A trunk's rigid leather embraces my horizon
and sweeps my eyes beyond. It's bark
filled with valleys of opaque sap
beckoning a caress, to be one, trapped
in a timeless world. Above extrudes solitary
branches of shimmering leaves, still, lifeless.
Grass blades crinkle like foil,
buckling under my lumberous legs
and filling the dead air with brief life.
A flower unknown juts between my toes
with a color of animity and spite,
shifting and warping against my flesh.
Behind me is the brevity of self.
Sounds of key presses and strokes
that are replayed and redrawn,
layer on layer until the familiar
was just some sound; some color,
before becoming dust.
My form shifts like leaves of Autumn,
the same, strange, the same.
Fingers become silver twigs, arms
become careening branches, legs
spreading tin grass, mind
oozing memories for the after.
He danced atop a branch
and with each step
He jumped and clapped his hands
and with each clap
He sang with all his might
and with each note
They booed him off his stage
for no one liked
It hides behind that shoddy wall
of confidence, blaming the spaces
between the poorly mounted panels
for what it can't see. Eyes creak
and ears sneak to avoid the hammering
and nails that offer help, yet behind the curtain
of fear are cracks and breaks
that want to be seen, and wrong tunes
that want to be heard. It trembles
whenever it hears the knock on the door
for to admit that the impurities are too much,
meant this bastion had crumbled
before the first brick was laid.
Instead it runs.
The knocks get louder and each step
echoes the lies that fell out its maw. The stairs
grip to each ridge of the sole, forcing it down
the same **** path, retracing hidden walls
and breaking ancient locks. The memories are rusted
and the wishes covered in mold and mildew.
A look inside this unrecognizable stain
of something once so warm and benign.
The truth was the foundation,
but the lies were weather
and no care was taken
as everything withered
Yet it still grips at those shards
of confidence. It blames its absence
for all it now sees. It blames the truth
for the ground now covered in glass.
It blames the lies for the cuts on its feet,
but it never blames itself for building
this failure of wood and concrete.
Quiet a long hiatus wasn't it
A brown blot in a swarm of yellow
in the Summer and a cushion of green
in the Spring. It’s white crackled brim
is all that separates the splintered walls
from the gravelly top. The smell of exhaust
whirs the inside to life and ragged dogs
trot out from under the seclusive underside.
The hilly bumps follow up with an uneven
hairstyle of wild grasses. The front door
leads to a cacophony of rustic and tech
as the floors are unforgiving plywood
supporting computers, TV’s, and consoles.
Each step risks a hissing creak and leads
to a weathered table that fed mouths old and young.
Open as it is, the valley still clutches
this place. The winds; sometimes a warm kiss
and sometimes a teasing sting push an old tree.
It shaded a crooked swing set made
for the children, but children they are
no more. The dust kicked up by vehicles
cake the walls with each new visitor,
but just like the children, they also
become few and far between. Grandpa’s house
used to be my house too.
I can hear the gears cracking
little by little. The aroma of metal
and oil fills my nostrils and time slips
as the clock forgets its steps. What once
was a slow waltz is now a freestyle.
The other machines follow suit
with jagged movements. Mechanical
clunks now flooding into my ears; drowning
my thoughts like a white noise. Metal bending
and groaning as pipes above me shake
with screaming steam. The pressure reaches
a dangerous threshold before-- a pause. Like time
being frozen. Except for a drip from outside
that fizzes on the still hot pipes. Clunks
are now barely heard in the back.
It’s peaceful, isn’t it- this factory
at night. These machines used to dance
in unison, but all of the workers have clocked
out to rest. It was meant to be a break
to keep from breaking, but home
is a little too quiet- and thoughts
begin to boil over again.
My first poem after some time. I'm taking an Intro to Creative Writing course right now so I am hoping to improve. This poem has gone through an amateur workshop in my class already, but I would greatly appreciate any more feedback you may have.
A color changes in my view.
A color familiar to a color new.
Something new and something scary.
Should I be cautious or should I be wary?
The color feels anything but mellow.
It was neither red nor yellow.
Not a color of Life or of the Dead.
It is not of blue or of red.
The color becomes familiar now.
It starts to dominate. I take a bow.
To not obey I would not dare
for the color I see, it is despair.
Listen to the creak.
I heard the wind calling me.
What is it I seek?