Verge
Being on the verge pushes you
To be the best or leave
To give your best or just give up
Being on the verge has that adrenaline
To just keep you going till you achieve
Better than just wishing be on the verge
If today was your last day
First off, you think you’d go to her
tell her you love her.
Drive
bike
pogo
walk if you had no other way.
& you don’t need any form of reciprocation,
just a lack of regret when it all comes crashing down.
Then you’d probably just turn to the list,
do all the epic stunts you had yet to try.
It’s all coming to an end anyway
so might as well have a little fun along the way.
& when all is said & done,
you’d just collapse on the ground,
cast off the sins of the world &
embrace whatever is to come.
(Hour 02) 11.30-12.30am. VISUAL PROMPT, Man looking round white edge
L-plate hitch-hiker
not sure what
Ryan thinks he’ll do
now he’s clinging —
to the edge of
one of those things —
while it might’ve seemed
an excellent idea
inside his scattergun brain
we never discussed —
now — this moment
as white metal
— rises —
with him hanging on
& no obvious way inside
i tell the little ones
to turn away
they don’t —
understandably
he should let go now
before he’s too high
— to fall
gravity
i held on to the ledge so tightly
i saw the sludge pooled below
staring back. my ankles dangled
for so long. bracelets slipping
polish chipping god i just want
to fall off and be swallowed
but i can’t let myself let go
Subbing in America: Hour 2 (prompt: Robert Frost)
* Trigger Warning: Violence *
the static crackle voices break
the heavy air still shrill with hate
sweat, blood and screams pierce through his soul
the darkest evening of the year.
he gives his radio a shake
to ask if there is some mistake.
the only other sound’s the sweep
of easy wind and clanging gate.
the school is hollowed, dark and bleak,
“but I have promises to keep,
and miles to go before I sleep,
and miles to go before I sleep.”
*Embellishments on the words by Robert Frost in Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening
The Bird Song
The summer bird song at my window.
With a fresh ring to my ear.
Sometimes silent not very clear.
Waiting for the next set of notes,
as sweet as they may sound,
spoke very clearly.
When the wind blew by,
something catches the bird’s eye,
the song disappears.
Now things are silent again.
Hoping for the next sweet song to begin.
He comes back again to fulfill his need
to let out his song words of glee.
Sharing with everyone
with the gentleness of heart.
Let everyone know that it’s
another great day and have a fresh start.
Tidying the Path (with apologies to R. Frost)
Our neighbor’s geriatric rock band has packed up. It’s late in the day, but it’s summer and there’s still plenty of light up ahead. The afternoon pause in activity is packaged in silence, ringing louder in the wake of the Jefferson Airplane. A young, cheeky squirrel attacks the suet, but is easily, if momentarily, discouraged. There are millions and billions and jillions of tiny cedar cones covering the warming ground. I hear an eagle’s high-pitched voice. The only other sound’s the sweep of my broom clearing the flagstone path.
Swainson’s thrush —
its song spirals up
somewhere else
Hour 1: Water Poem
Cool pressure surrounding,
Folds of stilled gravity, swirling,
resisting, flowing in the rivers path,
the tiger-striped magician vanishing
beneath bubble-storm breaths.
Applause dulled, vibrations eminate
in the deep dark, below the world
dissappears, above me the jeweled dance
of light crackles across a glass ceiling.
Encased in the embryonic silence,
the gates of heaven shimmer,
some touch to inuterine memory strummed,
birth and death beheld simultaneously,
lungs reminding me to live.
to pull towards the surface,
towards the light.
Winter solstice (hour 2)
The darkest evening of the year
winter solstice nips my ear
big bulky parka should I wear
perhaps furry, to confuse a bear?
Snow and ice brush my face
I miss its fresh, clean feel, and lace
of snowflakes falling in the space
of my backyard, such brief embrace.
For I now live in Texas’s slow fire
a snow day be my one desire
it only comes but once in a while
to freeze my day and make me smile.
– Sandra Johnson, June 25, 2022
Credit first line: Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening, by Robert Frost