In ruins I see
what was, but could be
no more.
When land becomes sea
to live they must flee —
fate’s door.
In ones, twos, and threes,
they left on sad sprees —
ashore.
POEM: Story in Ruins
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Tag Archives: poem
POEM: Sunday Morning Sounds
Rainy morning pitter-patter sounds like a distant sizzle.
Caws come from down the street.
Did they drag out a bloated rat —
a chubby, urban-fed beast unable to escape the flooding storm drains?
Or maybe rain and stillness have riled these rowdy ravens?
Silence.
A near bird shrieks…
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Finnish Limerick
There was a hardy man from Finland
who wanted to move further inland,
but sallying forth
meant moving more north,
and he feared he’d wrap into Japan.
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Canadian Limerick
There was an old lady from Canada
who was a hockey aficionada.
She couldn’t still skate,
but always shot straight —
firing in place like the Spanish Armada.
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POEM: Paradox
I found myself in a space that felt, at once, claustrophobic and distressingly vast.
But the experience was like viewing a necker cube —
those diagrams drawn in 2D that appear to be three-dimensional —
one can either see the cube pop off the surface or submerge into it,
but never both at the same time.
In the same way, one could feel the space cling to one like a heavy cloak
or feel lost and naked in the vast, uncharted expanse,
but one couldn’t feel both ways at the same time.
However, a mind — panicked or accustomed — could toggle back-and-forth
between the two states with great rapidity.
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POEM: Excuse! Who Uses This Loo?
I hate to be among the few who don’t use the new and improved,
but I’ve been seeing public toilets with three glass walls —
only the wet wall is tiled.
True, it’s not just any glass; it’s “switchable privacy glass.”
[When vacant, it’s transparent; when occupied, it’s opaque.]
Some call it “smart glass.”
Two questions leap to mind:
1.) How smart can glass be?
2.) How bad would I have to poo to use such a loo?
I assume users of this loo have:
1.) an iron-clad faith in technology;
2.) a tendency to thrill at exhibitionism,
3.) recently eaten at Taco Bell, or;
4.) some combination of the above.
What if the power goes out?
What if some oblivious soul shakes the handle?
Has this technology advanced to the point at which there is no conceivable sequence of events that could result in my shooting the moon to a room full of strangers? [Or, worse yet, people I know?]
Until it’s so, I’ll use loo’s with walls, not windows —
thank you very much.
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POEM: To Meet or Greet Grendel
In ancient days, men followed monsters home,
and knocked on doors to netherworld chambers —
went kicking over the beast’s garden gnomes,
went barging around back like close neighbors.
Who chases monsters now-a-days, I ask?
Now, people let their demons come to them.
We’re too much prisoners to time on task,
and trips to the barber or the ATM.
And have our demons gone so far away?
Or have they vanished as we’d always hoped?
Or someone else is closer to the fray?
But have you seen them die on days they moped?
To meet or greet the demon at whose door?
It’s a question unknown in days of yore.
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Cambodian Limerick
There was an old man from Cambodia
who suffered from four types of phobia:
scared of poles and of pots,
open holes, and gun shots.
Who could blame that scared man of Cambodia?
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POEM: Clouds & Waves
Clouds curl over the mountaintop
like waves sloshing over rocks —
a thousand times slower,
but no less persistent
in their repetitive attempts
to swamp the leeward side.
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Botswanan Limerick
There was a safari guide in Botswana
who was quizzed on the species of fauna.
“I don’t mean to be rude,
but there’s Huge, Fast, and Food —
so, just three types of beast in Botswana.”
