two feet land solid on the ground.
Mind again is cognizant.
The spell again is broken.