Flakes of rusted iron
shiver in the wind.
All others long since
shed their scales;
But these are last
ones to give in.
Poetry
Walking on Pillows
As walking on pillows-
on damp pillows-
on damp, carpeted pillows
of emerald and gold leaf,
and red velvet cake;
Each step I take unboldly.
I wince and apologize
for the compression,
impressions that materialize
with every step.
With each step my foot tries
to step gently,
step respectfully,
but the lightest step feigned
isn’t feather enough;
And it’s a tough terrain,
like lumbering through those
piles of drifted snow,
searching for new,
simpler ways to go.
Exhausted, slow, subdued,
and not half-way across it,
I stop and nestle down
upon an ottoman-unorthodox.
My tired body sinks.
I think a paradox:
This waterbed, so tiring to traverse,
but so relaxing to lounge.
I beg pardon to the pillow deflating;
weighted by my rest.
In duress I straighten
and rise from the sponge, continuing on
toward the far sedgy edge
where the green walls rise and billow
to intimidate.
Stumbling late through pillows
of emerald and gold leaf, and
moist red velvet cake;
I wince with every tired step,
for dents that I make.
A Fortress of Solitude
Approach
the frozen throne
and find some peace
that’s all your own!
Peer,
trembling,
into the ravenous mouth
of this frosted Sarlacc
who’s hungry to devour
all of your frozen assets.
Sit, if you dare,
on this Pit of despair,
but you may find
that when you stand
a piece of your derriere
is left behind.
Relax, if you can,
on this quiet hut,
but don’t retard
to think about
the crystal shards
that long to cut
their teeth into
your tender butt.
Stop, excrete
on ice and snow!
Forget the seats
you’d rather go!
Take the crate
that’s sure to freeze
and lacerate
your hind with ease.
As last resort,
I’m sure that you’d
employ, enjoy
this port, this Fort
of Solitude.
o lassitude
O this lassitude!
This wearisome ennui!
How much longer will this languor linger?
Will it merely endeth me?
a bijou
A bijou
found on the ground
and placed in the pocket:
A tightly closed,
geometric,
serotinous, and
silver-plated locket.
Rumored to open
only under heat or stress.
Placed in the pocket
to fidget and fondle.
a psychological talisman
a cognitive charm
a token of anticipation;
and for months it sat.
A year:
untapped,
uncracked
unopened,
but armed.
Occasionally rediscovered
by a pocketed hand
rolled over in fingers
to be clutched and clasped,
this locket
without hinges,
without chain,
without hasp.
And then one day
it was withdrawn
from the pocket
into the palm
and noticed
to be opened
(slightly)
on its own.
It had found its heat.
It had found its pressure.
It had opened with time
from external stressers,
and it was ready to release
its full potential.
But it was quickly re-pocketed.
It was pocketed to be pondered
in order to wonder
as palms grew sweaty,
the bijou had opened,
so why wasn’t I ready?
It had opened,
but I could see
that the picture
in the locket
did not resemble
me.
And while I thought
and failed to do,
impatience grew
in that distraught
and pocketed bijou.
That bijou,
that locket,
then found a hole
inside the pocket
and freed itself
from being confined
so that it could find
a place where that hold
would cease to block it.
And now it’s gone-
gone where to?
Somewhere growing
beyond being
a pondered
and pocketed
bijou.
a flicking fellow
a flick of yellow
a flick of white
a flicking fellow
flicked at my sight
he flicked, the bird,
he flicked to flight
that flicking flicker
flicked me outright.
two-toned beings
emerging from a chilling starkness
two-toned beings shed their darkness.
perched and preening folded wings
they clean themselves and ponder things.
a’pauled by shadow they’ve led and wallowed;
enthralled by shine they’re fed to swallow
basking selves in warming light
these two-toned beings prep for flight;
and they, as pages gently tern
devote their morn to groom and learn.
these paradoxical two-toned ones
are dark behind and white in front.
the coldness of their hours done
is purged by dawn of rising son.
and so the gospel, undeterred
reflects itself to man from bird,
as one cleans wings for flight of nest;
the other seeks his righteousness.
winter soldiers
winter soldiers
red berets
black goatees
and coats of gray
invade the grounds
at break of day
chase the season’s
blues away
taxi cab drivers
taxi cab drivers
in black, yellow, white
flat caps pulled forward
obscuring their sight.
fighting for spaces
to park and to dine
while each flips the bird
at front of the line.
soot-covered urchins
dozens of urchins
all caked in soot
but washed on the bottom
from belly to foot.
dark ashes have covered
their folded silk fans
until they get startled
and open again
revealing the pleats:
clean, elegant white,
as they flee from the scene
and into the night.
ArtesianMind 