floating and leaving no trace
the tip of an index
smooth it with your finger
make the seam disappear
make the seeming disappear
this struggling, squirming babe
birthed in this moment
how long did it wait in a belly
or did it spring
like a migraine
from your head
hide the evidence of your
fingerprints
and cast it in the fire
we swim in dark waters
under storm-black skies
the sound of waves
disguising the direction
of land
sightless
we grasp buoys and anchors
with our hands
unable to discern them
from one another
under the water
there is no sky
and you must sink
to stand again
this is the way
this is the way
this is the way
And now we’ve got a lovely little 50 words story of what you get when you play with fire from Poet Rummager. Visit her site and check out all of the golden voices who’ve contributed this month on the February 2017 Open Mic Page.
i’ve been skipping
through my music
one song after another
arranged like a handful
of thrown dice
waiting for the right chord
i wish i could play
an instrument
but i hate practicing
did you see the ending
to my movie
the real ending
not that crap they
played in the theaters
or on tv
there was no heroic victory
no parade
instead
a meteor crashed into my chest
you can only see it
on the director’s cut
special limited edition
blue-ray release
i’m sorry
it’s only available
in new zealand
for some reason
at some point
i start hearing the same
songs and wonder
if i missed something
A new reading is available on the February Open Mic Page and it’s a great one from Pleasant Street. You need to go follow her site. It’s worth your time.
Also, listen to the other audio delectables on the Open Mic Page, and while you’re there, why not warm up your vocal cords and participate?
dog–my companion
gutter full of stilled water
we race with the moon
i fight to keep my eyes open
though some mornings
i fight to keep them closed
how bored do you have to be
to want to take a sales call
and only avoid it because
you don’t want to disappoint
the caller?
this overcast weather must have
something to do with it
i almost wrote a poem
about the sunday chicken dinners
from my childhood
and realized
that sounded familiar
and looked it up
damned if i hadn’t
already covered the subject
down to the smell
of wet bird
and stray feathers
in the roasted skin
i wonder if my brother
missed them because he
was in a hurry
missed them because he
didn’t care
missed them because he
was already smoking dope
every poet repeats
we’re broken records
does anyone understand
that metaphor anymore?
when you say that
do people think only of runners
shaving off a tenth of a second?
someone walks by and laughs
and i can’t decide if i should
be happy they have something
to laugh about or put my face
through my monitor
someone’s phone rings
the cubicles are open
and all our ringtones identical
i look to see
if it is my phone
it isn’t
the spider i rescued from
the bathtub drain
lives now under my skin
she spins and sings a song
that only i can hear
her song is a vibrating wire
my blood is silk
i eat my wife and children
with a knife and fork
so i can call myself civilized
but i am an amateur
though earnest
and i clean up after myself
my blood is water
my blood is venom
my blood is water
Ken (Rvrlogr), has graciously linked a wonderful piece from his site. You can get to the reading on the February 2017 Open Mic Page. The link will take you to his site where there’s not just sound, but also images.
I won’t say that he does a little dance.
The honor goes to Crumpled Paper Cranes. Check out her site, check out the February 2017 Open Mic Page for links to her reading, and by all means
SUBMIT
something of your own.
Words and Feathers 