Tag: writer

september sky (20160920)

crow9 Comments

out walking
under this late
september sky

promised thunderstorms
never saw a drop of rain
dirty mud drops
spotted the bonnet of the car
where they dried

the air stinks of rain
refusing to fall
and diesel
–petrichor and fuel–
making me remember
autopia and the submarine ride
at disneyland

they don’t
take paper tickets
anymore

the blue in the sky
a cobalt strike
like earth when
you take her picture from space
clouds rolling
blisters of grey and
not quite white

i remember autumn
by the smell of leaves
wet sticky ones–all wilted lettuce
and dry ones–crackling thin potato chips

bring on the equinox
i’m ready for a day with
an equal amount of light
and darkness

no more titans (20160918)

crow11 Comments

i rest on my back
staring at a ceiling
scraped smooth
and white
by previous owners

the only thing tearing
at my liver
an eagle named
anxiety as the weekend
slips over the horizon
with the sun

i close my eyes
and see an expanse of white
and open my eyes
and see an expanse of white

i wonder what it would be like
to give the gift of fire
without getting blistered hands
if being chained to a rock
is all that bad
having made a mark
that went down on his
permanent record
and i wonder what color
his sky is

hum a few bars (20160915)

crow11 Comments

hearts carry no locks
because no keys exist
to open them
doors have locks
and require keys
and pianos have keys
and produce harmony
and harmony is made
into grits
–wait that’s wrong–
we were talking about hearts
but i got distracted
thinking about breakfast
and i’ve never actually
had grits
if i keep talking maybe
you won’t notice how
my rib cage closes in
on my heart
like prison bars
no locks just
bars

twists and turns (20160914)

crow16 Comments

it twists and turns
this road
and not easy to traverse by
any means
avoiding the infinite
fall into footsteps
of behemoths and other
rough beasts who have
trod this way before
fellow travelers
blindfolded all
led by sense of smell
and is it lilies or
the rot of decay
eye-closed pilgrims
don’t see the road
for what is is, a knife
sliding between the ribs as
it twists and turns

——

for
Jane Doughtery Writes
Poetry challenge #48: Circles and cycles

brick by brick (20160913)

crow8 Comments

i will build a pyramid
i will use bricks made
from the ashes of the dead
and blood from those who
delivered them into the cold
mother’s embrace

the mortar–ah the mortar
every word uttered
from mouths darkened
by the pitch of hate

it will rise above clouds
survivors will be forced
to climb its steep steps
in spite of the thinning
atmosphere

atonement
comes at a price
and the damned and the dead
have an infinite number
of fingers to point
at the living

a memory of shape (20160912)

crow14 Comments

the ghosts don’t have shapes, you said
it’s plain to me because the idea of a
soul is outdated, as outdated as the
idea of the homunculus the little mad
man behind the curtain telling you to
eat cookies and scratch your ass in
public

i point out that i never equated a ghost
with a human soul merely that there
were such things as ghosts and they
most definitely have shapes if not
actual substance

if a ghost is not a soul, then what is it
you ask, pressing me further on the subject

i am about to answer when the light changes
in the room and you fade out where a
beam of sunlight illuminates where you
used to sit on the sofa