joshua-brown - Hello Poetry

Something wicked this way comes; incensed, ravenous beasts, matricidal, snarling hordes. Invasive species, apex predator. We never had a chance. Monuments of blood and stone reaching up to the heavens in towers, each of their dens its own Babel. Expand out, they cry. Build up. Dig down. Rip out its heart and throw it into the fires! Use its energies to feed the war machines! Cut everything in two! Break the bones, drink the marrow, split the essence! But entropy ran out; expansion gave way to collapse. The process reversed; their emptied mines filled up with corpses, drained lakes drunk with blood, all their great sanguine works collapsing. And now it comes down to you. Stand among the ashes of seven billion souls, your brothers and sisters turned to dust, cast your Ozymandian eye over the sands, and tell me it was worth it.

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Feb 19, 2014

Feb 19, 2014 at 10:43 AM UTC

On the Origin of Species

Something wicked this way comes; incensed, ravenous beasts, matricidal, snarling hordes. Invasive species, apex predator. We never had a chance. Monuments of blood and stone reaching up to the heavens in towers, each of their dens its own Babel. Expand out, they cry. Build up. Dig down. Rip out its heart and throw it into the fires! Use its energies to feed the war machines! Cut everything in two! Break the bones, drink the marrow, split the essence! But entropy ran out; expansion gave way to collapse. The process reversed; their emptied mines filled up with corpses, drained lakes drunk with blood, all their great sanguine works collapsing. And now it comes down to you. Stand among the ashes of seven billion souls, your brothers and sisters turned to dust, cast your Ozymandian eye over the sands, and tell me it was worth it.

26

A sudden spark in the darkness; the Old Man raises his head. Planes, he murmurs, I flew planes once. His vision drifts through me to four Vietnamese pilots buried in his memory and his sickness. Planes, he repeats. His eyes go dark again, twin contrails spread by the wind, falling apart in the empty air of dementia.

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Jan 30, 2014

Jan 30, 2014 at 4:42 PM UTC

A Conversation With My Grandfather

A sudden spark in the darkness; the Old Man raises his head. Planes, he murmurs, I flew planes once. His vision drifts through me to four Vietnamese pilots buried in his memory and his sickness. Planes, he repeats. His eyes go dark again, twin contrails spread by the wind, falling apart in the empty air of dementia.

14

walking in shadows speaking in whispers acting in secret murmuring at dusk dancing in starlight scaring the sun stalking by night watching the moon waiting for me

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Dec 13, 2013

Dec 13, 2013 at 12:56 AM UTC

moongirl

walking in shadows speaking in whispers acting in secret murmuring at dusk dancing in starlight scaring the sun stalking by night watching the moon waiting for me

9

Wheels throwing dust and grit, Engine a mechanized roar, I drove out into the desert. I don’t really know what I was searching for; The horizon, maybe, Or a full helping of emptiness, Something I couldn’t quite touch. I wanted a fistful of the intangible, really, Chasing ghosts out West, Hunting for the tattered remains of the American Dream. Somewhere past Phoenix, empty tank and heavy heart, I looked up at the night sky and saw what I wanted, Amid the sand and the stars, cool beneath the desert moon, I discovered freedom and revelation.

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Oct 21, 2013

Oct 21, 2013 at 9:38 AM UTC

Manifest

Wheels throwing dust and grit, Engine a mechanized roar, I drove out into the desert. I don’t really know what I was searching for; The horizon, maybe, Or a full helping of emptiness, Something I couldn’t quite touch. I wanted a fistful of the intangible, really, Chasing ghosts out West, Hunting for the tattered remains of the American Dream. Somewhere past Phoenix, empty tank and heavy heart, I looked up at the night sky and saw what I wanted, Amid the sand and the stars, cool beneath the desert moon, I discovered freedom and revelation.

14

Her face is a grimace, Concentrating on coffee, not looking up. I don’t know her name, But a lock of hair falls free, Drifting down from the heavens of a loose ponytail, Landing oh-so-softly on her delicate cheek. What I would not give to brush it back into place! But instead I just take my mocha and walk outside, One heartbreak heavier.

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Oct 1, 2013

Oct 1, 2013 at 10:42 PM UTC

Barista

Her face is a grimace, Concentrating on coffee, not looking up. I don’t know her name, But a lock of hair falls free, Drifting down from the heavens of a loose ponytail, Landing oh-so-softly on her delicate cheek. What I would not give to brush it back into place! But instead I just take my mocha and walk outside, One heartbreak heavier.

9

She is the catalyst that makes my atoms split, Fission in my blood, full of energy and heat. And though I don't know my location or velocity, I'm certain that I'm falling, Trying to reach a grounded state And form a bond.

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Oct 1, 2013

Oct 1, 2013 at 10:40 PM UTC

Chemistry

She is the catalyst that makes my atoms split, Fission in my blood, full of energy and heat. And though I don't know my location or velocity, I'm certain that I'm falling, Trying to reach a grounded state And form a bond.

6

His skin is desert sand and ashes, Eyes breaking through like rocks. Every heartbeat is a sniper's shot, A double report echoing in the mountains of his chest. His breath is mortar fire, Explosive in the desert night. His blood flows thick and dark like oil, Driving the war machine ever forward.

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Oct 1, 2013

Oct 1, 2013 at 10:39 PM UTC

Soldier

His skin is desert sand and ashes, Eyes breaking through like rocks. Every heartbeat is a sniper's shot, A double report echoing in the mountains of his chest. His breath is mortar fire, Explosive in the desert night. His blood flows thick and dark like oil, Driving the war machine ever forward.

8

I had wings, once. They were lovely things, Soft and white and pure. They cast such pretty shadows, Carrying me up and up and up. I decided to catch a cloud, Wisps between my fingers, But nobody told me you couldn’t; They just slip through, like innocence, And I was left disheartened. Wings failing, I fell down into the dark, Hating my wings, So soft and white and pure, Casting such pretty lies As I fell down and down and down.

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Oct 1, 2013

Oct 1, 2013 at 10:38 PM UTC

Icarus

I had wings, once. They were lovely things, Soft and white and pure. They cast such pretty shadows, Carrying me up and up and up. I decided to catch a cloud, Wisps between my fingers, But nobody told me you couldn’t; They just slip through, like innocence, And I was left disheartened. Wings failing, I fell down into the dark, Hating my wings, So soft and white and pure, Casting such pretty lies As I fell down and down and down.

16

124 miles to go. This interstate is ethereal, Some dreamscape made reality. Other cars pass and fall behind, Navigating the lanes, Keeping between the lines. Each has its own story, Bursting with life and tears, Which always go hand in hand. I wonder if, like me, they Are on the road to something new. 124 miles ahead of me, There is a place of rebirth. Behind me, so many roads; My experiences caught up in mile markers, 583, marker, 356, marker, Now only 111 miles to go And getting closer all the time.

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Aug 7, 2013

Aug 7, 2013 at 5:20 PM UTC

124

124 miles to go. This interstate is ethereal, Some dreamscape made reality. Other cars pass and fall behind, Navigating the lanes, Keeping between the lines. Each has its own story, Bursting with life and tears, Which always go hand in hand. I wonder if, like me, they Are on the road to something new. 124 miles ahead of me, There is a place of rebirth. Behind me, so many roads; My experiences caught up in mile markers, 583, marker, 356, marker, Now only 111 miles to go And getting closer all the time.

18

It’s a funny thing, time; passing away on the wall, not a care in the world, just clockwise motion and tiny little ticks and all they do is tell you that you've lost one second, then another, and another, until finally you look up and there are years behind you but the clock keeps spinning round and round and round.

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Jul 29, 2013

Jul 29, 2013 at 11:56 PM UTC

Clocks

It’s a funny thing, time; passing away on the wall, not a care in the world, just clockwise motion and tiny little ticks and all they do is tell you that you've lost one second, then another, and another, until finally you look up and there are years behind you but the clock keeps spinning round and round and round.

14