The writer writes on
As reading fades away –
Only letters and words,
All jumbled and misplaced,
Remain in a pile
Of scattered fragments
Like clues to what once was.
To be interpreted,
Not read or said,
A language bleeding out
Until it evolves – or finally
Lies dead. A memory,
Some strange hallucination
Inside the writer’s head.
Category Archives: Poetry
The Writer Writes On
The Hunt
Some yearn for sugar-spritzed marshmallows
So bright they seem ready to spring,
To caper and cavort across the plastic grass
Until, headless, they fall – or rise again,
Joined by dismembered cohorts of chocolate,
The wish of other hungry souls along with
Eggs and chicks – all the same rich confection.
Among them eggs that bleed rich cream,
Bought in handfuls and consumed to a coma
While the hunt continues through the yard
With rewards of bright-colored plastic (empty)
Or worse, a discarded craft project,
That holds only food – no candy or coins –
Unless, wait, yes, it could (oh please)
Contain a chorus of glitter awaiting its prey.
The shower of sparkles, the laughter, the chase and (eventually)
To sleep with a chocolate-smeared smile on your face.
Fain to Fade
Do they walk?
Why would they walk?
These faded shades of legs,
Long crumbled, hidden away.
Is it memory?
Some distant longing
For what once was –
Before it wasn’t.
Is that why they stay?
That need to see – to be?
To walk, to sing, to hold, to touch –
Are those the draw that,
All unseen, hold them
Where they cannot be
But must remain –
A dream, now dust:
Fate fain to fade.
Dream While You Can
Dream while you can
Til it fades in the dawn:
The dawn of marriage,
The dawn of kids,
The uncountable dawns
Of the life that you live –
Look! There! Can you see
Responsibilities break
Through the clouds
Of dreams left behind:
Ambiguous, undefined, hidden
In the depths of your mind –
Taken over by dreams
Taken over in kind.
Or
Accident or
Unforeseen consequence?
A difference of words
Or a difference of intent:
The truth of your awareness
Or the truth of what you meant?
Held Apart
Held apart,
It struggles to reach,
To swim through the fog.
Desperate,
It casts out its message,
Word after word flung away
As it tries, somehow, some way, to reach –
Scattered,
They fragment and fall
Some reaching but merging,
Changing the message
To unordered nonsense,
The true messages barred
By the unbending barrier.
Be Still
Sometimes (thought too rarely, in truth),
I like to sit and be still, to
Listen to the world and
Empty my mind of thought, of plans –
No worries, no inner monologue: a
Calm, tranquil pool of water, too often too
Easily unsettled, unbalanced, or drained
Governed by a Fickle Director
Some ancient myth – No,
Propaganda proposed by
Rapacious clothing stores. Or
Ill-conceived set changes,
Not timed well, constantly re-ordered –
Governed by a fickle director.
twytte 