#0143 - Six Strings

Vibrations rebound off the walls:
richochet.
This makeshift echo chamber
—cheap carpet,
stained mattress,
leaky faucets—
holds a boundless symphony.
The six strings
are seduced to synthesize
a universe of sound.

Silent passersbiy
with averted gazes
when he sits on the edge of the sidewalk:
a silent expectation
to divert attention.
But an extraordinary soundscape
radiates from this solitary soul
when he brings the strings
out to the streets.

#0139 - A Story of Seeking Warmth...

{Written as part of Sextravaganza 2018, hosted by a number of poetic/literary enthusiasts on Tumblr}

The frozen Arctic wastes were cold and white.
That endless nothing streched from near to far—
a vapid vastness reaching past our sight.
...For friends, we only had the nightly stars.

A night spent hiding from the howling wind
gave birth to new ideas for warmth...and fun.
At first just hesitation: winks, a hint.
And then our hands were hunting pleasure und-

-er walls of cloth. And four together found
desire: reckless lust behind a blush.
The night then found salacious sounds, and dark-
-ness hid the scene of flesh exploring flesh.

Thus, miles apart from any sight: we found
new comfort, joy in something warm and white.

#0132 - Keyboards and Ink

You are as a keyboard is to ink on paper.

Tactile
—easy to handle—
and predictable.

Words run off of you
like the flow of displaced water:
overflowing cup.
And so many pages
and stories
and memories
and images
have been written off of you.

But you lack that uniquity
and that run-your-fingers-along-tangible-words quality.
You stare back from a harsh screen,
while ink
—dimly framed by candlelight—
does not settle,
but speaks.

#0120 - Haiku XIII

Give forty men guns,
and one might actually
drop his to the ground.

#0112 - "Defenestrating"

Defenestrating
this pessimism and cynicism
like a rusted bucket
of malodorous sludge
that I wouldn't feed to a pig.

There it goes,
sailing through the air
like a free-flying bird,
or rather freeing me of its weight
and smell.

Let's hope it doesn't hit someone on the way out.

#0111 - 30 Days

{NaPoWriMo 2017 ~ Day 30}

These varied rhymes
'cross 30 days
have found their way
through different styles.
The month has gone,
but coming times
should soon bring on
new written lines
continuing
to sing like songs
or strum like strings.
Rights and wrongs
     will always ling-
     -er 'mongst these things.

#0109 - Światła

{NaPoWriMo 2017 ~ Day 28}

Światła,
jak les Simples Soldats
maszerują przez czarną pustynie.
Niecierpliwi, ale wolni,

oni przez sto lat już
formują kręcące trasy
przez urbanistyczne mokradła
i polowe niezwykłości.

#0107 - Haiku XII

{NaPoWriMo 2017 ~ Day 26}

You can’t attempt to
Hide your own shadow without
Creating more shade.

#0095 - Cinquain III

{NaPoWriMo 2017 ~ Day 14}

Hindsight:
Something passes.
One vainly wishes to
Revisit once more that which is
Long gone.

#0092 - Tire

{NaPoWriMo 2017 ~ Day 11}

Tire.
But not like rubber.
Not malleable.
Not heat-retardant,
crack-retardant,
split-retardant,
force-retardant,
paper-holding
hair bun-holding,
spandex,
latex
thing that we somehow pull out of trees.

Tire like lethargy.
Tire in keeping with the light of sobering stars
moving slowly across the sky
as you slowly succumb to sobering sleep.
Situational: somber street lights lining
asphalt streets that linger in your line of sight
as you leave one place to find
another.
Leave the lights;
lie down lavishly (or lumpily)
and learn to list off little sheep
that lollygag across
a lay-er’s sleep.

#0090 - Thought 19

{NaPoWriMo 2017 ~ Day 9}

Harsh, bright lights;
          Now slumber—

Straining eyes and weathered mind
          Meet thoughtless void—unique respite.

#0089 - Haiku VIII

{NaPoWriMo 2017 ~ Day 8}

Movie ending scenes,
Unlike our reality,
Tie up the loose ends.

#0088 - Cold Mornings

{NaPoWriMo 2017 ~ Day 7}

Reminders of times past;
Nostalgia;
The blitheness of a child revisited.

At a time when darkness still reigns—
too late in the night for anyone to be awake, or
too early in the morning for anyone to be awake—
tata (father) rouses us to consciousness.

Lethargy
like superglue keeping our eyes closed;
Cold
like waterfalls of ice on our feet
when they poke out from under the covers.

"Come on, time to wake up;
you can sleep in the car."

Pillows, blankets huddled in our arms:
mementos of the paradise of slumber.
We stumble wherever that familiar voice leads us,
vision fuzzy,
feet shuffling,
comprehension nonexistent—
just get to the car,
where rest awaits.

Step out the garage door,
cold morning air hits us like the gust of a blizzard.
Still black as ink outside;
the sun makes a feeble effort to light our way:
the faintest glimmer of blue—
hue inspired by the glacial air—
streaks along the Eastern horizon.
And the air:
As if winter concentrated all it has
into this single morning;
As if we are living in a fridge
and the fridge door just slammed shut;
As if Antarctica has come to visit us,
but without the snow.

Oooooh it's c-co-old.
Where's the car?

We shuffle begrudgingly to the open door and dive in,
creating our personal nests faster than any bird
out of pillows and covers and anything warm.

Darkness:
sleep returns.

As tens,
dozens,
hundreds
of miles of asphalt pass beneath our metal chariot,
the sky grows gradually brighter
and through holes in the sheltering veil of Hypnos
we listen to snippets of grown-up talk:
something about planning,
something about money,
something about home,
something about travel,
…something about us...

In retrospect, it was all probably important,
but, to the infinite indifference of childhood,
irrelevant.

That indifference is gone now—
it could not follow me through the years.
Like Blankie
and action figures
and Gameboy cartridges,
it’s in the attic now.
I can visit it,
but I can no longer have it back.

#0085 - Rhetoric of Numbers

{NaPoWriMo 2017 ~ Day 4}

These numbers and dry formulæ may be,
By blasted inexplicability,
A better piece of poetry to read
Than any word or phrase written by me.
If words in poems are indeed to veil
A meaning that by pond'ring eyes' assailed,
Then digits can be easily availed
To cause these ardent ponderers to fail:
Replace a thought with π or e or 4
Or any of a frankly endless score
Of varied symbols rarely used yet more
Elucidating than one's lingual lore.
     But, rather than with maths be so enraged,
     I'd like to just read poems off a page.

#0073 - Thought 16

Why not
wander through
the chasms of life
with a smile
upon your face?

#0067 - "When have I ever given the impression that I am emotionless?"

When have I ever given the impression that I am emotionless?

Is it strange to say that I need not smile to be happy?
Is it strange to say that I need not cry to be sad?

Is it strange to say that I need not sulk to be disappointed?
Is it strange to say that I need not boast to be proud?

Is it strange to say that I need not kiss to love?
Is it strange to say that I need not insult to hate?

Is it strange to say that I need not waste my time to embrace permanence?
Is it strange to say that I need not treasure my time to embrace transience?

Is it strange to say that I need not be opulent to be rich?
Is it strange to say that I need not be destitute to be poor?

When have I ever given the impression that I am emotionless,
Compassionless,
Mindless,
Thoughtless,
Or any other -less when compared to anyone else?

#0065 - Memoir

I don't need this memoir, this souvenir.
I never liked these memories,
and I don't now,
and I still won't for a long time.

But I'll keep this anyways.

Maybe one day,
once I'm old and senile,
I'll have forgotten all of the bad
and this will only bring to mind good times.

#0057 - Silence

Noise.

Silence.

Noise.

Silence.

Noise.

Silence.

Noise.

Silence.

Noise.

Silence.

Noise.

Silence.

Noise.

Silence.

Noise.

Silence.

Noise.

Silence.

Noise.

...you can hear the monotony of the world.

#0056 - "Sometimes my poetry is a puzzle"

Sometimes my poetry is a puzzle or struggle;
a challenge overcome, a mystery to be solved.
The word I choose to rhyme with “stomp” or “sell” or “sea”
is an answer to a question in a game of Jeopardy.

Assonance in my tertiary troubles
turns out to be a tool of the trade.
Alliteration also,
and always alluding to Ares and Achilles -

Greek legends, unique, but both bound by war;
not much different from men -
whether writing haikus or taming wolves,
always drawn to bullets and pikes.

The pieces come together.

Sometimes my poetry is a river:
it flows and flows and doesn’t stop until it’s run dry.
Even a mountain won’t stop it;
rather, earthen masses simply split one stream of consciousness into two.

Sometimes my poetry is a painting
I’ve stared at for hours without finishing,
and sometimes it’s an accidental coffee stain
from which I draw my inspiration.

Here or there,
this or that,
my poetry is always the universe of my mind
finding its way into tumultuous reality.

#0054 - Thought 14

Here I sit,
waiting in silence
for the arrival of Hell.