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Sammy Connell Sep 2016
Going out the back door,
It caught my eye like bird
swooping down on a branch.

A brown old leather shoe
By the fence, in the tall grass.
Sitting like a burning martyr,
It melted in the rain.
Sammy Connell Sep 2016
The grinding wheel works
By a shearing action.

I gently press the steel bar
Into it's spinning face.

Fireflies dancing in the night,
Jumping up and kissing my cheeks.

So hot on my skin, yet temporary.
I push harder, they multiply, so bright.
Sammy Connell Sep 2016
Oh, life.
I am awake to this moment
As much as I can be:
I am a dulled pencil tip smudging
Faded lines on loose leaf.
Cheer for me from the sidelines
While I take on various challenges.

My eyes, my fingers, and my tongue
Are all things that deceive me.
So bring on the deceit.
Wrap it up in as many layers as
You feel necessary.
Bake it as you would a cake:
With care, purpose, and skill.

I wish I was a Blue Jay.
Why am I saying this?
Let me meet you halfway on this one.
Its because of the feathers.
The plumage.
The style of birds has always been

None of this has any relevance.
There is no depth or meaning.
Allow me to lose my train of thought.
I want to be a boat, a yacht.
I want to carry rich families over
Dangerous oceans.
Then you should lift me out of the water,
With a crane (I'm heavy).
Then sand me, paint me, and have me
Surveyed by a professional when you're
Ready to sell me.
Sammy Connell Aug 2016
I have innocent secrets, like
White rabbits hidden
Under the barn,
Chewing on Rye seed.

And the Dandelion puff *****
Own the world above ground.
They flurry atop gusts and breeze,
And can travel many miles at a time.
Sammy Connell Aug 2016
The spirit is a smoky haze,
That lives inside your body.
Like a wisp of fog in the harbor
That follows the boats out.

At times it evaporates,
And other times in hangs on.
It depends on the weather.

And your buck-teeth are
The tooth edged axe hurtling down.
Taking a bite out of the *** of a beech tree,
Or the hot crust of dark rye toast.

You pull me in like a victim of an
Industrial lathe accident, shown
In classes on workplace safety,
Where you walk out glad to be intact.
Sammy Connell Aug 2016
The limbs of that tree, continuous.
Bent here and there, and again,
Until they are lost within each other.
Their ends do not seem to exist,
But are faded into one another
Under leafy tufts, as though a painter
Sought to mesh nature, and to hide
All things deemed inconsistent with
A stroke of her brush.

I do not know what I prefer.
I want to stand with her,
And knit together all the ragged
Edges of reality into a perfect quilt,
Maybe have a nap and forget.
I also yearn to find the tucked away knots
That tie things together, and bind us ignorant.
I want to pull at them until the
Whole thing comes undone.
Until we've all been turned into
Laughing maniacs turning the *****.
Sammy Connell Aug 2016
A cold grey stone
Rolling on the river bed,

Under a rippling fabric,
A tormented water.

Small percussive knocks on the bottom,
Known only to fish.

And your heart sits shallow
In your chest.

Yes, from where I stand
I can see that

Your heart sits shallow
In your chest.

— The End —