Sunday, April 17, 2011

"Things" : (A Writer's Alchemy)

Photo courtesy of Central Penn College: "The Boyer House"

The thing is

When one ventures from the abode;
                That comfortable home in our cranium
                What we previously held back,
                We tend to, (and tend to see)

The things
that weren’t there before
                But always were:

The mossy outcrop where a plastic bag
clings to a twig, and waves as the star spangled banner
of disregard

The fenced line between two pastures
The opposition of juxtaposed ownership
And different aspirations

…Coy ones in hats
Feuds and friendships

The cables between telephone poles
That traverse the horizon, carrying text
Homes with gazebos, never used
Back porch clutter
Unkept lawns, a garden, a gnome

The thing is
                These things make us, tell a story
They show we are here, and we have placed
Something, anything on ground or reached for sky
                That we knew we’d never reach
A welcome mat to our homes, hearts, and our minds

The lineage we have
                Ingredients for the recipe of me
It’s a cosmic soup, but the past ones
                Have such an enigmatic effect, as a dim light
                In the Gobi desert of our conscience

The lone spot in barren land
The Unavoidable;
Circus elephants in the room:
                The tree line of family.

The thing is
                This tree, can be
                Elegant, elaborate, laced with royal branches
                And pretty leaves
Or low, to the ground, just trying to be
In a world of devour and survive

Recessive, or Progressive
Painful, or Pleasurable

But that’s not the point
                Or a tip to wait

The thing is
                This beauty and tragedy lies in every entity
                All the living and all the dead
                There’s poetry, there’s decency
                There’s a place to dig deep

and yet

We must respect the lining
The black lining
The white lining
The shade of grey

The thing is
                 We begin to realize
                 Eyes go wide, open and unable to slumber
                 Insomnia lends to obsessive voyeurism
Because beauty and ugliness still wage a war

The thing is
                There’s things we don’t know
                That we’ll never understand, but strive to

But at the very least

We’re doing to try.
Writing to reach “We.”
That (I think)
Is The Thing.


Photo by James Rainsford
Submitted for "One Shoot Sunday" Poetry Challenge at

She pauses to peer within
Her Sunday, self-reflective stroll, view anew
An equinox visit to the fruit of her womb
The untamed offspring, her living miscarriage

They’ve long gone for umbilical freedom
Runaways in their own home
           Longing for separation of self
           Their sentence : Cellular Mitosis

Nests, temples, scraping sky
Fences, walls, chalet bungalow
An Igloo, An Izba
Monastery Asylums

                Faux Ch√Ęteaus

Up for adoption, the un-adaptive
Fat orphans consumed resource, sans remorse
How coarse, how crude, yet the starving resumed
Unable to find place, a space, in time

Any theory
Any relativity

Given chlorophyll, failure to synthesize;
           A trade for chloroform, to anesthetize
As she placates to absorb and transform energy
               None resonate

 In the Queen’s court, stubborn they stand
Child’s own judge, jury, and defendant
By the gavel of free will
          Incarceration by choice

Her whisper, subtle yet strong on the wind
Warm, soft spoken global warnings
Climate dinner gone cold
          With the season, tides and disposition

She turns,
and leaves.

"See the animal in his cage that you've built
...Are you sure which side of the glass you are on?"

Sunday, April 3, 2011

'S No Right

Photo by: India Hobson
Submitted for "One Shoot Sunday" at

‘tis the most pretentious notion
Thoughts of one as fair
‘tis not fair, the fairytale

Beasts of burden
What’s the purpose, porpoise? Poisoned, your apple
Admirable admirals, set the sail
For sell : Self, for rent.

Setting sights as the sun sets
The brightest star in view
Her eyes on

Still Frame

Mirror, mirror, where for art my castle?
Lip service to amphibious frogs
Sermons in the bog; fogged
The memory, white horses lost

Grimm faced brothers
Reapers who sow, sorrow
Their thoughts, dwarfed red
Heartfelt supernovas in wait


Heavy, ‘tis the head, wears the crown
Comatose to see
The forest, the tree
Holy wood, Arbor Mist

Why so  cross?

No touch of lip
Nary an ambivalent embrace
Nor a profession of progressive affection
Could handle the spell of these bees

A definition, A verse to appease

In royal courting we create
Daily narcissism we live
Our blood runneth thick
Blue & Red

Mixed, in purple
The people eaters

In vein.