Fat and disgusting,
the manatee eats and shits
with endangered grace.
to it's slow decline.
to win the seat but forget
how to act like men.
Why isn't there a
sociopath filter built
into the system?
The shouting face of the sea
Ravages rocks on the toes of the beach
Seashells glued to glass
laminate the reflecting rays of the baking sun
A pebble preaches to a mountain
Underneath an electric dream
Galvanize my heart,
It needs a jump-start
Stuck in a frozen tundra of fallacy
Chasing broken tragedies
I told her
Nothing seems to change the mind
So I guess I’ll have to lie
Praying a lion’s smile
captures her immaculate eyes
But my summer’s luck lacks the ability to clear cloudy skies
Now I am alone in a misty meadow
With taciturn trees
Yet you were like the warm belly of a manatee
And I was a calloused heart hoping for a remedy
sometimes i like to remember when i ran
cross-country in the fall last year.
we always started at the park on first,
then took the sidewalk that
followed the water, all the way
to the fine arts museum and
back. we started precisely at
five thirty every day.
but once, before coach blew the
whistle, a manatee surfaced
just by the boarding dock.
he swam beside the wall, until
he was just underneath us.
he wasn't majestic or
breathtaking, or anything special-
just another manatee.
but he was enough
to make us stop, even coach.
he was enough to make us smile.
so here is one, even if it's bad. true story, though, the manatee had two friends and my team and i watched them for a good five minutes.
when i was in eighth grade, our teachers took us on a trip to swim with the manatees. we strapped up in wet-suits in went the middle of winter, and it was freezing, but so worth it. we weren't allowed to follow them or anything, but they were curious, and if they came up to us, we could do whatever. i got to pet, like, six manatees that day. i didn't really like manatees all that much up until that point. one of them was all scarred up from boat propellers, and when i pet him, i could feel the scar tissue and it broke my heart but he was so happy and sweet and it was really incredible. moments like that make me love living in florida.
The golden grove swayed invitingly
Quietly goading the furry Squirrel
Into its sun kissed lair
Even as the Butterfly danced rings
Around its twitching nose and whispered
Of emerald leaves, until a honey laced gust
Merrily carried it to its home in the hills away.
The carefree Squirrel then pranced from pebble
To earth and earth to rock till the lusty Ladybird
Newly engendered, leaped on its swishing tail
And throatily sang of the passion in the hearts
Of blueberries, ripe as they be in spring
Before the steadfast Squirrel with a hasty dash
Flung her onto the Manatee instead.
Hurrying from branch to branch the anxious
Squirrel now flew past the restful Owl and in its
Haste to exit these worrisome groves
Rent its gleaming hide but carried on
Without wavering, its angelic face a
Picture of consternation while its melting eyes
Shone with joy and pride.
Finally slowing down, the shy Squirrel circled
The pristine pond, twittering to itself
When suddenly the myrtle bushes parted and out
Popped a Doe-Squirrel, cheeks flushed with
Adoration, and then the stars grew brighter
Carefully swallowing their passion, while I,
Solitary Reaper, still searched for my love in the woods.
only to crash and burn,
I would change
if I had any,
more than none.
Why are there people
who get angry and
foist a will,
an unkind will
on others till
they break and break
like fine china on a porcelain tile floor?
drama and conflict are enough and
of this world,
blood stained words
I hope they never make it to my place
of fantasy, where I write in peace holding still
like a manatee in the sea,
thank you, hello poetry.
If someone needs this time and space,
to unload the life that weighs them
down or drags them into the streets,
kicking and screaming as the part
that goes streaming by is the very
reason they hide their eyes in public
or slump into their seat as the verbal
or text abuse, puts nails in the hope
which waits in escape, just beyond
their fingertips and barbed wire voices...
but as for me, so isolated
I may not always rhyme
I may not have the right prose,
my surreal images might raise
an eyebrow, and my as
and like may need a metamorphoses,
to even be a metaphor,
but through all of you here
I get to visit a different shore
each time I open up a poem,
even if I don't know your name,
or maybe even who you really are.
I am glad you let me care.
It is indeed comforting
to know I have much fewer things
of my own conscience
over which to sorrow. Now.
The pleasure of sticking a thumb tack
through the word Now.
There is still an arcade of sorrow
relating to others and otherness,
and your terrible, shared fate.
Yadda, yadda. Tru dat.
My own fate is now rather like
the reflection of recycling recycling
in the something something.
No, my own fate is now
much more than rather like
the reflection of myself reclining
in this warm bathtub of poetry,
a peaceful, rather bland manatee,
a Renaissance reflection I can see
in the convex sides of silverplate fish,
salt and pepper shakers
with sooted Empire State Buildings
on their little globous bellies,
some touristy things from the 1940s.
"What are they doing in a bathroom?"
you might ask, but don't.
I just told you.
What did I just say?
Anyway, I'm in there, left and right
like two broken eyes,
except they're weird fish
and they are kissing.