#0131 - Standing Over

{Prompt: "Like a bridge over troubled water," from Refined Poetry on Tumblr}

Look down.

Below me, those waves crash against each other—
reminder of Ivan the son, murdered by Ivan the father;
               of antiquity’s titans, pitted in senseless brawls;
               of troubled minds, frantic words, brusque scrawls…
No ripples here. No liquid ambiance.
Primal fear; even nymphs won’t dance.

Below your feet…

First thought? Precarious.
This is vicarious
suspense—reminder of that movie
where the entourage is afraid of moving
across the roped-together planks
that connect the steep banks
of a bottomless pit.
One wrong move, that’s it—
after a long fall, the sun,
the moon are replaced by oblivion.

No landing.
Just falling.

This—below my feet—isn’t ragged rope
but the cracks in the wood don’t motivate much hope.
At least a fall meets a landing here…
Not much of one, though… Petroleum: much fuel for fear
in those troubled waves.
But for now? Safe;

Maybe this will still last a short time more.

#0130 - Haiku XIV

You will never fly
if you do not jump first; just
don’t forget your wings.

#0129 - Wires

Today,
the telephone wires connect us.

Across the road
sit obelisks of cement,
casting shadows and casting lines:
Those cables travel across
a phantasmagoria of forests
and fields
and factories.

Beneath the earth
—amidst the burrows of
little-seen critters—
they extend their tendrils,
traveling onwards.
Across the floor
of a trillion tons of tepid water
—the ocean offers no obstacle—
electricity has flown
for over fifty years.

They sprint across a continent
to reach where you now sit.
And when you look at that bit of cable
—suspended seemingly insignificantly—
I look at the same bit of cable
right here.

#0128 - Early Mornings

Before the alarm even hits,
my mind jolts me awake.

Sigh,
as I recognize that it's still closer to last night
than tomorrow morning...
(today morning?)

Ah, the familiar fatigue and hunger...
maybe it will leave sooner rather than later.

Or,
maybe,
this moment in the dark-skies cool-fog oblivion
will last for longer than I'd like.

#0127 - Birds and Bottles

J’ai observé une mode:

Écrivains ont les titres françaises
mais écrire ses poèmes en anglais.
C'est comme sa poésie
et rimes sont affichés.

Je présent mon contraste.

Maintenant: un poème
écrant en français
(mais le titre? anglais)
concernant ces sujets:
les oiseaux et bouteilles.

Le oiseau:
liberté.
Il est la insigne
de sa facilité.
Un grand chiffre de personnes
—leur regard vers le ciel—
souhaitent pour les ailes...

Parfois,
les bouteilles
peuvent lever.

Mais beaucoup des personnes
sont noyé en ses bouteilles;
ils sont seuls,
sans les ailes.
Ses breuvages, dur comme la pierre,
les confiner sur la terre.

#0126 - Suppertime Evasions

Meat and grains and vegetables:
Grandpa's cooking on the table.
From the lawn, the kids arrive
and, seated, scheme and duly try
to eat as little as they can.
They try to reach the frying pan
to get their food back off their plate—
return it to its rightful place;
they wait for Pa to leave the space—
to Grandma they will plead their case!
Success! Success! They quickly leave,
for they have fin'lly found their peace.
     They come back to their sleeping racks,
     where they have hidden candied snacks.