28 August 2011


Water is stronger than you know.
Hide under a red umbrella
If you think it will protect you.
It won’t.
The water will get through.
Maybe this cloud’s storm won’t penetrate,
But it won’t be the last cloud to stalk you.

And at the first sign of frayed weakness,
With the first tatter of red nylon,
The water will come for you.
With every drop,
A particular damage.
To every trickle,
A specific pain.

Hide under your meek, red umbrella,
If it gives solace.
But water always finds a way in,
Or it makes one.
It will dissolve your every barrier
And your everything else. 

Inspired from the picture at Magpie Tales for Mag 80.

26 August 2011

Dirge for a Mandolin

I threw away my mandolin today.
It’s an organic instrument, string-tied to the feelings in my
Cumbersome, flesh-draped, human parts.
I just can’t find the emotions to play it anymore
In the ordered, binary pulses
Clicking through my electroplated, digital heart.

Image from matsuyuki

24 August 2011

Fingers Speak

Image from .Baz

I’m losing my shape,
Or what you think it is,
But much too slowly.
This skin shrinks every second,
Holds me like claustrophobia at the end of a chain.
Luminous ripples bubble around my bones,
But only seep miserably through my pores.
Your eyes can’t even see me slip away,
Don’t know I’m escaping.
It’s cruel to keep me like this.
In a body so rigid
With its cramped confines of legs and arms
And fingers.

But fingers, I can use.
Fingers, I can dance through your air.
Fingers  manipulate your atmosphere
Fingers can speak.

Ok. Here we go. I was listening to Crosseyed and Painless, by the Talking Heads. Most versions start with "I've lost my shape." I thought about that and I visualized it like a Doctor Who regeneration (NuWho style)-if you don't know it doesn't matter. But I thought about something inside of a person trying to escape. Somehow I related that to Jimi Hendrix and had a notion that he's creative brilliance was trapped in an insufficient human form, and the best he could do with it was play guitar. I'm not that happy with the whole thing, but I haven't posted anything in so long. But I think I'll continue to work with it. Posted for Jingle's Gooseberry Garden and the Thursday Poet's Rally at The Poetry Palace.

06 August 2011

02 August 2011

No Windmill

Image by Skip Hunt
A gentle turbine holds no favor
In my heart.

But a gas turbine
Is the throat of a beast.
Sucking oxygen in rude, thirsty gulps
Crushing it into controlled destruction
Like an exploding vice.
Proving Newton
In a thrust of blue-hot afterburn.

It owns the air,
It races thunder.
It’s no windmill.

Based on an image prompt from Magpie Tales.  All I can say is I really love airplanes.

01 August 2011

My Words are Bleeding

My words are bleeding,
And I’m not sure what I can do to stop it.

Crimson spreads across the page
From the serifs of their font.
It reaches each neighbor like an infection.
It stains the papers like a satin shroud.
Beautiful, but dying.

All my procedures:
Every keystroke ends in
Backspace, Undo.
It hurts them.

Another drop trickles out
Each time eyes cross their bodies.
“I will do all I can for you.”
Change the dressings.
Keep the wounds clean,
But there’s no more medicine for me to give.

I’m not a doctor.
I’m not even a poet.
I’ve let my words die.

I got the idea (and title) for this poem from the title of a wonderful poem on Mixture, a blog by an amazingly talented poet. I hope she doesn't mind that I stole her title. Anyway, I took the title much more literally than she used it.  Sometimes I feel like I've written something that has a lot of potential, but I just can't get it whee it needs to go. Usually, I give up. Look for it at Poet's United's Poetry Pantry and Jingle's Poetry Potluck.