Zeroland.

There are hills here where pavement once set
Long before all things sort of crashed and burned away all that once was inside of here

And out I travel to and fro picking up nails and finding a hammer to help rebuild a time long gone

So here I am here inside a promise that never came to be finding apple blossoms stuffed inside these smallest cracks here within a pavement that now slowly comes to a melt down
As I exhale me.

jo.

Keeper Of The Wind.

Who goes there says I out loud

But there came no answer to my silly question

But the wind kept rattling itself outside and came in through each smallest crack

And I stood there so silently thinking who was it that just moaned
And out it came

A vapor that stunk of rotted old cheese

And I slumped over myself for I could not stand being consumed by this over offensive odor

And I grew ever so queasy inside of the deepest part of me

And it growled out at me that nasty oldest thing that now grew ever so tall in front of me

And he snickered out loud
and said in the gruffest voice

I am the master of the wind

The oldest survivor of all things

And you are now of me

And I was hurled forward deep within that humanless being until I was never more.

jo.

Wear shows along each seam.

Stitches obtained through toil

and sewn with needles of obligation

well-intended for those in need.

How could her nimble fingers

stay still and silent

in the face of their distress? 

Toll-taking efforts
cast with love

nonetheless burden her shoulders

and incite pain from long hours

spent to ease the lives

of those she loves. 

Woven too is her hard-earned

impermeable shield-
her hard-learned revelation
that she can dwell free

within her mantle.

Pantry shelves hold jars of jam
sweet spreads of life made from fruits and berries
so succulent drops of saliva
rain on each touch of tongues

Cautious people stack rows
of carefully canned fruit
preserved with small portions of honey,
sugar cane or molasses.

Tin lids eventually “pop”
leaving elastic bitters
for knives to daub and rub
against stale breads.

Must life endure until  
only vinegary fills remain
and I am left to consume  
sour roughage to sustain me?

When perdition creeps
across the sands to envelop me
what will become
of unopened jars?