Po-em – A Poem

Po-em

 

My teacher pronounces it po-em

like Edgar-Allan and Emily’s lovechild—

conceived by passionate creaks

in the bed above the floorboards,

then birthed without a proper name.

 

When she grows up, will she wonder

why her parents left her on the doorstep?

Or as she is pressed against the table

by the orphanage’s overseer, will she even care

who wrote her into such an existence?

——

 

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Ailment – A Poem

Hey there! Just a short poem today, since I seem to have come down with a sickness.

 

Ailment

 

The air enters my battered lungs

like a wind scraping the sails

of an empty boat, bobbing up

and down amid the shifting waves.

——

 

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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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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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Cur – A Poem

MAN! 2018 was a hard year. While I can’t help but hope for humanity in 2019, 2018 seems to have left the world weary and beaten. Hence this poem.

 

Cur

 

How quick the yips of the young pup

curdled like milk in the hot sun.

Only the drowsy moans that poured

in sour chunks from his white mouth

recalled the sweet taste of his youth.

——

 

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A Man Sits in the Room – 2

A man sits in the room.

He’s been sitting there since you left—adjusting his tie without a mirror; picking at his teeth. I added a few bags of food for him, which he perused absentmindedly for a while.

The paper is still there too. A few lines were scrawled, before he crossed them out again. You know how it is, trying to build a fortress without the proper tools. Such a shame about the wall though.

I thought I heard him get up for a moment then, but when I turned my eyes back to the window, he was still in that heavy desk chair. I wonder what he sees in the dim yellow paint. A good choice you made there.

I understand you must be off. An empty stomach is a recipe for destruction. The room will still be here tomorrow. It was nice of you to stop by though. A man is wont to hear other voices.

Don’t let him keep you. Go back to your slat roof and wooden dining table. Enjoy your four walls, and the voices that fill them. Be sure to set the plates before you pile onto the food. A man should enjoy his meals properly.

——

 

Hello there! This is part 2. See part 1 here.

 

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A Man Sits in the Room

A man sits in the room.

He’s been sitting there since before you showed up, fiddling with the strap on his pant leg. For a time he was so still I might have forgotten he was there, were it not for the occasional breath seeping from his nostrils.

Ah, but what else is one to do when they sit at a desk? You too might stare at the blanket of white papers before you, wondering whether you should pick up a hollow pen and draw yourself a bed of black ink.

‘Pick it up!’ I said, ‘Pick it up!’ but the man doesn’t seem to hear me. I might have wondered if he was still in the room with us at all, had it not been for the gust of wind trickling out again.

But where away did you go? Off to drain your leaky bladder again? No matter. Off to bed with you. The room will still be here tomorrow. I can’t say the same about a man.

Ah, but I hope you think about him. Mull over those flecks of grey hair as you lie in your sheets tonight. Don’t wonder about the paper, or the black ink swimming around you. A man doesn’t sleep with such thoughts in his mind.

——

 

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Watery Eyes – A Poem

I’m super busy with finals, so I’ve just written a short poem that came to me a couple days ago. The Music Series will be back soon! ❤

 

Watery Eyes

 

You see it as spring waxes;

the pollen punches unsuspecting people

with a vicious right hook to the nose

and suddenly they can’t keep back the tears.

 

But I catch them in the corner;

the thin veil of their eyelids

composed like an iron curtain

while chaos breaks loose backstage.

——

 

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FIFTY WORD STORY – At the Library

I am in the eleventh hour. The piles of papers have become mountains of material for my essay, but the words just aren’t coming to me. My eyes are getting heavy, and the yellow lights of the library flicker with fatigue. Maybe a short nap will loosen this mental knot…

——

 

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MUSIC SERIES – The Jungle

This poem was inspired by My Hero, by Foo Fighters. Also, Happy Veteran’s Day everyone. Support your Vets. ❤

 

The Jungle

 

Walking down the rainy sidewalk

with a knapsack tied to a branch,

dressed in a heavy blue jacket

and a bit of distinguished scruff,

 

is how I have come to picture

the veteran on the corner

of Fifth Street and Towne Avenue

when I see him from my car door.

 

I wonder if that’s how it felt

when he trudged through the winter mud,

wrapped with the weight of his country

like a cloak to keep back the cold

 

or if he condemns the forest

of chains fenced in to keep him out;

kept the prisoner to a war

inside the concrete jungle called home.

——

 

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