POEM: Information Age Ailment

Screaming streams of information
pelt all corners of the mind.
Neurons are constantly
flickering with flinches. 

Meanwhile, the body 
whispers its secrets
in the hushed tones
of a prayer uttered 
during a shootout. 

Subconscious [Haibun]

Couriers carry communiques from town to town in the country of me. These secret messages are unprojected, but couriers sometimes sneak peeks. Then, a summary can be read in an expression - a precis that could elsewise not be divined. An expression read from aspect of eye is a hint, and is as reliable as any hint  -- which is to say, not very. A hint is subject to misinterpretation. It presupposes a common language, a lingua franca that doesn't exist because one side has no language and the other is afflicted by the arrogant assumption that all things are understood via language. 

shooting signals
snap through the unmapped
spaces of my mind

POEM: Floating in the Nowhere [PoMo Day 21 – Narrative]

In the lunatic asylum,
it's quiet after the meds round.

R's mind was in the madhouse,
but his body was in a lifeboat,
or maybe vice versa,
he couldn't tell for sure.

He only knew that he was floating,
and, sometimes, it was too choppy,
and if life got too happy,
he felt that it was fake.

The open sea 's a harsh place,
but no worse than the where he carried
everywhere he ventured
inside his dense brainpan.

A fatal, futile option
was selected with a button
that may -- or may not -- have resided
within his very soul.

So thirsty and so lonely --
side-effects of something.
It might have been the meds,
or, perhaps, the salty air.

He chose to think he wasn't
bounded by a nutshell;
though his brand of crazy
was quiet before the storm. 

One day his kidneys gave out.
Who could've ever imagined
that such a thing could happen
in such a place as that.

POEM: Seashore Mind [PoMo Day 15 – Villanelle]

The waves are churned to foam.
The sight mesmerizes.
My mind is miles from home.

My seated self does roam --
chaos that surprises,
like waves are churned to foam.

Like one w/ Capgras Syndrome,
hustler mistrust arises.
My mind 's wary of home. 

I focus on the chrome,
but my ear recognizes
the waves that churn to foam.

I've vagabond chromosomes,
but still the thought chastises:
"Your mind is miles from home!"

I'm sitting all alone,
and my mind surmises:
Like waves churned to foam,
your mind 's so far from home.

POEM: Mental Weather

My mind experiences unforecastable weather.

Adrift in horse latitudes
Tortured by a polar vortex

Low pressure systems
to
High pressure systems

Storm fronts & storm surges

Partly sunny / partly cloudy
or
Partly cloudy / partly sunny
[Depending upon whether I’m in a glass-half-full or glass-half-empty kind of mood.]

Lightening strikes
Wind shear / wind chill / wind chimes
Squalls
Droughts, often followed by flash flooding
Breezes, blizzards, and breezy blizzards
Microbursts
Flood crests
Nor’easters

Due points and do points [if not a dew point]
Topical depression — though no tropical depressions

Hail storms

Sun Dogs & rainbows

POEM: Make Your Own Monster [Villanelle]

There’s something in the cave that one can’t know.
It’s scary, but still the mystery becomes
a force that pulls one like an undertow.

One first looks about for a rock to throw
to see if one can loosen the beast’s tongue.
There’s something in that cave that one can’t know.

One baits the beast by moving to-and-fro —
an imagined sound triggers heart’s PUM! PUM!
A force; it pulls one like an undertow.

At the cave’s mouth there lands a big, black crow,
and now one ‘s sure the cave’s depth must be plumbed.
There’s something in the cave that one can’t know.

Then one sees a red eye begin to glow —
the product of a mind that’s overrun
by forces that pull it like an undertow.

Uh-oh, your mind ‘s the cave, that much I know,
and I hear nothing but a steady hum.
There’s nothing in the cave that we can’t know —
just fear that pulls one like an undertow.

POEM: Insight: Or, The Benefits of Meditation

Once, tsunami waves crashed ashore,
catching me off-guard.
In wonder of just what’d hit me,
I’d sit – soaked and scarred.

The more I’d sit, watching my world,
the more I’d see storms howl.
I’d still get drenched, but, sometimes,
I could reach my towel.

Often, when I’d witness my mind,
I’d see the squalls approach,
and I could pack my things and go
before the surge encroached.

I never learned the magic to
turn the winds away,
but I could see the distant clouds
and shelter from the fray.

POEM: Black Skies [Rondeau Quatrain]

I saw the black skies up ahead,
but hoped they’d clear as I approached.
I hoped they’d clear as I approached.
I saw those black skies up ahead.

And from the distance I felt dread.
The dark wouldn’t yield to my reproach.
I saw those black skies up ahead,
but hoped they’d clear as I approached.

The ebon clouds began to spread.
Into my mind they did encroach,
and on my bliss began to poach
until something monstrous was bred.

I saw the black skies up ahead,
but hoped they’d clear as I approached.
I hoped they’d clear as I approached.
I saw those black skies up ahead.

POEM: A Voiceless Birdie Told Me

Notions whispered into my mind — unheard.
They’re just hot-injected scraps of feeling.
I seek a source in floor, wall, and ceiling,
but I know that can only be absurd.

This is no exchange by grammar or words —
nothing is concealed or needs concealing.
Notions whispered into my mind — unheard.
They’re just hot-injected scraps of feeling —

like the voiceless notes of a little bird,
received without a chirp or any squealing.
Wounds don’t need to hear they should start healing.
The feeling ‘s clear even when the meaning ‘s blurred.

Notions whispered into my mind, unheard.