Tag: poetry

Millard!

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O, Millard Fillmore gold dollar coin!
How shiny thou art!
Zounds!
Your luster and glisten have no equal among currency!
Your visage may be one that scowls, but your undepicted heart beats bravely, rest assured.
I tap you against a glass table… once… twice… three times, my, how you sing brightly!
If it were not a sin, I’d worship your graven image, I would.
But, alas, parting is sweet sorrow, and the waffle-chips are my craving.
Sally forth into the coin-slot as the ransom for my snacking desire.
I will gaze upon your beauty no more.
Farewell, brave coin, Farewell!

Sylvia

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On my screen, the auction timer crawled down to zero.
I won! I won!
I paid the seller, insisting on overnight delivery.
They accepted. Unlike when I offered to buy it outright for a thousand dollars.
They said they’d risk their rating.
Jerk!
I’ve wanted this all my life. I can’t wait another day.
The next day, I grab the box out of the postman’s hands, tear it open and pull out…
Sylvia Plath’s oven mitts!
I can’t wait to cook with them.
I turn on the oven… and…
Oh, what’s the use?
Goodbye, cruel world.
(And enjoy the cookies.)

A whisper in the ivy

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I hear a whisper in the ivy.
Is it the wind, blowing through the leaves?
On the ground, in a bed of green, covered with shadows, I see something.
I kneel down to look closer, but there is nothing there.
Another whisper. This time behind me.
And yet another. To my left. To my right.
It is the wind, and it wants to tell me something.
It breathes down my neck, past my arms, through my fingers.
“What is it?” I whisper back. “What do you want to tell me?”
Silence. The wind keeps its secrets, locked in the ivy.

Jackals and Jokers

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Jackals and jokers line the streets.
Licking their lips as the coffin goes by.
A nice juicy leg would make such a treat.
You bite through the knees while I tug on the feet.
Don’t lock down the lid.
We all want a peek.
No? Not this time?
What if we promise not to suck out the other eye?
We made him. We own him. He is a part of us.
Let us tear him apart. Let us scatter his bones.
When we are done all is left is his suit.
What size did he wear? I take forty-two long.

I Killed The Moon

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Look at this knife.
This knife is mine.
I threw it at the moon.
And killed it.
Its blood raining down.
Dead.
Police station.
Jail. Behind bars.
Arrested for murder.
Other cells hold drunks. Hookers. Thieves.
I am the only murderer.
“Why did you do it?” asks the cop.
“I don’t know,” I said. “I had a knife. It was there. It followed me home.”
This angers him.
“Why did you do it?” he shouts.
I really don’t know. All I know, is that I killed the moon.
Every night, my victim up there in the sky.
Still following me.

The Birds

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The trees are filled with so many birds.
Black as the night, silent and watching.
They only move their heads to follow us.
I’ve never seen them fly.
For as long as I have watched them, not a single one has left or arrived.
Just turning their heads without a sound.
I haven’t seen any other kinds of birds around since they arrived.
I haven’t heard any, either.
Where have they all gone?
Where did these birds come from?
Nobody knows.
We watch them in shifts now, and nobody’s seen any changes.
Just staring at us.
And we stare back.

Halves

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It was a beautiful marriage, and they made beautiful music together.
While it lasted.
It didn’t last.
Arthur ended up with the player piano. Leslie got all the scrolls.
Arthur would sit at the piano, tap a key now and then, and listen to the note.
He searched for the scrolls on eBay, but never found any for that model of piano.
Leslie would open up the scrolls and hold them up to the light, the intricate patterns of holes making her wonder what style that song was played with, what nuances.
Apart and alone, they made horrible silence together.

De-inspiration

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Inspiration means to breathe life into a creation.
But what happens when you want to take that part of your life back?
Especially when your creation wants more, and is sucking the life out of you?
Always waking up breathless, needing to do more.
No more.
You step back, close your mouth, and hold your breath.
Your creation begins to turn blue and suffocate.
It begs for air. It begs for life.
“I need it more than you do,” you think to yourself.
It’s hard to watch your creation die.
And once you kill it, you feel empty yet again.

Chipmunk

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I mourned your death, O Furry Little Creature – so small and cute you were.
Day after day.
Year after year.
Century after century.
This ritual never changes.
I hold out the little peanut, you see it and stand up, sniffing the air.
I shake it. You creep closer, slowly, wary.
Almost close enough now. One paw reaches. I toss the peanut behind you.
You start to flee, but you stop. Sniff.
You grab it and scurry away.
To the road. The highway. A truck is coming, but you do not see it!
Splat!
I will miss you, my furry friend.

I was a pirate

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I had a dream I was a pirate.
We sailed the seven seas, although I think we may have sailed one sea twice. And that last one may have been a municipal pool.
I’m not that good with maps and charts. And I tend to look down the wrong end of a spyglass. Oh, and I get seasick in the bathtub.
But this is my dream, okay? And I was a pirate in my dream.
I didn’t have a hook for a hand. Or a pegleg. Or even an eyepatch.
Just a pirate, sailing the seven seas of my dreams.