Posts Tagged ‘description’

Somewhere among the dueling concrete

and greenery;

somewhere among the orchards

and the painted dollhouses of suburbia;

somewhere in the obnoxious cries of the gull,

the wail of the baby, the shoots of light

that grow out of the sun;

somewhere in the deep

blue-black forest of scrawls by the poet,

there is

hope.

Advertisements

Seconds are spent making scribbles

into words.

Then the abrupt

change,

the buzz sits like a heavy crown

and hurts like a bruise

on top of my head.

 

Electric eels no bigger

than worms

crawl beneath my skin.

They work their way down

my neck-

 

my spine, a railway-

and enter my arms.

 

I feel them squirm atop my bones.

 

Words change.

They are mine and no longer

mine. 

Each dark letter is

an abyss

pressed onto paper.

My eyes are dry.

My lungs feel like wool sweaters

rolled and stuffed inside me.

Spine is slowly turning into the St. Louis Arch.

Bones stiff as flint.

Muscles like ink pens, exuding

pain from the inside, out.

I’m turning into cardboard.

I’ll be arthritic

before I’m twenty.

I cherish this moment:

when the wind rolls in

with floral perfume,

when the grass bends-

as if in genuflection- and ripples,

when the birds warble

and their chirps burst like bubbles

and their piccolo-bones sound

their ascent,

when the children’s laughs echo

and fill emptiness where the birds and wind cannot,

when the trees seem to be carved rocks,

and their buds burst into bloom like fireworks,

when the flowers split into color and scatter

adding new shades with the buds of the trees.

This moment is

exquisitely orchestrated.

Life stretches toward both horizons

The dog excitedly barks at children across the street

Wind stirs curtains, leaves

Spruce branches sway like green tentacles

Birds peel their old plumage and blow their flutes

The robin inflates its heart

Clouds coalesce and disperse like cottonwood seeds

Sky opens and closes its perforated maw

Hours are marked by color and the sun’s position

Rain falls

Horns blare

Sprouts greenly fork out of soil

Wind ebbs and flows

Flowers brighten

Each horizon darkens to be lit again

This morning is christened with sunlight.

Winter has turned the grass from emerald to gold.

Clouds and sky are inseparable,

their hues mix to palest blue.

Trees are awakened by gentle rushes of wind,

their branches wave like a parent

waves good-bye to their child on their first day of school.

The light comes and goes. It makes the grass shine,

remaining snow twinkle, street glisten, trees glow.

Ah,

so you’ve entered my dreams again,

not quite uninvited,

but you are not still-

yet- you are not vibrant.

You nod twinkling blue eyes toward me

and I feel my stomach squirm,

and am reduced to a pale worm

under those bright cauldrons.

You are a ghost

of the most high caliber

to invade such a space

where I would normally be well rested.

But when I wake, you’ll be gone,

light that filters red through my curtains

will reveal that. But of course

I’ll revel in you, because

that’s what you’d like me to do,

isn’t it?

You devil.