Tag Archives: Poem

Catch Up: An Exercise in Silliness

SC: [sing-songy]

Catch up, ketchup, caught –
A single line of thought.
So easily squished, so easily dead.
Are you sure I can’t just read instead?

 

IC: What is that even about? Ketchup?

SC: Don’t judge!


Old Ears

From a worn chair in a dim, dusty room,
Old ears listen for a familiar tread:
The fast, heavy clicks of heels,
Focused and fast in a no-nonsense drive
From home to work and back again.
But, no. A breath. That tread was from then.
Tired eyes close. Then wait for the beat,
The pitter-patter of dainty feet that
Jump and flutter down the stairs
To head to school or outside to play.
No. Those feet grew. They moved away.
A sigh. A breath. A weary shake.
And the head turns for a slower step,
Careful and reliable in sturdy shoes,
Always there, each year, each hour and day.
And so in the silence the old ears stay.


Elements of Everyone

A hundred subtle vowel and
Consonant changes – inflections that
Challenge the ear of strangers with
Elements of everyone you know:
Nanoscale bits of people absorbed
Through life and reflected back.


Seeking the Sunshine

Splashes of colours
Burst from their verdant covers
Seeking the sunshine


Sink

Feel the empty warmth,
Close your ears – ignore the call:
Sink into darkness


The Poetry Store

“Oh, no!” she cried, tears in her eyes,
“The poetry store is dark inside!
The shelves are empty – the rhymes are gone!
No books! No schemes! No driving song
Of meters pushing each word on.
This cannot be! This is a crime –
To take poetry but leave us time!
Who would bury us with such woes
As to live and die with only prose?”


A Laughing Rhythm

A laughing rhythm
Above our heads dances with
Unseen companions


The Writer Writes On

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.


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.


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