MUSIC SERIES – Sunday Rains

This poem was inspired by The Escapist, the second half of the song Death and All His Friends, by Coldplay.

Sunday Rains

 

When I am in my Sunday chair

with a cup seated lazily

on the woven wicker coaster,

its steam rolling over the rim,

 

I can look out the latched windows,

through the misty streets of New York

to the dimly lit country house

hidden five miles past Bozeman.

 

The station becomes Fairy Lake;

the stairs a winding waterfall

for people in suits to go swim

in the waters of the subway.

 

I suppose that makes me the shrubbery;

a scrub far beneath the hedge funds

waiting for rain to trickle down

on the tin roof of my apartment.

——

 

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FIFTY WORD STORY – Praying

I felt the tug of memory when I knelt to pray. The return of hope against the storm; I can feel its shield against the rains as they batter the church walls. A warmth that is not my own runs through my fingertips, up my elbows, and into my chest.

——

 

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FIFTY WORD STORY – Earthquake

Panic seized the trees as the rumbling started. The birds took to the skies as the mountains rained tears of rock down the sides of their faces. Even the rivers began to shiver as the banks pulled their sides apart. It seemed like all was ruined—then everything grew still.

——

 

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The Red Eye – A Poem

Hey there, I took a break from the music series this week to write a poem that’s been nagging me since I woke up.

 

The Red Eye

 

From the windows of the wet plane

I see a white bird migrating

away from its spring time meadows

in the sanctity of midnight.

 

I wonder if it, too, wields

the fire of a red dragon

waiting for its feathers to burn

to a set of bloody scales.

 

I wonder if its heavy wings

are waiting for the chance to spread

or if its watery brow steams

beneath the hard rains of the storm

 

and from my small leather backed seat

confined to sit with the people

who looked for their peace in the sky

I wonder why he doesn’t dive to safety.

——

 

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LOVE POEM #110 – Waypoint

Waypoint

 

We are at our tented waypoint,

in between the washed out houses

and the rushing sounds of water,

wondering what will oust us next:

 

A wind shattering the windows

at our secondary safe house

or swells within the muddy floods

that crest our mental riverbanks.

——

 

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MUSIC SERIES – The Miner

This poem was inspired by Heart of Gold by Neil Young! Have a song you think I should write about? Let me know in the comments!

 

The Miner

 

You will find me here in the darkness

with a dirt-stained shirt and dust-filled lungs

hacking away at an endless wall

like the dreamer lost in his black sea.

 

Suddenly, our earthen ocean shakes;

the waves of clay wrack with a madness

and we drowned in its torrents of dredge

with hearts ever set on the sunshine.

——

 

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MUSIC SERIES – Ripples

This poem was inspired by Electric Counterpoint 1 – Fast (Steve Reich) by Joergen Brilling. It’s a pretty minimalist song, but I highly encourage you check it out.

 

Ripples

 

They always rush from place to place,

running through the proverbial current.

Every steps is a drop in the water;

a thunderstorm raining down on their lives.

 

They flood the streets; drown the plazas

until the pittering of feet on concrete

is indistinguishable from the pattering

of sleet against the windowpanes.

——

 

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Hungry Cat (and Other Haikus)

Introverted

Sometimes I will hide

underneath layers of skin

like clams in their shell.

 

Touch

We touched fingertips

like wisps of wind to a tree.

Now my heart won’t stop.

 

Sleepless

Sliding down the stairs

of a sleepless night’s torment

into a sick noose.
Brainstorm

Like Zeus’s lightning

thundering in the neurons

struck a mental home.

 

Hungry Cat

I know that you’re mad

but there’s no need to maw me

while I get your food.

——

 

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PANCAKES (AND OTHER HAIKUS)

Windy Night

Wind disturbs the leaves

yet it is not the trees who

search for a reprieve.

 

Onlookers

From the kitchen door,

I catch pairs of tiny eyes

peeking through the pane.

 

Better Red

Roses in autumn

remind trees who lost their green

the beauty of red.

 

Serendipity

I most enjoy walks

through these warm, grassy fields

carrying my shoes.

 

Pancakes

The syrup drips down

the sides of her tender wrists

as she lifts her fork.

——

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THE EARTH IS STILL

Oh hey! Happy New Year–and happy birthday to me 🙂 A little apocalypse to usher in the new year is always a good sign, right? I hope you enjoy this poem as much as I’ll be enjoying today 😉

 

The Earth is Still

 

The Earth is still.

No more do the tremors

that racked the mountainside

rage through the bones of this wasted land.
Once flowered rivers, who flowed with the heat of spring

—that same heat which pulsed through the heart,

igniting the veins like sparks to a fire,

now lies pierced; cracked and dead as the unending desert.

 

The last lake, dwindled down to a blackened puddle,

sits undisturbed in the silence;

a mirror to these starless nights

painted with brushstrokes of infinite darkness

 

and yet, a trembling lingers.

It sits, in the back of the cavern;

twisting the thumbs of a half-buried corpse

while it whispers into the great beyond.

——

 

Hello there!

 

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