Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
 
Finding your hair in my socks
All these **** parts of us
That make me smile
...

how hollow my Messages looked
How blanched and hush,
after a while.
Pat Broadbent Nov 2018
Day simmers
Mutating as we speak
To reach its zenith,
A short afternoon leaves when the dark breaks;

Nestling closer
To this more stable form
Of unchanging winter,
Of death tirading in pearly vestments;

Pitiful critters,
Eyes beady-black and weeping–
Go reach your summons,
A short path lies where the mind breaks.
Pat Broadbent Oct 2018
Planes streak across the wide October sky–
The sun is setting–
Contrails stream behind them,
glowing scars of the evening.

The highest ones, they exhale the day’s gold,
pure and sharp
like fields of August wheat,
dusty and late-summer charred.

Redder and lower ones hug the skyline,
No cloud to catch them,
Fall like meteorites,
the slow burn of a dwarf star

Memories never print so vividly,
slow burn sees fast death,
Reds, golds and what's between,
A brain is all catch-and-release


So afterwards what should be left of this?
Not but an umbra,
Impressionist beauty,

A mere relief of its source?


Beauty’s slow fade is not the tragedy,
–rather the reverse–
That we fade to beauty,
To never hold it in full.
Beauty and whatnot
Pat Broadbent Oct 2018
Clusters of lights like lilies,
Or like boiling craters in obsidian
The black is inky,
It could swallow me whole,
I'm thankful to be strapped in

The horizon scrolls back as the plane lilts
Like an image in an old slide projector
Suddenly the moon is below me
Icarus should have winged by night
I’d be god if I weren’t strapped in

Clusters of light like lilies
In this lolling pond we skim
Light strung like dew on spider silk
A flattened web to stretch the land
thankful not to be attached

Shimmering grids draw nearer
Enveloped in their seductive shimmer
thankful not to crash
Pat Broadbent Sep 2018
Rings on rosewood linger
from a cold glass of ice
that warmed but soon after,
whose contents evaporated away.
My chaser became the room,
matching it twice
in form and temperature,
Would never have stayed.

So I roll the glass
with a retrograde tilt,
but keep it in place,
but keep it at hilt
such that knurls on the crystal,
jagged knuckles on the base,
make it thump in a path
and it steps and it stilts
in its own kind of track
while connection with the ground
through multiple laps
stipples neatly on a plane—
infinite curve by singular tack.
And this motion is contained
to the confines of the round
of a bullseye-mark stain
where a highball was put down.

Reminds the afternoon patina,
the hunching over my piano,
the warmth of its shade of cocoa.
And the mug I placed on its bench,
where subsequently the lacquer
gave way to warmer matter
and a matte “O” was forever etched in print.

Reminds of sap-stuck fingers
that ailed us backwoods explorers,
that neither the soap nor the hottest water
could manage to separate.

Reminds of the smell of the road
that gashed through wild mint
with its tire-milled dirt pounded thin,
and the hazel dust that arose
and managed to stay ever close
when the little Sahara was traversed again.
Those clouds would form and move and clove,
and the dry would pinch in your nose;
yet it seemed the only stretch of land
to never see any rain.
And now it strikes as strange,
and I’d love to explain, but can’t—
the green was never killed,
while cleaved, and beaten, and grilled;
it managed to weather the dust
and ride on the cusp
of the electric months after May.

These things don’t peel away.

Reminds how none of this strays
too far from the path,
or too far out of mind,
and the nature of present and past,
how inseparably they bind.
Like the light to the glass,
one moves through the next,
and all the moments hug tight,
each forebears another's context.
Pat Broadbent Sep 2018
Starlight pierces the shroud–
What is my mettle in this contraption?
Like a mite of sand
Which can stop a clock
But for it to align the wrong way?
Yet something tells me I’m less–
A wink folded into the rift,
A little joke played on a cassette
Good only to a hipster’s ears.
Pat Broadbent May 2018
I catch little bits and pieces
like krill in a net made for bigger fish–
noticed by chance but as present as mist
in the places where clouds form.

Olives on sticks, buds on treetops
overspread from the chatter of crowds
who in currents of traffic meander,
neither aimful nor aimless nor calm.

Sun made present for now,
and so the torrents will show
and the walking is slow,
not that speed is important;

The population straightens up
as if to show for the sun,
as if the clouds were unspun
to unravel all tensions
and break down the denser threads.

So girls turn in dresses with floral prints–
all their purples and greens and their scents–
perfumes pirouetting with pollen–
awakened in lively spins.
Next page