"splitered" poems
there are still all these insects
so we know
we have life support
we have a lamp in a window
seen through the trees
sung to by all these insects of the night
Some preservation of life
is implied in the meaning
of living yourself
In a long strand, multiplying
competing and eating
in a kind of unconscious sharing
The rest of the world runs along your side
with sweet little feet, these tiny ones
descended from dragons,
splitered to bits by their own breath
In the end, the largest creatures give the most when they die,
but they seek to take forever,
they seek to keep taking,
but must, one day,
give back.
Oct 17, 2014
Oct 17, 2014 at 11:33 PM UTC
hello stranger,
how long has it been
since we last met?
it must have been
just last week
when we sat on the bench
and fed the birds.
that’s when we last met.
that sounds about right.
i wonder where you went.
we used to meet here
every day.
it began when i was strolling
in the park
you were feeding the birds
wearing everything you owned
and carrying the rest
in a rusty shopping cart.
And when you held your hand out
with the tin cup resting in your palm
I reached to give a coin
but you were handing me
instead a cup filled with brown seeds.
You asked me to sit with you.
we said nothing
and it was enough.
your wrinkled old man hands
folded gently around your cup of oats.
toss toss
they fell to the cold concrete
the birds snapped at them
peck peck
your gift to the world
for giving you nothing.
hello stranger
how long has it been
since we last talked?
it must have been
a few days
when you explained to me
the tale of your misfortunate soul.
that sounds about right
a few days ago
since we sat back on that
splitered, oak bench
but this time with the scraps of paper
faces printed on them
in sepia gold tones
with rounded smiles.
photos of your family
you told me of the days
you wasted without them.
they're now gone
your only gift from the world.
stranger?
i wonder where you went.
you told me of your plans to leave
this empire, skyscraper prison.
i never thought you would,
sorry to admit it.
maybe I will never know
where you went,
or maybe you were never there.
but i still go to that bench
and toss the oats on cold concrete
for the homeless birds
peck peck
they remind me of you
goodbye, stranger.
Mar 7, 2013
Mar 7, 2013 at 9:41 PM UTC