There is a tinge of sadness in anything that floats.
In the float is buried the seed of sinking.
There is a tinge of sadness in everyone who sleeps.
The seed of wakefulness lay dormant in a dream.
People think themselves fearless of Poe’s pit–sans the pendulum,
but underestimate the suffocating power of the void.
The pendulum is swift; the pit, relentless
Fear of the dark is fear of what is not.
In a sacred forest
a Rodent roamed
who owned a sword
it freely loaned.
This was no hacking
machete blade,
but made of metal
of unmatched grade.
One day Lightening
made a request:
To borrow the blade
believed the best.
Lightening zigged,
sliced, and zagged.
Claiming ownership
in its boastful brags.
The rightful owner
requested its return.
But the rodent’s
plea met only spurn.
So the critter devised
a clever, sensible plan
in order to bridge
the requisite span.
It needed to climb
from Earth to the sky
because it had no
wings with which to fly.
But it wasn’t just wings
which Rodent lacked.
It had only one item
to be skyward stacked.
So it piled its poop
as high as it could,
from the base of a tree
past the top of the woods.
Stacking and piling, the
poop nearly touched cloud.
When a thunder crack
struck ear-splitting loud.
Lightening saw rodent
would reclaim the sword
that Lightening had come
to so ardently adore.
Down fell the Rodent
to a pile of fried dung
that had once been its
steps and its ladder rungs.
You may think that
Lightening got its way.
But the Rodent piles
its poop to this very day.
Someday when Lightening
is momentarily distracted,
Rodent’s sword will be
surreptitiously extracted.
Bristles flex against the flagstone.
Like Bruce Lee with his nunchaku,
she works two brooms at once.
Unlike Bruce,
she lacks fury and showmanship.
She’s oblivious an audience has formed.
Like Bruce, her body is coordinated,
capable of describing two arcs,
in two separate directions,
at once.
The soft scraping sounds
of two bundles of bristles
is the neighborhood’s wake-up call.
The hush whispers of leaves skittering
is the subdued scream
that cannot be ignored.
Like a demonic whisper,
all that’s quiet is not gentle.
[National Poetry Month, Poem #23]
metal rasped on rock
a grating demon squeal
where’d it come from
surely, not from Liberia
despite the flag’s claim
drifting across high seas
it found a suitable grave
on an unknown rocky shoal
[National Poetry Month: Poem #22]
Source: Wikipedia by Evan-Amos
“I’ve never really seen my hand before.
Never noted it’s vast range of dexterity.
Tight enough to hold a sledge hammer.
Light enough to hold a bug harmlessly.
Fingertips can detect infinitesimal
variations in temperature and texture.
I can even tell a Vulcan–
should I ever see one–
to ‘live long and prosper’
merely by abducting finger pairs.”
At this point, the Officer will need
to consult with his superior to make
a determination about whether you
constitute a danger to self or others.
Now, if you put a phone in the
aforementioned palm, no one
will give it a moment’s notice.
Still, think you can recognize sanity?
[National Poetry Month, Poem #20]
Little kittens can’t get their legs.
Feet slide as legs sprawl wide.
Writhing amid a pile of siblings.
Wrangled and nudged by mama.
Tiny screams for leeway ungranted.
Bellies bulge with mama’s milk.
They don’t yet look like miniature cats.
They have neither the proportions nor the ears.
They could as well be puppies or opossums.
From any distance mama sanctions.
[National Poetry Month: Poem #19]
Gulp.
Silence.
He awaits the sacred geometry,
but is greeted by the purge.
Emptied.
Turned inside-out.
All is lost.
Violently vacated.
But then how come
a dragon comes sliding through
a nightmare too entrancing
to be terrifying.
There’s no slither.
Just a silent slide.
It slides, it slides.
On a silent ride.
There are two types of eternity.
Neither is cheap but one is free.
He just needs to discover
of what it’s free.
[National Poetry Month: Poem #18]
I feel the swell,
but can’t see the boat.
Let alone know whether
it contains passengers.
It’s night.
The sea is dark,
and the most I can hope for
is a glint against the hull.
If I look to where the glint was,
She’s gone.
Tune to the
rise and fall
of the swell.
[National Poetry Month: Poem #17]
Siddhartha Gautama saw
– one old
– one ill
– one corpse
and knew his path must change.
I saw a naked child
stomping in the mud
and knew my path must change.
To slog through the mud
is the way of sufferers.
To stomp like you’re in a marching band
is the way of joy.
[National Poetry Month: Poem #16]
I remember those gray days.
Drizzle. Mist.
Gray cloud bellies hung low,
scratched by church spires.
A cloak of damp,
damp cold.
Shoulders hunched.
Eyes on glistening pavement.
A world closing in.
Burying one in gray.
[National Poetry Month: Poem #15]
