POEM: The Falling

I am not the fallen,
but the falling --
he who never hit
the ground.
And you may hope to 
know my call,
but I was never
there at all.
I was sitting on the 
tower.
I was dropping to the 
ground.
I never emitted a
flash of light, 
and never emitted a
peep of sound.
I am the falling,
not the fallen.
The one who never
hit the ground. 

POEM: A Sprout’s Life [PoMo Day 18 – Imagist]

From dirt, the newly sprouted plant
is but two tender leaves, drooping.
Its silken shaft in subtle slant,
in shadow of gardener, stooping.
...
Becomes the tree standing stout -n- straight.
Its leafy limbs doggedly swayed.
Its own acorns now split and sprout,
as the old man sits in its shade.

POEM: Escaping Isolation [PoMo Day 17 – Ottava Rima]

In isolation, I took to story,
and traipsed through worlds impossible yet true,
living life from infantile thru hoary,
under skies: gunmetal to deepest blue,
in lands where trucks were known to be lorries,
and ancient cities breathed as though brand new.
Where neither time nor bars could imprison,
I found my phoenix had now arisen.

POEM: The River Running through this City

I roam the old city,
gazing at Gothic gargoyles
and touching stonework
made by men long since dead,

wondering how I ended up 
in this chunk of time, 
rather than 

one in which 
this land was all just 
forest or marshland,

or

one in which
we all wait amid the rubble
to blast off 
to some secondary hive of humanity.

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: A Rainy Day in the Dry Season

Rain sidles up in a commanding cloud

-- early --

And so it waits in its cloud,
like the awkward party guest
who sits in his car,
waiting to be fashionably late,

but - not having decoded 
what "on-time" really means -

arrives early, nevertheless.

POEM: Snowy Street [PoMo Day 14 – Prose Poem]

I walked a snowy street, quietly as the falling snow, a snow that melted under foot, not one that crunched - compacting. Everything was deadened by that not-so-cold snow, a snow that swallowed sound, a snow that would have shunned light -- had there been any to shun. But it was night, and I was walking in the snow.