"outskirts" poems
I found you in the cracks of winter. On our first date, we drank tea from cups bigger than our faces. You also told me you wrote poetry. I noticed how every time you would lick your lips before you would speak. The first time you read me a poem your window was open and it was raining. Your voice cracked and you cleared your throat six times. I was smitten. After our third date, I showed you my favorite place in the world. I took you to a bay on the outskirts of town. I told you the stories I carved into the sand a long time ago. I told you I came here every time the world kept turning but I felt as though I've fallen off, waiting for a guitar solo crash or a midnight knock on my window.
I wanted to tell you, you were my midnight knock. You let me hold your book of poems that night. There were bite marks in them from when you said you climbed up in trees back when you were as tall as the kitchen counter. We had conversations of Bon Iver and soccer as we laid on the sandy bay.
I realized that night I wanted to be there with you when the clock swallows up your time and watch indie movies on Netflix when there is nothing good on TV. I turned to look into space and swallowed all my feelings. I felt hollow when I looked at you and noticed your skin was old and tired. But you looked at me like you were young. You said I was the first to make you feel this way. I was smitten.
At first, I looked at you like a star but ended up seeing the whole solar system.
Jul 30, 2013
Jul 30, 2013 at 8:55 PM UTC
I sit at the bar of life
Looking forward to happy hour
Another beer
A solicited romance
Something
Even a bowl of peanuts that never came
How I yearn for conversation
Warmth
I can only dream
Seated a few chairs away
Is a rainbow haired hillbilly
Backpacking possums
Gees
Can you imagine
He said he lives under
The outskirts of ****** land
He smiles
I smile
I catch a bee from behind
As the bartendress walk by
My eyes look at her behind
And catch honey
My claim to fame
Oh how I wish I were a bee
And had somebody
Like the rainbow haired hillbilly
That tends under the outskirts of ****** land
I look over at him
He's always smiling
Maybe it has something to do
With playing a fiddle and finding music, finding new paths
Goats and milk
And backpacking possums
Or maybe its sublime
Oh, how I wish I could smile
Feel warmth
Sunshine
And look into her peering eyes
Logan Robertson
7/16/18
Jul 18, 2018
Jul 18, 2018 at 12:16 AM UTC
Manila,
Manila,
Your bustling streets vibrate with the rumbling of the jeepneys
and the hollers of the drivers as they say,
“Pasahero diyan, kasya pa, kasya pa!”; (Any passenger there, some seats are still free!)
Your nights twinkle with the Christmas lights
that surround every tree around the Meralco building
when September begins;
Your endless traffic jams keep McDonald’s and KFC alive
twenty-four by seven
where traffic enforcers dodge cars
and vans
trucks and tricycles
and jeepneys and bicycles
while dancing to the rhythm beating in their own ears
with a smile and a salute to all the drivers
from dawn to dusk;
The noise awakens the outskirts of your city
filled with people who never fails to smile
even when the storm pirouettes like a tempestuous ballerina,
where children watch the roads
transform into this ocean of black water
and small wooden boats become the means of transportation;
paddling in between houses
as the adults try to go to work;
where chickens waddling upon roofs
and cats chasing rats
become the best forms of entertainment
but Manila,
your lingering smell of cancer
comes with the dark blue starless sky
telling people to grip their bags until it merges with their bodies.
Manila, say good night
while they hold it tight
protecting it from the dark humid air
where thieves come out to
thumb down unscrutinised objects
from shallow pockets
by the flickering lamps
across the blazing red and emerald green lights
you see less
and less
and less
faces
as the Sun sinks and says good bye.
Stop
and try to tranquilise yourself.
Your city is now lead
by a blood-thirsty leader.
Apologies from gunshots overpower the cries of help from your people.
Manila,
ignore them
and sleep well.
Let the truth decay
while lives burn and vanish.
Prayers cannot save your mutinous ignominy.
Halcyon days are over
but
Manila,
you are still a beautiful city.
Your resilient people
overflows with hospitable hearts.
Their faces plastered with big smiles
as they welcome us for you
and say, “Mabuhay!” (Long live!)
proud and mighty.
Offering their minds on banana leaf plates to everyone who visits,
Giving away their hearts in small loot bags to everyone who leaves,
The Pearl of the Orient Seas
was my hood.
Manila,
despite your lack of snow
and intense weather swings,
You are
and will always be
my home.
Apr 7, 2017
Apr 7, 2017 at 4:54 PM UTC
My mentor spoke to me of two rivals,
Once, they had been friends in some distant past.
But the years have eaten their love and made grudges manifest.
|The two shattered into broken glass
To my wise master I asked only one,
One question... In all my range.
One question I asked:
“What changed?”
In the outskirts, at the home of my daughter
Where you can stare at the stars or passing cars
None more brighter than the other,
We share memories of my grandmother.
In the photographs, she looks so much younger.
Not frail, but a fighter, lover and saintly|
To me, she asks plainly,
One question, and one question only.
Sifting through the ages of years past:
“What Changed?”
At the kitchen table, feeling inadequate,
My lover screaming and frustrated,
I recall memories when we had been intimate.
Times when movement was made for desire and not duty
|A calendar of nights left in confused abstinence
I interrupt.
She delays rage.
I beg,
“What Changed?”
_
In the last few hours of night
The dawn reaches me at last.
I had locked moments-
Literal seconds of time as the truth.
But it was always changing
In flux and morphing.
Turning into something new
Just for a moment, and then on again
“What Changed?”
Everything.
Always.
Jul 20, 2015
Jul 20, 2015 at 7:36 AM UTC
son spreads knee blood into ******* &/or
sidewalk chalk.
mixes reds to pinks with head cracking asphalt.
of god & country.
of soggy bread in a lunch-bag; snackpack readied.
he skates.
the concussed ****** of booming youth.
omega he:
to the wolf pack outers.
breathing love of summer, he
is the son drunk on hi-c
& burping.
watching teenaged supersoakers yodel
on a bridge.
florida.
son sneaks out late to rationalize
the city’s features
under strange light & love of nightly people.
boy sculpts body out of beast,
turned dark corners.
arrives swollen.
his father erects a roofed flattop in the backyard slab
with flood light electronics taught to worship
the shred.
mother rattles the blender
on the kitchen outskirts, ***** breathed
& nearing with hugs.
blister-itched.
glossed folds of scar tissue.
those days on summer-beyond when the neighborhood pulsates.
with satellite dishes tuneforking high-frequency vibrations
from outerspace & pigeons explode.
son’s ears bleed, &
the television goes unwatched.
he snaps plank & ankle protein, refurbishing
his legs into iron-rods
or wands of summer anthem.
cold war.
he empties sugar-sweat & toxins
into the storm-drain.
essence of wet heat, skin pinched, & friend
of ghosts.
a three legged dog lay in the shade
leisurely watching the boy skate
on endless.
Apr 1, 2014
Apr 1, 2014 at 1:11 AM UTC
to exonerate the clippings
they took the back road to oswega
the tudor house rabbits
had long lost their heads
(presumably to the *****
and what remained
of the landscape
was dead
and dry
and orange
that happy home
on the brink
of cattle loop
was now gull grey
the needles
and stragglers
from shady bay
remained (in growing numbers)
on the outskirts
of the driven back park
the once fabled town
of horse drawn tours
and dignitaries
was stone washed ~
on the back of it's
government docks
sat decrepit toppers
set against the high tide
beside the lighthouse
and its measured song
flutes and fiddlers
and acoustic sitars
ride the accompaniment
nose rings
and signage
in the hands of
staged protesters
the sickly spit strewn
with tidal run
and ocean bags
hedgerows trimmed
along the sea side
rolling hills fade
adjacent the chuck
mint juleps
and flop hats
peak on the parade
clydesdales
and royals
blinded in the back
Apr 2, 2017
Apr 2, 2017 at 2:41 PM UTC
Samantha Fox
Was a panther
In a previous life
As well as an ox.
Not to mention
The wife of a
17th century cobbler
On the outskirts
Of Gillingham.
Which is unusual
As those who remember
Past incarnations
Are usually the wives
Of Heads of Nations
Or helped build pyramids.
Actually said Samantha
I forgot to mention
I was also the transistor
In Euclid's protractor.
Can you get anachronisticer?
Oh reincarnation
The rebirthing
Mother of invention.
Apr 25, 2014
Apr 25, 2014 at 3:12 PM UTC
When shall we learn, what should be clear as day,
We cannot choose what we are free to love?
Although the mouse we banished yesterday
Is an enraged rhinoceros today,
Our value is more threatened than we know:
Shabby objections to our present day
Go snooping round its outskirts; night and day
Faces, orations, battles, bait our will
As questionable forms and noises will;
Whole phyla of resentments every day
Give status to the wild men of the world
Who rule the absent-minded and this world.
We are created from and with the world
To suffer with and from it day by day:
Whether we meet in a majestic world
Of solid measurements or a dream world
Of swans and gold, we are required to love
All homeless objects that require a world.
Our claim to own our bodies and our world
Is our catastrophe. What can we know
But panic and caprice until we know
Our dreadful appetite demands a world
Whose order, origin, and purpose will
Be fluent satisfaction of our will?
Drift, Autumn, drift; fall, colours, where you will:
Bald melancholia minces through the world.
Regret, cold oceans, the lymphatic will
Caught in reflection on the right to will:
While violent dogs excite their dying day
To bacchic fury; snarl, though, as they will,
Their teeth are not a triumph for the will
But utter hesitation. What we love
Ourselves for is our power not to love,
To shrink to nothing or explode at will,
To ruin and remember that we know
What ruins and hyaenas cannot know.
If in this dark now I less often know
That spiral staircase where the haunted will
Hunts for its stolen luggage, who should know
Better than you, beloved, how I know
What gives security to any world.
Or in whose mirror I begin to know
The chaos of the heart as merchants know
Their coins and cities, genius its own day?
For through our lively traffic all the day,
In my own person I am forced to know
How much must be forgotten out of love,
How much must be forgiven, even love.
Dear flesh, dear mind, dear spirit, O dear love,
In the depths of myself blind monsters know
Your presence and are angry, dreading Love
That asks its image for more than love;
The hot rampageous horses of my will,
Catching the scent of Heaven, whinny: Love
Gives no excuse to evil done for love,
Neither in you, nor me, nor armies, nor the world
Of words and wheels, nor any other world.
Dear fellow-creature, praise our God of Love
That we are so admonished, that no day
Of conscious trial be a wasted day.
Or else we make a scarecrow of the day,
Loose ends and jumble of our common world,
And stuff and nonsense of our own free will;
Or else our changing flesh may never know
There must be sorrow if there can be love.
5.1k
O as I watch, waiting, wondering.
What has spawned this plague?
The mephitic clouds rise, all day,
joining the atmosphere.
A disease unleashed,
let out of the cage.
Allowed to frolic and rage, bringing thoughts to those already afraid.
Spreading further into the outskirts of the desolate plains.
Rapidly growing an apocalypse like a **** unable to pull from the root.
Only solution seem fit.
To continue to change our ways, and never quit,
or allow ourselves to fall into another mesolithic age.
May 26, 2014
May 26, 2014 at 10:50 PM UTC
Of all things,
She opened my mouth and built a bridge only we knew existed.
She arranged pillar upon pillar
Of steel beams.
I struggled understanding what
To do with the left over bolts.
She grabbed my hand
Taking turns throwing them on the outskirts of where we stood.
We stood between the beams,
An incline of sights seldomly seen.
Afraid of heights she rarely looked down.
She'd bury her head in my chest
Very rarely she looked down.
Spoken words clustered in steel beams
Without fear of plunging below.
Oct 17, 2016
Oct 17, 2016 at 3:58 AM UTC
You were born with a garden of flowers reigning in your heart
Every flower bloomed at the right season
You caltivated your garden
You pruned your flowers
You watered your flowers
You loved your flowers and couldn't wait to share them
You gave the key to your garden to wrong people
They stole your flowers
They didn't help you water your flowers
They cut your flowers
Your garden was now ruined
What am I gonna do now? You asked yourself
You covered your head with blankets crying.
Your flowers are in ruins
You have fresh seeds now
Seeds to start a new garden
With tears running on your face , you revive the old flowers and plant new
You patiently build your garden again
The dead flowers are on the outskirts
The new flowers are hidden where no one can see them
You love your new garden more than before
More intensely that you are hidding it away
You dont want people to see your flowers
You don't want to give them the keys
You show them the old dead flowers when they come to view
Knowing very well that no one likes dead flowers
Sep 13, 2018
Sep 13, 2018 at 4:27 AM UTC
Slick grass glistened heavy
After summer showers fell before a sun
That trickled veiled toward transcendent trees
Towered on the outskirts of the demesne - It unsheathed
A pearlescent canvas for a dreamer who paints ideals;
A reader finding signs in smiles and glances
Strolling paths free of fear to free imagination;
Summoning hopes against a fresh red/orange
Backdrop, and ignoring perilous heights to cast
A thought to moments yet unlived -
This fool's masterpiece.
Aug 9, 2015
Aug 9, 2015 at 8:07 AM UTC
Here I sit
In this basement of
some other house
In the core of the city-
I'm almost on my own...
This January's night
Flashes frozen-
As I adicite, light
I see all that I've chosen:
perturbation, and frustration,
Entwine in all my fascination
Stinging- they whip my body &
paint on lacerations
What you've chosen I cannot see
And the light I catch redefines me
Shadows ignite
That December's day
Reminds me I'm not alone.
In the outskirts of Toronto-
In my Parents home-
My room, my bed - my life's in
The basement
its there; I cry.
Jan 20, 2024
Jan 20, 2024 at 2:38 AM UTC
Today, suddenly, I reached an absurd but unerring conclusion. In a moment of enlightenment, I realized that I'm nobody, absolutely nobody. When the lightning flashed, I saw that what I had thought to be a city was in fact a deserted plain and, in the same sinister light that revealed me to myself, there seemed to be no sky above it. I was robbed of any possibility of having existed before the world. If I was ever reincarnated, I must have done so without myself, without a self to reincarnate.
I am the outskirts of some non-existent town, the long-winded prologue to an unwritten book. I'm nobody, nobody. I don't know how to feel or think or love. I'm a character in a novel as yet unwritten, hovering in the air and undone before I've even existed, amongst the dreams of someone who never quite managed to breathe life into me.
I'm always thinking, always feeling, but my thoughts lack all reason, my emotions all feeling. I'm falling through a trapdoor, through infinite, infinitous space, in a directionless, empty fall. My soul is a black maelstrom, a great madness spinning about a vacuum, the swirling of a vast ocean around a hole in the void, and in the waters, more like whirlwinds than waters, float images of all I ever saw or heard in the world: houses, faces, books, boxes, snatches of music and fragments of voices, all caught up in a sinister, bottomless whirlpool.
And I, I myself, am the centre that exists only because the geometry of the abyss demands it; I am the nothing around which all this spins, I exist so that it can spin, I am a centre that exists only because every circle has one. I, I myself, am the well in which the walls have fallen away to leave only viscous slime. I am the centre of everything surrounded by the great nothing.
And it is as if hell itself were laughing within me but, instead of the human touch of diabolical laughter, there's the mad croak of the dead universe, the circling cadaver of physical space, the end of all worlds drifting blackly in the wind, misshapen, anachronistic, without the God who created it, without God himself who spins in the dark of darks, impossible, unique, everything.
If only I could think! If only I could feel!
Oct 20, 2013
Oct 20, 2013 at 9:58 PM UTC
Fireworks were cool. Framed metal chairs with woven nylon Americana on watered lawns on the outskirts of the edge of Los Angeles. Hairy neighbors, Miller Drafts and dog **** Sally ****** Jim on the corner, and Jim drank, or started again and wouldn’t stop, but was good with a flat tire and chain adjustment. His kid had a glove like a vacuum. His daughter was a ***** Sally afforded a Mexican gardener.
Tim always had fireworks. He had gasoline and willed fireworks into his driveway. He had rope and a keg.
Schatzky keep her cool. She had to. She worked the 5th and taught everyone’s kids. She taught their parents too, 10 years ago.
Her son Donavan and her husband Keith lived for the 4th. Little pink houses and Jack and Diane kind of **** So they watched fireworks on flag hill while their neighbors ****** and got ********* and burnt their eyebrows. Donavan was ecstatic.
Each year the hill was gilded in gold for Donavan and Keith and and Schatzky, because each 4th brought fire and explosives in a way they could never afford.
Keith was more patriotic than most. He waited and enlisted and became a hero. Donavan watched on TV. Schatzky watched too. We won the first gulf war and everyone knew it: https://youtu.be/4gNhs2SRacs?t=1m10...
They celebrated the fourth in baseball stadiums. They celebrated life and heroism and purpose, and they celebrated with F16s and the best explosives the peacetime nation offered.
And Keith celebrated and embraced purpose. He even became a leader in the 2nd gulf war.
Sally stopped ******* Jim. Jim wasn’t married anymore. His kid lowered Tim’s basement and didn’t steal the copper.
Tim’s house was worth a fortune but it had a radon problem.
Schatsky was accused of drowning her dog, but she didn’t do it.
Jim still drinks; he’s smarter now.
They all meet on flag hill every 4th. The fireworks aren’t as good. A lot of build up for a finale that feels like an accident.
Water seeps through my jeans and no one can see my face as I limp home with a broken rubber sandal and a bucket of ice, a dog tied around my legs, and a kid face first on the grass, a wife whose friend drank our last beer an hour ago, a phone with two-percent battery left and my mom wants to show me what fireworks look like in California.
Jul 5, 2016
Jul 5, 2016 at 2:12 AM UTC
Of course the two of us
want to get away from here
We were so innocent Running
Hand in hand To the outskirts of this
Upside – down town Where were we going?
To the mansion we had built with daddy
High in the sky of the towering sycamore tree
But now going back walking the dirt trail that supposedly
brought us to dreams Kicking aside pebbles we pushed
with all our might to
to escape from the
Monsters chasing us
Seeing the
Wimpy vines
That were
once chains
and shackles
intertwined
imprisoning
all of the trunk
seemed unreal
But I had made
Peace with it all
When I saw our shanty hut
Atop the mangled, dwarfed skeleton tree
Mar 24, 2012
Mar 24, 2012 at 8:52 PM UTC
Below are eleven Buson haiku
beginning with the phrase
'The short night--'
The short night--
on the hairy caterpillar
beads of dew.
The short night--
patrolmen
washing in the river.
The short night--
bubbles of crab froth
among the river reeds.
The short night--
a broom thrown away
on the beach.
The short night--
the Oi River
has sunk two feet.
The short night--
on the outskirts of the village
a small shop opening.
The short night--
broken, in the shallows,
a crescent moon.
The short night--
the peony
has opened.
The short night--
waves beating in,
an abandoned fire.
The short night--
near the pillow
a screen turning silver.
The short night--
shallow footprints
on the beach at Yui.
User Submitted "The short night--" Haiku
Submit your own haiku beginning with the line
"The short night--"
and we'll post the best ones below!
Just dash off an e-mail to:
[email protected]
The short night-
a watery moon
stands alone over the hill
Maggie
The short night--
just as I'm falling asleep
my wife's waking up
Larry Bole
3.4k
I heard her thoughts breathe.
said,
she needed something with Redwood patience to understand why her mind traveled with butterflies searching for Eden.
Said, she felt ants inside her dreams carrying away the dead.
wondered if there was no limits to how her heart could grow or communicate with anything.
I saw her quaking eyes search for a place to land back before the first words that God said.
She felt the masterpiece come alive at midnight it spoke beyond all languages, treaded outside of logic, flew outside of time, connected itself with everything alive and spoke to her with a simple grace.
Everything is already yours.
Your heart is the doorway home.
She took a piece of me when she left, left an ice pick for me to play with.
Her sensitive nature understood why roots dug down in a quest for warm solace.
My heart almost closed forever, I felt the final straw detour me to wasteland.
I ran emerald frontiers in her eyes,
butterflies landing on my hands
their wings stained my eyelids
I can't go to sleep without flying through her.
my heart headed to the outskirts of Eden
imagining how she is
Loving her from behind bars
Her butterflies never seeking
my garden.
It almost wilted.
Windy wrath almost destroyed it all.
I had to search the silence
Try to understand myself through a tortured past, I had to tame your tyrant that grew inside my head.
I had to bear the weight of impatient voices that I could not repeat to anybody here
but the dead already know it,
Ones that died by their own hand.
I heard her thoughts breathe
said,
our roots go past the stars
hidden in our beating blood
is the whisper and light of God.
May 8, 2017
May 8, 2017 at 3:57 PM UTC
*Many legends there be back in days of old;
Legends of bold knights upon their noble steeds.
This be a tale starring a knight and his steed
As one and the same.
'Twas in the Renaissance city of Poitiers
The prodigy of a holy knight was born;
Sir Nathanëal of the Salomon bloodline,
Lineage of victors.
He bore the heart and voice of an archangel
And the loyalty of a priest to his God.
No other horse he rode but his first and last;
Dear "Divinitus."
Alas, his loyalty had cost him dearly
In the midst of the Battle of Moncontour.
Thus came the end of Nathanëal Salomon.
Or so it had seemed.
By the hands of benevolent sorcery,
Nathanëal and Divinitus lived again,
This time sharing a peculiar physique
Of both man and horse.
Thus, blessed with fur of white and a mane of gold,
Well-equipped with lightweight armour and claymore,
He walked the outskirts of France slaying evil
As both knight and steed.*
May 26, 2014
May 26, 2014 at 7:35 AM UTC
the grating voices of neighbors unsuccessfully singing Celine Dion ballads
the monotonous mechanical humming of the metal factory
the squealing of housewives watching an afternoon soap opera
the blaring siren of a firetruck racing with tragedy
the clunks and clangs of a nearby construction site
the roaring of the engine of an overloaded jeepney
the chiming of laughter from kids playing in the streets
the calls of the street vendor peddling sugary cotton candy
the whining of the dog begging to run around outside
this is the music of life in the outskirts of the city
Jun 24, 2014
Jun 24, 2014 at 3:45 AM UTC
From the outskirts of the town,
Where of old the mile-stone stood,
Now a stranger, looking down
I behold the shadowy crown
Of the dark and haunted wood.
Is it changed, or am I changed?
Ah! the oaks are fresh and green,
But the friends with whom I ranged
Through their thickets are estranged
By the years that intervene.
Bright as ever flows the sea,
Bright as ever shines the sun,
But alas! they seem to me
Not the sun that used to be,
Not the tides that used to run.
3.2k
Is it my priestly duty
to be denied?
love—time and all else, at all cost!
while he went home alone to watch a movie?
Another victim
sacrificed
having squandered all my pieces in his game?
Trudging home
along the river
slow, in snow
I parse my losses
At the outskirts of a homeless camp
I pause below a viaduct
hauling passion by a leash
warming hands
avoiding hovel-eyes
Flames flicker on our faces
receiving absolution over embers
of a burning embrace
There trace
in glowing holocaust of skids
in human bleatings and crumblings
our smoke rises— pure obscure
Appease with boozy-blur
the icy, stinging God of winter stars...
G’nights inaudible as blessing
Am I derelict enough to be worthy?
Fallen far enough?
from the porches of prosperity?
to escape it all?
That wedding white
the newborn’s head
that numbing denial of decay?
Am I depraved enough to make it?
to the pages of your tragedy— minus poetry?
But the angel said
“The poetry’s more!”
Than leaving me—beyond you
...in the shambles of my words
Dec 8, 2016
Dec 8, 2016 at 10:16 PM UTC
Oh what is that country
And where can it be,
Not mine own country,
But dearer far to me?
Yet mine own country,
If I one day may see
Its spices and cedars,
Its gold and ivory.
As I lie dreaming
It rises, that land;
There rises before me
Its green golden strand,
With the bowing cedars
And the shining sand;
It sparkles and flashes
Like a shaken brand.
Do angels lean nearer
While I lie and long?
I see their soft plumage
And catch their windy song,
Like the rise of a high tide
Sweeping full and strong;
I mark the outskirts
Of their reverend throng.
Oh what is a king here,
Or what is a boor?
Here all starve together,
All dwarfed and poor;
Here Death's hand knocketh
At door after door,
He thins the dancers
From the festal floor.
Oh what is a handmaid,
Or what is a queen?
All must lie down together
Where the turf is green,
The foulest face hidden,
The fairest not seen;
Gone as if never
They had breathed or been.
Gone from sweet sunshine
Underneath the sod,
Turned from warm flesh and blood
To senseless clod;
Gone as if never
They had toiled or trod,
Gone out of sight of all
Except our God.
Shut into silence
From the accustomed song
Shut into solitude
From all earth's throng,
Run down though swift of foot,
Thrust down though strong;
Life made an end of,
Seemed it short or long.
Life made an end of,
Life but just begun;
Life finished yesterday,
Its last sand run;
Life new-born with the morrow
Fresh as the sun:
While done is done for ever;
Undone, undone.
And if that life is life,
This is but a breath,
The passage of a dream
And the shadow of death;
But a vain shadow
If one considereth;
Vanity of vanities,
As the Preacher saith.
3.2k
Can you run,
Your softened fingers,
Along the outskirts,
Of my brittle bones.
Push them down,
Until they jut out,
And pierce through,
My cracking skin.
Can you hold,
My head under,
The murky depts,
Of darkened water.
Sew my bleeding,
Lips together,
And make sure,
I cannot breathe.
Apr 7, 2014
Apr 7, 2014 at 6:33 PM UTC
An aqua-marine dragonfly
hovers in the clarified
light of dusk,
I walk slowly
the risen earth pathway
through the vibrant
green fields
on the outskirts
of the village.
A bell tolls once,
arresting in silence
the moment of foot-fall,
making real
the careful route
along the trodden path
to my house.
Mar 28, 2017
Mar 28, 2017 at 9:55 AM UTC