Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
 
 Feb 2017 bex
Tanisha Jackland
Sleep is the last thing
you want to do
You could miss the apocalypse
Miss Florida on fire

You've wasted so much time
trying to belong
to fit in that tiny
pegged square hole

But you are the circumference
Conforming your
way to happiness
indulging in mediocrity

Time is now
for something authentic
something more burning
than the flesh of hades

Seize god by holding her
in silence and hearing
her deep
 Feb 2017 bex
Busbar Dancer
Right now
in your kitchen
on the bottom rack of the dishwasher
resides a secret;
a dark spot on your soul –
a malignant little horror
that threatens to destroy
your sense of self worth.

Maybe it’s a butter knife
with an in-congruent rust spot
on one side of the blade…
Maybe it’s a random salad fork,
the final piece remaining
from a long forgotten flatware set,
with a fossilized chunk of radicchio
lodged between the third and fourth tines.

Probably it’s the fork.

There it has sat
without being moved;
without being touched;
just existing as the metaphor that it is
for 8 straight wash cycles.
The result has never varied.
The dirt remains.

Soon will come a ninth wash cycle.
You hope that things will change.
You know that they will not.
Despite this unwavering conviction
that the fork will always be *****,
the next time you run the cycle,
open the dishwasher door,
peer through the gauzy veil
of lemon scented fog
and see the small bit of filth
you will still feel disappointed.
You will grow a little bitterer.
You will be a little more contemptuous.
The world will be a deeper shade of gray.

It doesn’t have to be this way.

You can go
right now
into the kitchen
to the bottom rack of the dishwasher and
reach down
with a trembling hand
to grasp destiny.

You are bigger than this fork.
You are bigger than this fork.

You
are bigger
than this fork.

With a sense of control firmly clasped between your fingers
take that 15 uncomfortable seconds
to scrape away the debris with your thumbnail
and then be free.

BE FREE

Deep and resounding will be
the sigh of relief;
the utter completion;
the contentment absolute
that you experience
when you place that clean salad fork
back in the drawer.

It will never match
the new silver
that your In-Laws gave you last Christmas, but
at least it will be clean and
in its home
safely ensconced
in that wire organizer.

Right now
in your kitchen
on the bottom rack of the dishwasher
is a chance for redemption.
If you hung in all the way to the end, you have my gratitude.
I hope it was worth it.
 Feb 2017 bex
SE Reimer
captured
 Feb 2017 bex
SE Reimer
~

coniferous forms
dance in the umbra,
flickering oranges
of molten tongues,
of yellows and reds,
bathing the night;
its hungriness fed,
in the softened light.
like fingers it reaches
across the deep snow,
long shadows are creatures
in ember’s glow;
devouring consumption
as flames turn to ash,
like ravenous huntsman
his prey in his grasp.
a ghost in the darkness,
’neath a sliver of moon;
a howl in the stillness,
a shivering tune;
in patience awaiting,
straining to see
a dark horse arising,
’cross a bright galaxy;
the fire now low as
he aims and he shoots;
an eye for his target
ends a night of pursuit.
his prey is now captured,
his work here is done;
the camera now loaded,
his drive home’s begun.

~

*post script.

the astrophotographer’s task is almost always lonely and usually cold during Milky Way “hunting” season. from the vantage point of Watchman’s Fire Lookout overlooking Crater Lake, a friend spends nights in a tent (or even an igloo), his only companion perhaps a campfire in the deep snow, chasing his dream of shooting the night sky.  his reward for his labors?  incredible videos and stills, caught in the lens of his camera... and our praise.  Matthew’s motto is simple - “capturing the light in the darkness!"  and what heavenly light he captures!  interested in seeing some of his work?  simply Google his motto!
 Feb 2017 bex
Jude kyrie
adrift at sea

Jude Kyrie

my poetry has become
a seagulls cry.
my soul is adrift
on a becalmed sea.
This sailors wife has
knitted his death
into his sweater.
the sea shall swallow me.
Unoticed with its infinite greed.
The cloudless sky
will take my poems
and recite them in sea winds
from a place on high.
the verses now melt
Into a single sound.
my poetry has become
a seagulls cry.
Read a Carl sagon quote
We sailors adrift on a becalmed sea
We sense the breeze.
It inspired this poem
Jude
Next page