LOVE POEM #127 – Sticky

Sticky

 

You aren’t like peanut butter

spread across a half slice of bread

and smacked into a jelly side

like a timeless snack for children.

 

You are more like Wrigley’s gum

clinging to the soles of my shoes

when I caught you on the concrete

freshly spit from another’s mouth.

——

 

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FIFTY WORD STORY – Pouring

The air seemed to freeze. Sounds seemed to hesitate. The room stood still as eyes spread wide with awe and fear. All things seemed to stop. The rain had grown so strong it that it pelted the roof like drums; the stream from the gutter grown into a gushing waterfall.

——

 

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Needy Cat (and Other Haikus)

Stretching

I feel like strings

wound tight to an instrument

being plucked softly.

 

Lotus Position

He sat with palms up

not knowing that the flowers

would fall in his hands.

Coupled Drops

Rain drops on the pane

drip slow on the glass until

they mix together.

 

Static Shock

Our fingertips touched

for an electric moment

unexpectedly.

 

Needy Cat

Her persistent mews

weave lightly between my feet,

asking me for pets.

——

 

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Sprite – A Poem

Sprite

 

How the crisp spritz of clear fizz spits

as sips slip ‘tween the pixie’s lips,

licking and picking and sticking like cliques

that chitter about their blithering wits.

——

 

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LOVE POEM #126 – Tears of Ink

Tears of Ink

 

I remember her eyes, dotted

with tears of ink, like an iris

pouring its soul onto the page

in a breath of wind and black rain.

——

 

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A Man Sits in the Room – 4

A man sits in the room.

He’s still just staring at the wall. Like a rat in a cage. All he does is sleep, shit, and nibble absentmindedly at the plates we give him. He pushes that pen from page to page like they were his claws, tearing through newspaper just because, even if he doesn’t get anywhere.

But what do I know? I just bring the water and make sure his inkwell never runs dry. I ain’t like you, who waltzes in here without a care in the world, takes two looks at a sheet of numbers, and runs back to wherever it is you came from.

I yelled at him the other day just to see what would happen. It shocked him right out of his writing. He jumped with such a start that he knocked over the ink and it spread across the pages like a slow, creeping disease.

I’d apologize for ruining his notebook, but it’s not like he’d written anything important there. You might have been able to piece out three or four words in that heap of scratched out pages.

Maybe next time you’ll get him some non-spill ink or something. Go on, get out. Let me know what your seniors think about his wild antics. It isn’t like I’m going anywhere.

——

 

Hello there! This is part 4. See part 1, part 2, and part 3.

 

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Dog at the Window (and Other Haikus)

On the Tree

From the willow tree

buds the adventures of seeds

scattered by its fall.

 

Aroma

The open oven

spreads the scent of fresh baked bread

wafting through the house.

 

Uphill

The burn in my legs

is harder to overcome

than the mountain is.

 

Tinder

The burning tinder

smoked in a whirling tempest

before the wood caught.

 

Dog at the Window

His paws are like boughs

scratching at the windowpane;

save trees do not moan.

——

 

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The Hawk’s Flight – A Poem

So I tried something new today: I took the first four lines from the Song of Eärendil, copied the rhyme scheme, and wrote this poem about A Wizards of Earthsea, which I just read for the first time. Let me know what you think!

 

The Hawk’s Flight

 

Sparrowhawk was a sorcerer

that sailed past the Eastern Reach

he walked upon the Shadow Docks

beyond the rocks of Earth and Sea.

——

 

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LOVE POEM #125 – Riposte

Riposte

 

Just as, when two steel blades clash,

a ring will echo through the night

so that people must turn their heads

to the show of blood and metal,

 

so did I see our shouting turn

the firm gaze of our spectators

to our Coliseum of words

as we parried and riposted.

——

 

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A Man Sits in the Room – 3

A man sits in the room.

He has taken up tapping; usually with a pen, against the paper on the desk, but every once in a while I’ll catch him rapping his fingers on the wall. It is driving me insane.

It’s like the slow rolling tick of a clock. Sometimes he loses himself and strikes the surface so hard he shocks himself out of the daze. You know how it is, when the world is lost when you adventure in your mind.

He seems to have found other motivation as well. The ink pours so much like a waterfall nowadays, you might be temped to think he was copying a book, rather than writing one. Unfortunately, every page seems to be nonsense.

Perhaps, the next time you run out to the market, you could get him some more of those pens? He definitely likes the blue ones you bought him the other day.

What’s that? You didn’t buy those? Well, I always thought you might be a regifter. Ever since you got me that shower mat—you know, the one with the red and green flowers on it? It’s not a big deal though—I’ve quite enjoyed them! Ah, but look at the time. Next week?

——

 

Hello there! This is part 3. See part 1 and part 2.

 

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