Ink flows on the paper as the pen knows what to write each stroke a new character the broken lines filling with tight script that tells stories hip tales of heroes, their actions throes of pain and glories I have no need for names or thought for the pen knows all about their battles fought My hand is but the vessel giving voice to the caper
Jimmy and Jeb lived in a loft
Jimmy never paid attention to what things cost
Poor Jeb paid it all
Until he took a fall
and Jimmy’s saprophytic existence was lost
chip- one little movement chip- one little moment chip- one little minute Like a game of Jenga Life crashes around me
I wrestle with words, create the perfect advice, I know I won't take
The fir wood is barely discernible through the fog, as we sit sipping coffee on the dock. There is a hush settling around us, but for the frogs, as, slowly, a moonbeam breaks through. It trips across the unbroken surface of the lake, dancing on the mirrored aspect now view able. I wriggle a little, attempting to shake the numbness from the concrete shelf we rest upon. You whisper a soft "Damn." when tipping the canteen to refill my mug, shows evidence of its emptiness. As a sadness settles heavily on to the scene, you assist me to standing, and we start for home.
iridescent flitters just to the corner of my eye close enough to touch, but outside of capture small creatures swiping at the web of dreams a visual siren's song to come play away from safety bejeweled wings whirring in motion designed to entrance figments of illusion persuading unsuspecting sleepers to yield beings of fantasy from days of magic and unicorns lay siege on the one's who left them behind
The empty classroom echoed,
books boxed, papers filed, shelves clean,
awaiting the new year.
The busy classroom echoed,
papers shared, problems discussed, bodies in motion,
energized by the new day.
I yearn for both.
I have a small gripe
It’s not much
Just a little snipe.
It is not a matter of
Pota-TOE vs Po-TAH-to
that’s just a bunch of clatter
Music is personal
there is emotion attached
its connections are special
It is ironic sometimes
that the ones playing it the loudest
are the first to whine
So, play whatever you want to
but turn it down, wear plugs,
I don’t hear music the same as you
The mud pulled on my Keds,
each step stretching tired muscles.
Moisture began skipping up my jeans;
the cuffs slowly becoming bricks of clay.
The septic marsh was winning.
My legs no longer willing to even try.
Strong arms tug me twice and
I leave behind a beloved red shoe…
The price paid for a journey attempted.
Stairs leading up…
no wait, down…
a door to …
a door to…
tendrils of song
capitulate through hookah fog
specters swim close..
touch and slide away
Calliope murmurs pronouncements
tempered in undertone
meanings only suggested
through collusion of imagery