hop, dark-eyed junco
you search for an easy meal
graduation day
Tag: writer
New Poem on SlasherMonster
Hey, I have a new poem up on SlasherMonster. It answers the age-old question about what to do with a broken heart.
You can check it out here (and it’s the only place you can see this poem right now, so head on over there. It’s scream.
Also be sure to check out Rose’s companion piece and her excellent reading (also available on this month’s Open Mic.
bones like flutes (20160610)
we are all
musical instruments
flutes made of bone
femur and tibia
radius and ulna
so many ribs
bleached and hollowed
drilled with precision
so that the wind
passes over us
and plays us
a dry harmony
we wait for rain
to reflesh us
and take up
our own voices
once again
on ruminating (20160609)
paranoia sits in my chest
a fist clenched around my heart
so quick it must be a snake
envenomed and eager to strike
every thought a judgment
every word a pointed finger
it’s so boring
to try to not be that way
so exhausting that i
let my gorge rise
open my mouth
and let the snake out
shadow puppet of a serpent
a hand shaped like the devil’s head
fingers curled into a fist
but still spitting poison
from my bloody, beating heart
channeling cb (20160608)
we reach the light at the same time
the woman and i
i glance at her
she’s young, fresh-faced
her hair pulled back
into a ponytail
–why doesn’t she look this way
even as i turn back to the light
still freshly red
as we approached
either one of us could have run it
made it through that stale yellow
but neither one of us did
i look at her again
i have time after all
the other traffic is just now
crossing
as a sculptor
i have to look at her face
like when i started writing fiction
and dissecting screenplays
how i ruined movies for everyone
including myself
–that’s the killer
–he’s going to die in the next act
–here comes the first big reversal
instead of just enjoying it
now i look for bones
collagen and muscle
planes, angles and shadows
–why doesn’t she look this way
and i turn back again
as traffic is slowing down
like popcorn in the microwave
just before it starts smoking
and stinking up the kitchen
just as well
she doesn’t look at me
a twitchy old bald man
who’s face is drawn up by
tortured nerves into a grimace
that could be mistaken for a leer
or is it a leer
my dad was a real womanizer
couldn’t pay attention to his kids or wives
because he was always wondering
where he was going to stick it next
thank god i mostly look like a gargoyle
half stone, half flesh and blood
so i never had to deal with that
–and why the fuck doesn’t she look this way
the light turns green
it’s just as well our eyes didn’t meet
don’t want any misunderstandings
one meeting of the eyes might be an accident
but what if we end up at this light again
tomorrow
is that a relationship
who needs an extra one of those
it’s obvious she’s looking at her phone
and i hate that shit
wings of ash (20160607)
everything moves in a circle
what i have breathed in
i will breathe out
my spine pushes its way out
through the back of my neck
hot skin, dry eyes
no pain, just pressure
like when the doctor says
you may feel a little discomfort
everything moves in a circle
what i have breathed out
i must breathe in
heavy, dark wings
emerge from my back
black snake fireworks
intumescent ash and billowing smoke
rings of fire carving new bones
where my shoulder blades once were
these wings beat
throw dust into the air
create tornadoes of choking, blinding sand
but they cannot lift me
and my arms hang now useless and free
everything moves in a circle
what i will breathe in
i have already breathed out
moon (20160606)
the top of the moon
reflects nearly as much light
as the moon’s bottom
——
for
Ronovan Writes
Weekly Haiku Poetry Prompt
Challenge 100: Top & Light
starlight and razors (20160605)
i tripped and fell and
split in half
surprised to find that the split
to be smooth and polished
as if it had been there
all along or
as if cut by a stone cutter
wet saw heavy grit polishing wheels
but the inside, the caverns
left in their natural state
filled with glittering jagged
spikes, false stars winking
each one sharp enough
to kill a man
each star promising light
but offering only razors
——
on viewing netsuke (20160604)
hand-carved figures
moving through routines
drinking, working
and working while drunk
fighting devils and feeding
the destitute
like miniature saints
so small three may they fit in
in the palm of a hand
their desires must be tiny
their furies microscopic
their fears miniscule
if only i could shrink
i would welcome my boxwood skin
though i would be forever
frozen in one moment
Open Mic for June (20160604)
Time for the monthly Open Mic Invitation.
JUST DO IT!
I admit that I wasn’t great last month. I only added one reading. What kind of example am I making here?
——
Here are the steps you need to take:
- Record yourself reading one of your own works.
- Post it on your site (or Soundcloud or any other audio hosting site).
- Include a link to this post in your post
OR Comment below
OR or send me a message using the contact form. - I will post a link with your name and poem title RIGHT HERE and on the new Open Mic page (it’s above in the menu).
- It’s an open mic invitation. NOT a challenge.
Also, if you can think of a way to improve the format, I’m all ears.
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Crow wings of ash (words and audio)
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Poet Rummager aka Rose Buried
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Graceful Press Poetry aka Jennifer Swans
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Crow the eternal hum (audio) and (words)
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Words and Feathers 