LOVE POEM #82 – RECKLESS

The mistake of falling for you

was the finest mess I’ve made

between the hours of four and five

in these reckless temporal mornings.

 

It was like riding on a runaway train

in the red-orange twilight sky

after a rainfall had left the tracks

a treacherous mass of rust.

——

 

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THE HERD (AND OTHER HAIKUS)

The Herd

Beats in the distance

echo along the sunrise

like a veiled drum.

 

Grass

The shift of the blades

as wind washes through the plain

warns of life’s battles.

 

On Water

Walking through puddles

reminds me to imagine

my own miracles

 

Cleansing

Rain can wash away

the bad days. It’s up to you

to let it take them.

 

Night Driving

The trip was swallowed

in the abyss of the night

on the desert road.

——

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LOVE POEM #71 – EVEN AFTER

Even after the last cliché tropes lay burnt and dead in the hearth

and the final sonnets lie buried beneath the brittle house of poetry,

 

Even after the happiness has fled from every ever after

and the storybooks have fallen apart at the seams,

 

Even after the ocean floors have split under the hot rays of a swollen sun

and the fiery rains have extinguished the last breath of earthly life,

 

Even after the almighty gates of Heaven give way to rust

and the unbreakable chains of Hell finally begin to bend,

 

Even after all these things have come and gone,

the length of my love won’t find its end.

——

 

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DROPPED NUTS

Ok, I’ll take a break from 50 word stories for at least a week after this one:

Wandering through the park to work, I came across a dead squirrel at the base of a tree. He had slipped from a branch while retrieving nuts, and crashed headfirst into a massive root. His head had split open, and the nuts that had distracted him were soaked in blood.

——

 

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RETURN HOME

I really enjoyed writing my fifty-word story last week, so I thought I’d try another this week:

 

The walk home from the winter train station always feels like a Debussy song. Each step through the snowscape is like strolling on a cloud in the summer sky, despite the cold. When I cross the bridge, I can faintly hear them. In the reflection below I see myself smile.

——

 

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SUMMER READINGS

If I piled up the pyramid of books

that I promised I would peruse this summer

I would have a tombstone so great

that even Giza would be impressed.

 

But when scattered about in my room,

along the seats of my car, or still nestled

cozily on the shelves of the dusty library

they could hardly dwarf the statue of a gnome.

 

Which is why when I go to water the yard now

I see Eliot and Wilder standing guard,

reminding me how my time here is too short

to spend wasting away on this silly computer.

——

 

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BULLETHOLES

Happy Thanksgiving America! This is my first attempt at a 50-word story. Let me know what you think. 🙂

 

I had brought a knife to a gunfight. He had all these bullets, written out in points on his pad of paper, which pierced my heart till the blood flowed like water down a stream. Yet my “I love you” had hit him hilt-first, and bounced harmlessly to the floor.

——

 

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OUR LAST CAT (AND OTHER HAIKUS)

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Under the blue sky

an image blocks the sunlight:

“Eat like you mean it.”

 

Leisure

I sit cross-legged

drinking the inspiration

of fresh morning dew.

 

Crescendo

The drum of fingers

tap against the countertop

waiting for their cue.

 

Seeing Faces

A face in the grass

smiling in the windy air

blinks out of my sight.

 

Our Last Cat

He left deep gashes

in the memories of home

carved into the chairs.

——

 

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MEMORY LANE

Let’s go for a walk down Memory Lane,

the cobblestone streets that I always pass by

where you can catch my grandparents

hobbling by on canes made of willow trees.

 

Toddling around are the friendships

that sailed away before my mind molded

and got lost at sea with my consciousness,

unable to the map to find a way home.

 

Out beyond the horizon, after the sunset

are the fuzzy images of my pets

who drowned at the farm

and found themselves up in the stars.

——

 

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DEPARTURE

I was out on a walk through the city when my mind shifted between the membranes of existence. I had been looking at the crowds, breathing the air—both the fresh and the foul—and letting the tail ends of the trees brush through my fingers, just like any other person. Then, I was outside myself, looking down on everything else. Not as a god, but a hopeless observer. My body was still moving below; still enjoying the views and smiling at passers by, and I could feel it’s every movement and ache within myself. But my eyes had left this world. I was out over the clouds, looking down at my own personal globe of reality.

I turned the vision, and saw the whole mass of people on earth. For months, I followed them around, growing further and further from my body each day. It wasn’t long before I lost connection to it altogether, and had to track it down myself, instead of just feeling its movements. By that time, I was beginning to grow bored with my new world. Being an observer is hard.

The people below don’t even think about what they are doing. They go about their days, listening to iPods, working mindlessly, and ignoring nearly everyone else. Many of these people go home, look up to the sky, and hope for something to change, but never take the first step to do so. The more they talked, the less I listened. They weren’t all like this, some brave souls tried to explain the problems to the youth, but too often it was too late for them too. Eventually, I found myself more interested in the flowers and the trees than people.

I could follow the roots, below the ground, and watch as they sucked the water from the dirt. I could track the petals as the fluttered through the sky. I would try to console the wilting plants, neglected by their owners, before they washed away into the earth and became part of the collective again, but the truth is they never heard me. I could dive down with the fishes, and see in the dark. The bottom of the ocean is more quiet than the biggest caves. The creatures down there don’t move so fast. They drift, like wood on the surface, wherever the unseen current would take them.

I could even slip between the rocks, and watch the long conversations they had. One day, while I was listening to them, I felt a tug at my soul. First it was light, like a child pulling blankets in the night, but then it began to pull harder, and I felt myself flying through the world. Faster and faster, until I couldn’t even see where we were going. I tried to dig in, to grasp at my globe, but the force pulled me along. Then, as quickly as it started, it all stopped again. I awoke with a start, in my bed, as if from a nightmare. It was dark in my room. I moved to the doorway without even thinking, and flicked the light switch. I was home again. I was back in my body. My heart began to race. I didn’t want to go back. It was so boring here. I climbed back into bed, hoping to escape in the sanctuary of dreams, and fell asleep.

——

 

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