If Atlas Could Run

If Atlas Could Run

 

I wonder if Atlas could run

with all that weight on his shoulders.

 

There must have been a time

before his knees were locked in combat

with the eternal burden of gravity

that he could run about, carefree.

 

I have known such times

where the sun shines on blue skies

and Gaea’s warmth embraced my soles.

Days half-remembered from window panes

 

drinking coffee under the constellations

before the myth became reality.

——

 

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The Days Are Just Packed

The Days Are Just Packed

 

It’s like a Calvin and Hobbes comic

crawled out from the panes of the pages

and onto the rugs of my living room

just to enjoy its afternoon nap.

 

Maybe that’s what Bill Watterson understood.

That from the irony of free time

comes the iron shackles of inactivity

which chains us to the floor of our potential

 

and then when we try to pick ourselves up

the weight of our regrets pulls us back

onto the pillowy sameness of familiarity,

snuggled in tightly with my stuffed tiger.

——

 

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Stick Figures

There isn’t very much to them.

A circle, a vertical line, and

a two pairs of diagonals

for some added flavor.

 

If you really liked them, you might

draw in a couple dots for eyes,

a lightly curved “L” for a nose,

and a slow, slothful “U” for a smile.

 

You may even scratch out the head

and replace it with a square

to make the robotic servant

that you always dreamed about.

 

And if they ever tried to tease you

you could toss their treason

onto the pile in the trash can

where they couldn’t hurt you

like the rest.

——

 

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Some Kind of Superman

Sometimes I wish I was the superhero

that my family thinks I am:

draped in a divine red cape

with the symbol of hope embroidered on my chest.

 

I would wake up with a cup of coffee

that I heated with my own two eyes

ready to take on the next towering villain

that planned to topple everything that was good.

 

And when I redonned the black-framed glasses

of the mild mannered, bulletproof man

I wouldn’t be worrying about the mortgage

any more than I worried about the moon rising at night.

——

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CAT UNDER A CHAIR (AND OTHER HAIKUS)

Boxes

Opening cardboard

and seeing family photos

behind clouds of dust.

 

No Invites

A black iPhone screen,

an empty Facebook inbox,

and friends streaming fun.

 

Firewood

With your sacrifice

we kindled the sickly sparks

that staved off the rain.

 

Late

Hello, golden doorknob,

I think your brumal greeting

will mirror her dad’s.

 

Cat Under a Chair

While you lick your lips

and paw at the wooden legs,

I’ll sit and pay bills.

——

 

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BEAT

Beat

 

I am lying in the dark

with a hand held over my heart

listening to the heavy thud

of blood pumping through my veins,

 

and the beat seems to blister

as the blackened air grows thicker

in this hollow veil of smoke

that cloaks my body from pain.

 

Still I wonder about the chains.

The stains that silence the soul,

dragging behind the cinder

like the cross behind a sinner.

——

 

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THE TALE OF THE MISSING TOOTH – 50 WORD STORY

When the little bug crawled out of his hole in the dirt, he saw the skull-house he had built was missing a tooth. The bones had long since decayed, so he wasn’t surprised at his lost treasure, but when he realized his mornings’ wouldn’t shine golden anymore, he was bitter.

——

 

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MIRRORS (AND OTHER HAIKUS)

Red Dawn

Another day gone

waiting for the sun to shine

through sanguine curtains.

 

Leaves

My sandals are lost

in the labyrinth of leaves

lying on the ground.

 

Benches in the Rain

The park bench awaits

the return of little legs

kicking empty air.

 

Unexpected Friends

Under the arbors,

the rain spotted me sitting,

and comforted me.

 

Mirrors

She hides in her eyes

so only her reflection

will really see her.

——

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CHRISTMAS EVE

This isn’t a happy Christmas poem. This poem is something I wrote in the very early hours today, after we received some very difficult family news yesterday, and had to suffer the bitter reminder that Christmas is just another day of the year, plagued with the same pains as so many other days. So, if you aren’t in the mood for a downer, I recommend you don’t continue reading. If you are ok with that, check it out. I’ve copy-pasted my usual “after poem” stuff, so if reading more of my work interests you it is easily accessible, but the real me is not as chipper today as those closings sound. Thank you for your time, and for your support.

Christmas Eve

The stockings were hung, and the tinsel strung out

in hopes that Saint Christmas would soon be about;

the fires were low—so low that a whisper

could snuff out the flames like winds in the winter.

I shut off the lamp, and shuffled along;

away to my bed to dream my dream song.

But this year the sound of the clatter that rose

was only the phone ringing in the shadows.

I dashed to the doorknob and flew down the hall;

I rounded the kitchen to answer the call.

Hello” I announced in a voice oh-so-tight.

I’m sorry, good sir,” came the voice in the night,

“the news that I bring isn’t fit for this eve,

yet Christmas joy is what I’m tasked to thieve.”

“Thieve?” I asked, “Well don’t beat around the bush.”

“I’m sorry, good sir,” he said in a hush,

“at half past three, we found young Mary was dead;

hung by the rafters with a noose ‘round her head.”

He continued and yet the words were all lost;

deeply buried under hallowed winter frost.

I trudged out the door and up through the snow;

“Lustrous” Clement called it, hours ago.

Her favorite lines had been “Now Prancer and Vixen!

On, Comet! on Cupid! on, Donner and Blitzen!”

And now, as leaves at a hurdle take to the sky

so too, I imagine, that her spirit will fly;

Out! Beyond those bustling lights;

Out! Away from suffering nights;

Out! Over oceans sick with sorrow;

Out! Flying past lonely tomorrow;

“OUT!” I cry, with a fire so alive!

“OUT!” It echoes down the steep mountainside!

To the top of the porch! To the top of the wall!

Now dash away! dash away! dash away all!”

Perched over the chasm I sing: “It’s Christmas tonight!

Merry Christmas to all! and to all a good night!”

——

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itter: @cassady_orha<<
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RED LIGHT DISTRICT (AND OTHER HAIKUS)

In a Storm

Hear the broken heart

crying over lovers lost

like cats in a storm.

 

Across the Way

Hark! Across the way

a beauty chiseled from gold

shines in winter light.

 

Puzzled

She didn’t call back

after a wonderful night.

Perhaps I was wrong…

 

Last Moments

The last wisps of wind

passed between the black curtains,

exhaling his life.

 

Red Light District

She pinched at my heart

sitting at the lone street light

hoping for my help.

——

 

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