"startled" poems
in grievous deity my cat
walks around
he walks around and around
with
electric tail and
push-button
eyes
he is
alive and
plush and
final as a plum tree
neither of us understands
cathedrals or
the man outside
watering his
lawn
if I were all the man
that he is
cat--
if there were men
like this
the world could
begin
he leaps up on the couch
and walks through
porticoes of my
admiration.
21.4k
*Eyes..."the windows of the soul"
revealing all i am and are...
Layers of emotions
that show every battle scar.
With a phrase or harsh action
they may show such grief and pain.
Some often ignore the signs...
and just attack again.
They speak to you, succinctly
and can be an open book
If you would only take the time
to take a deeper look.
They soften when they fall in love
and sharpen to a lie
And tighten when duress is near
and narrow when they spy.
They widen when the wonders
of the world come into sight.
Then close when darkness falls
and just embrace the night.
They flinch when they are startled
and they smile when joy is near.
And lubricate themselves with tears
when losing someone dear.
If you should pay attention
to the billboard of the eyes.
They often tell the truth
and seldom falsely advertise.*
Jun 13, 2017
Jun 13, 2017 at 12:26 PM UTC
The rains beat wildly
against the hard earth;
seeking entrance to the womb
that gave them birth.
Causing flash flooding,
in gullies all around;
minor flooding in
several parts of town
The gusty winds blow
havoc, with all things light;
enabling some of them,
to rise in unexpected flight.
Tumbling in the rain swept street,
they spin and race in fury;
like startled things they fly,
in one big, storm-filled hurry.
Monsoons hit the Arizona plains,
dust storms, hail and lightning,
thunder booms her mighty voice,
when close, it's rather frightening.
Aug 20, 2014
Aug 20, 2014 at 5:50 PM UTC
Eve of Holi
A spring eve that’s all different from others
Zephyrs blowing away the leaves
Orange sky adding the flavours
Blooming flowers nodding in a rhythm
So Ironical is nature of this evening
That all these beauties act as ornaments of Kali
On a normal evening man would work
They would work appraising weather
They know it will not last long, they enjoy
Today they as if ignore it, of morning celebrations
Morning is gayest morning of the year
Every reason to see every man
Mankind being unanimous
Evening on contrary balancing it to a usual day
An unexplainable soundlessness, vacuum of thoughts
A day depicting environment without men on work
Streets still hold colours on their chest
But this colour no more is a sign of happiness
People meet each other, everyone has a smile
But that doesn’t match with nature suit
There smiles have scope within its sight
Body of people walking on street enjoy zephyr
Their mind stay startled of unusual quietness
Standing on my entrance, I observe
A swinging litchi tree, missing sound of saw mill
Smiling flowers, orange cloudy sky
Empty streets, parked wagons, and utterly silence
Aug 8, 2014
Aug 8, 2014 at 4:09 PM UTC
I.
Hear the sledges with the bells—
Silver bells!
What a world of merriment their melody foretells!
How they ****** ****** ******
In their icy air of night!
While the stars, that oversprinkle
All the heavens, seem to twinkle
With a crystalline delight;
Keeping time, time, time,
In a sort of Runic rhyme,
To the tintinnabulation that so musically wells
From the bells, bells, bells, bells,
Bells, bells, bells—
From the jingling and the tinkling of the bells.
II.
Hear the mellow wedding bells,
Golden bells!
What a world of happiness their harmony foretells!
Through the balmy air of night
How they ring out their delight!
From the molten golden-notes,
And all in tune,
What a liquid ditty floats
To the turtle-dove that listens, while she gloats
On the moon!
Oh, from out the sounding cells,
What a gush of euphony voluminously wells!
How it swells!
How it dwells
On the future! how it tells
Of the rapture that impels
To the swinging and the ringing
Of the bells, bells, bells,
Of the bells, bells, bells, bells,
Bells, bells, bells—
To the rhyming and the chiming of the bells!
III.
Hear the loud alarum bells—
Brazen bells!
What a tale of terror now their turbulency tells!
In the startled ear of night
How they scream out their affright!
Too much horrified to speak,
They can only shriek, shriek,
Out of tune,
In a clamorous appealing to the mercy of the fire,
In a mad expostulation with the deaf and frantic fire
Leaping higher, higher, higher,
With a desperate desire,
And a resolute endeavor
Now—now to sit or never,
By the side of the pale-faced moon.
Oh, the bells, bells, bells!
What a tale their terror tells
Of Despair!
How they clang, and clash, and roar!
What a horror they outpour
On the ***** of the palpitating air!
Yet the ear it fully knows,
By the twanging,
And the clanging,
How the danger ebbs and flows;
Yet the ear distinctly tells,
In the jangling,
And the wrangling,
How the danger sinks and swells,
By the sinking or the swelling in the anger of the bells—
Of the bells—
Of the bells, bells, bells, bells,
Bells, bells, bells—
In the clamor and the clangor of the bells!
IV.
Hear the tolling of the bells—
Iron bells!
What a world of solemn thought their monody compels!
In the silence of the night,
How we shiver with affright
At the melancholy menace of their tone!
For every sound that floats
From the rust within their throats
Is a groan.
And the people—ah, the people—
They that dwell up in the steeple.
All alone,
And who toiling, toiling, toiling,
In that muffled monotone,
Feel a glory in so rolling
On the human heart a stone—
They are neither man nor woman—
They are neither brute nor human—
They are Ghouls:
And their king it is who tolls;
And he rolls, rolls, rolls,
Rolls
A paean from the bells!
And his merry ***** swells
With the paean of the bells!
And he dances, and he yells;
Keeping time, time, time,
In a sort of Runic rhyme,
To the paean of the bells—
Of the bells:
Keeping time, time, time,
In a sort of Runic rhyme,
To the throbbing of the bells—
Of the bells, bells, bells—
To the sobbing of the bells;
Keeping time, time, time,
As he knells, knells, knells,
In a happy Runic rhyme,
To the rolling of the bells—
Of the bells, bells, bells—
To the tolling of the bells,
Of the bells, bells, bells, bells,
Bells, bells, bells—
To the moaning and the groaning of the bells.
10.5k
Volunteers, PSGs, Staffs
Executive Directors
And higher task allocators.
People pass by
Mic's were off
Facade was the banner of hope.
Voices all over the provinces
All with the same goal
Rightly urged with own reasons.
Two faces were present
Painted with grimace
Or with broaden smiles.
*The screening was stern and severe
Camera rolls on with Level 2
"Next," "Give me another song"
The voice sounds no roughs of plead
A voice pushing rivals
To their very own frontiers
I was startled
So this is how they do it
Selection, great screenings
There're expectators
There're hope hurtles
Dreams will sooner be pulled of.
Jul 5, 2014
Jul 5, 2014 at 11:52 PM UTC
It was not a heart, beating.
That muted boom, that clangor
Far off, not blood in the ears
Drumming up and fever
To impose on the evening.
The noise came from outside:
A metal detonating
Native, evidently, to
These stilled suburbs nobody
Startled at it, though the sound
Shook the ground with its pounding.
It took a root at my coming
Till the thudding shource, exposed,
Counfounded in wept guesswork:
Framed in windows of Main Street's
Silver factory, immense
Hammers hoisted, wheels turning,
Stalled, let fall their vertical
Tonnage of metal and wood;
Stunned in marrow. Men in white
Undershirts circled, tending
Without stop those greased machines,
Tending, without stop, the blunt
Indefatigable fact.
8k
She gazed out long and far,
Past half closed curtains
And dozing, docile cars.
Witness to a world double glazed
Dampened by a passing rain.
Sound drowned still by fragile,
Stained glass pane.
Skies lay grey, like every other day,
Shrubs shrug and trees sadly sway.
She feels for the trees,
(And to an extent the shrub)
They're not so different from you or I.
We all plant roots, grow, love?
Thoughts disturbed by a startled dove,
Flew the coup, done, had enough,
Rose as Icarus toward the sun.
Basked in light of new found freedom.
Never heard the hunters gun.
Jan 30, 2016
Jan 30, 2016 at 6:30 PM UTC
Her weary eyes, skin torn at the cuticle
Feet aching yet marching still
Cotton on the heir’s back
Canvas on the feet of the dutchess
Triple the hours, double the dough
His crimson cheeks, toes purple with pride
Not a single tear, nor a single fear
No fuel for his ego
No warmth for his heart
Just a lonely street corner
Their tear-stained dress, his voice, her choice
Deep in their skin do they confess
If God was real, he'd want perfect
God wouldn't make them a sin
A “he” or “she” is not needed
The silent voice of forgotten
Too afraid to speak, startled still
Too afraid to be saved
Gone but never forgotten
A son or daughter, broken
A wedding, thank this “God”
Where men can act as such
And women use their powder
But genders may stay pure
It is a sin, after all
A young girl watching the news
Filled with hate, this world turns
She is coming of age, is she not?
She understands their struggle
And ready she is to stand up
For she has kids to feed
For he just needs a meal
For they want to be real
For they were never heard
For they wed their own
She understands. She accepts.
She is ready.
Jul 20, 2016
Jul 20, 2016 at 12:55 AM UTC
*
*In the terrain of a barren forest
In the forlorn of a lost ship
In the godforsaken-ness of fate
In the inhospitality of people
Either sides of the dunes
There walks Majnun, in rugged clothes
There sings Meera, in wedded bliss
Both - immersed in the dreams of LOVEz
Both delicate, both innocent
Both pure, both true
Both fresh - like budding blooms
Both living in harmony with Nature
Waiting for Krishna's and Layla's arrival
Knowing their BELOVEDz will come
Both - still intoxicated in LOVE
Half closed, drowsy eyes,
Blurred vision, drunkard steps
They walk, dance, sing and fall
Awaiting their LOVERz call
Don't show complete callousness
Do not wake these LOVERz at all
From their disconsolate state of being
Let a dust-storm or lash of rain
Shake their heart and being
As if Krishna and Layla
Have shaken their soul awake
Startled at the LOVER'z touch
Meera and Majnun look around,
Astonished & glancing everywhere
Searching to find their LOVERz
"Where is Krishna? Where is Layla?"
They run wild - deliriously mad
Until they find a mirage & a silhouette
In the blank space of air around them
There they rest - sit and talk
They laugh and chat in LOVE
Only we realize and know that
There is no one around them
Yet only they can see their LOVERz
Only they can feel their BELOVEDz
To play a colorful game of LOVE
Let Krishna give Meera a kiss
Let Meera twirl one more round
Let Layla peck Majnun cheeks
Let Majnun sing one more new ballad
Thus till date they are remembered
As tragedy folk-lore's LOVE
Our tragic LOVERz-BELOVEDz
Our Meera-Majnun
All these happens on
Either sides of the dunes*
*
Jul 25, 2019
Jul 25, 2019 at 11:58 PM UTC
*It is the little things in life, which mean so much
They are very quietly innocent
Like the wondrous feel of a clean bed sheets touch
Infused with an April Fresh Downy scent
Waking up startled at a quarter past eight
Jumping up straight from bed
Thinking worriedly that I am going to be terribly late
Remembering, it’s my day off instead
Coming to terms, that to my name, I’ve not a dime
Accepting my usual penniless lot
Then there in the pocket of my faded jeans I find
A crumpled up, forgotten five spot
Sitting down now with my paper and pen
Searching for words to write
Thinking to myself, my mind has gone blank again
Then finding the ones, perfectly right
To win the lottery or an all expense paid vacation
Would be so incredibly nice
However, I will settle, for these small sensations
Any ole day of my life*
Sep 25, 2010
Sep 25, 2010 at 6:33 PM UTC
It was a hundred years ago,
When, by the woodland ways,
The traveller saw the wild deer drink,
Or crop the birchen sprays.
Beneath a hill, whose rocky side
O'erbrowed a grassy mead,
And fenced a cottage from the wind,
A deer was wont to feed.
She only came when on the cliffs
The evening moonlight lay,
And no man knew the secret haunts
In which she walked by day.
White were her feet, her forehead showed
A spot of silvery white,
That seemed to glimmer like a star
In autumn's hazy night.
And here, when sang the whippoorwill,
She cropped the sprouting leaves,
And here her rustling steps were heard
On still October eves.
But when the broad midsummer moon
Rose o'er that grassy lawn,
Beside the silver-footed deer
There grazed a spotted fawn.
The cottage dame forbade her son
To aim the rifle here;
"It were a sin," she said, "to harm
Or fright that friendly deer.
"This spot has been my pleasant home
Ten peaceful years and more;
And ever, when the moonlight shines,
She feeds before our door.
"The red men say that here she walked
A thousand moons ago;
They never raise the war-whoop here,
And never twang the bow.
"I love to watch her as she feeds,
And think that all is well
While such a gentle creature haunts
The place in which we dwell."
The youth obeyed, and sought for game
In forests far away,
Where, deep in silence and in moss,
The ancient woodland lay.
But once, in autumn's golden time,
He ranged the wild in vain,
Nor roused the pheasant nor the deer,
And wandered home again.
The crescent moon and crimson eve
Shone with a mingling light;
The deer, upon the grassy mead,
Was feeding full in sight.
He raised the rifle to his eye,
And from the cliffs around
A sudden echo, shrill and sharp,
Gave back its deadly sound.
Away into the neighbouring wood
The startled creature flew,
And crimson drops at morning lay
Amid the glimmering dew.
Next evening shone the waxing moon
As sweetly as before;
The deer upon the grassy mead
Was seen again no more.
But ere that crescent moon was old,
By night the red men came,
And burnt the cottage to the ground,
And slew the youth and dame.
Now woods have overgrown the mead,
And hid the cliffs from sight;
There shrieks the hovering hawk at noon,
And prowls the fox at night.
5.9k
Today ****** came calling
It screamed in the still air
Awoke a community
Startled and scared children
****** came fast
****** came darkly
****** passed over as the crows moved on up ahead.
Apr 11, 2014
Apr 11, 2014 at 5:35 PM UTC
Hunting has a noble heritage, for sure
Bringing us together, it forged a species
Keen-eyed, communicative, feared by the fierce
So who am I to begrudge you your sport?
I, too, love wide open skies, tramping over bog and fen,
I even quite like dogs!
I imagine nature might reveal herself to you
In signs jealously guarded from the armchair carnivore.
I can almost reconcile your harsh percussion
With the croak of the raven, the sloshing tide
And the chewing and mooing of cattle.
But the pheasant! For the love of God, the pheasant?
It can hardly be a battle of wits!
I've seen him as he sits, a big, red bullseye
On fences and *****
Startled by every day he survives.
How stirring can it be,
Picking off the ones the cars and lorries never got?
When you carry him home,
Better off dead,
Hang him in your garage for a week
Feeling like Henry VIII,
Cut him down, slit him open and find the crop
Stuffed not with heather shoots and beetles
But with half a pound of store-bought grain
(Generously laced with antibiotics) -
I hope the realisation creeps up
That you may as well have asserted yourself
In the hen coop,
Blasting away at befuddled poultry
And saving yourself a walk.
Nov 24, 2010
Nov 24, 2010 at 1:33 AM UTC
Paul Johnson was a mad psychopath.
He had killed hundreds of women in his life all by himself.
He never used any tools to **** He barehandedly killed those women.
His ex-girlfriend was the reason why he killed.
She had ran away with his brother leaving him hurt so bad like crazy.
His ex-girlfriend was a beautiful blonde.
He chased them for years.
When he found them he brutally killed them.
He mutilated the poor girl into little slices.
He beheaded and castrated his brother.
Then he cast their remains into fire.
Ever since then he had never stopped killing.
His victims were always women aged between 25 and 30.
They're always blonde and blue-eyed.
He strangled them all with his hands before he buried them in his basement.
One day he mistakenly killed a brunette who was wearing a blonde wig and .
He was so startled that he stopped killing and soon after hanged himself
His mother was a beautiful brunette.
Dec 7, 2010
Dec 7, 2010 at 8:09 AM UTC
At a recent family gathering
Friends and family ask cheerfully
How are you feeling today?
Not too bad…my mouth says
I put a smile on my face
As I simply walk away
They don’t know I didn’t sleep last night
As well as the four nights before
When I am manic I can’t sleep at night
When depressed I sleep all day
I live in a bipolar bubble of life
Too high then so low
Takes a toll on me
Don’t know which way I will go
I don’t always get my way
I suffer thru another day
This is bipolar my life every day
If I told them just a part of what goes on
They would be startled by my reply
They can’t process the pain I am in
I’m crying in the hall way
Someone walks by
Wanting to comfort me
Don’t cry it will get better...
I’m not crying I say
Those are not tears you see
It’s my brain fluid leaking out of my eyes
What more could I say?
Mar 16, 2018
Mar 16, 2018 at 2:12 AM UTC
Night witches own the dark, as they sweep the skies on their knotted broomsticks. They take to flight, in pairs, under waxing or new moons, when the sky is darkest, the stars at their dimmest and gloom the deepest. They steal souls, drink warm blood, gather teeth and fresh, human meat.
They drift, smoke-like, with noir-intent, chewing their charcoal treats in that imperfect silence that prickles with all the sounds of the earth: growing plants, creeping insects, rustling leaves, and shivering birds.
Although their stygian laughter is frequently mistaken for cat fighting, they are soundless, becoming the shadows that disturb, that draw startled glances from the periphery of vision.
In their dark-passing, a mother will check her sleeping children one more time - dogs will whimper and fathers, the hair on their neck standing, will check already-locked windows.
Are you meandering out this night - to walk the dog or check the mail? If so, look to the sky. A little decision can be the worst mistake of your life.
Feb 15, 2022
Feb 15, 2022 at 9:31 AM UTC
Once upon a time,
a princess small and fair
sat in a simple wooden tower.
She spent her days
surrounded by stories and songs,
and let the whispers of tales
sing her softly to sleep.
But, one day, a curse fell across her mind,
sent by an unknown spellcrafter.
The curse shrouded the princess’s thoughts in darkness.
The princess grew fearful of every passing day,
distrustful of the ones she loved,
and her stories and songs
became her only remaining comfort.
The princess spent many years
tormented by this terrible curse,
a foul spell that forced her to
doubt her life
and draw her own blood.
She was trapped, frightened and alone,
in her cold wooden tower,
and her only company was the monsters who came
to feed on her fear.
One dark and rainy day,
the princess was startled to see
a pair of warm, brown eyes
peering through her window.
She gazed into those eyes,
and suddenly felt something stir in her chest.
It was a feeling that she hadn’t experienced
since the days before her curse:
Love, and trust.
The princess opened the window
and let the eyes’ owner climb in out of the rain.
The boy standing before her saw
the monsters in the princess’s room,
and he drew his sword.
The princess cried out, startled.
The young knight looked at her and said,
“Never fear, princess. I will always protect you, no matter the cost.
Your monsters cannot drive me away.”
To prove his point,
he ran his sword through the beasts one by one.
One monster managed to escape, scurrying out the window,
but the rest turned to dust on the knight’s shining blade.
The knight turned to the princess and fell to his knees,
taking her small, soft hand in his.
“My fair princess, I have been watching you, lonely in your tower,
and I have seen the curse’s power.
If you would allow it,
I would like to stay by your side,
to protect you from any monsters that may come your way,
and help you find a way to break the curse.”
The princess gazed down at the knight with shining eyes,
then knelt so her eyes were level with his.
“I will let you stay, knight, for I see loyalty and truth in your eyes...and I also see hope.
I feel that you will help me break the foul curse that has been placed upon me.”
The knight lifted a hand and gently rested it on her cheek.
“Then I vow to protect you until my dying breath, princess.
I swear I will never leave your side.”
The knight leaned in and sealed his vow with a gentle kiss,
and the princess gasped as the world around them suddenly brightened,
the tower’s icy chill faded into a pleasant warmth,
and the princess’s darkest thoughts faded away.
She knew that the curse was not broken,
but something had been changed,
and the change was wrought by the knight’s kiss.
She looked at the knight kneeling before her with wide eyes.
“You are meant to be my savior,” she whispered.
Jan 26, 2016
Jan 26, 2016 at 9:14 PM UTC
It was a restless night denuded of sleep
So since it was warm and windless
I hit the streets
Walking under ancient oaks draped in Spanish moss
My path inevitably led to where
Everything was at a complete loss
Crescent Moon Memorial Cemetery
For the dead
Where all lie below earthly care
Was where my feet had somehow led
Row upon row of forgotten names
In all of their endeavors
Have been eased of their earthly pains
And now as I trudged by at a quarter to three
A low chorus and chords of music
Through the mists came floating to me
It startled and intrigued
What now is this ?
So I had to go see for myself
And I silently crept to where came the origins of bliss
In a circle of bench seats and monument stones
The strangest thing I saw , that of the unborn
Ghosts and skeletons playing with bones and singing in moans
A see through piano , trombone , bass , saxophone and a silver cornet
And one wailing guitar completed the set
On the translucent petal bass drum
Was the name of the ethereal band
And to a catchy tune I began to hum
Crescent Moon Memorial Buried Blues Band
The epitaph on the vaporous drum stated
And I soon found myself a loyal fan
What seem like a lifetime they continued to play
Quaint rthyms and lyrics now made my day . . . and night !
As the sounds drifted across the river out onto the bay
But far off I heard the mornings cock's call
Then phiff . . . vanished all into the fog
Not a trace as if covered by an invisible pall
And then a ray caught the gleam in my eye
And I knew that when the time comes
Here's where I want to be placed after I die
Dec 11, 2014
Dec 11, 2014 at 8:38 PM UTC
Whilst camouflaged
The Golden Dragonfly
With emerald eyes
And rubies, and diamonds
Upon it's wings, and tail
Slept
And whilst it slept
It dreamed
And within its dream
It wandered
Flying over a turquoise pool
The Golden Dragonfly
Began to ponder
On its existence
And wondered why
It was a dragonfly
But then she saw her own reflection
On the soft rippling blue water
As she became aware
Of her own beauty
And instantly found
An inner tranquility
Just at that moment
As is the way of dreams
A long rolling tongue
Shot out
And swallowed the Golden Dragonfly whole
The frog
Had no other thought
Than to feast
The Golden Dragonfly
Then woke up
Relieved
That it had only been a dream
But now
Also aware
That it now had conscious thought
Beyond its natural instinct
And at first
Felt quite afraid
Looking around its surroundings
First making sure
That there were no frogs around
It glanced up
And realised
It was attached
To the outer skin
Of a curious looking creature
Some kind of giant
With hair flowing
In the soft zephyr breeze
And without realising
Spoke to the giant
"What are you?"
The giant
Looking startled
Had obviously wondered
Where the small voice was coming from
The Golden Dragonfly
Spoke again
"Are you going to eat me?"
The giant
Then realised where
The voice was coming from
Looked around before answering
Whispered, "No!"
The Golden Dragonfly
Accepted that this was at least true
"My name is Lucianne" said the Golden Dragonfly
Not knowing, until that moment
That she had a name
"My name is Petra" said the giant
With the long flowing hair
"I don't understand how it is possible
to be conversing with a dragonfly"
The Golden Dragonfly
Felt the same confusion
As it had never conversed with anything, ever
And never had questions to ask
But now
The questions came quicker
Than her wing beats
The giant spoke again
"You are welcome to remain on my waistcoat"
"And we can speak more, when we get to my home"
At that moment
A sudden gust of wind
Blew the Golden Dragonfly
Off the waistcoat
Into some dense undergrowth
And within this undergrowth
Sat a frog
And in an eye blink
A long rolling tongue shot out
And swallowed the Golden Dragonfly
Whole
The giant, named Petra
Searched the undergrowth
For several hours
Shouting out for Lucianne
Other giants around
Became concerned
When Petra explained
That she was looking for
A talking Golden Dragonfly called Lucianne
Petra would often return to the park
But never again
Did she see, or hear
The Golden Dragonfly again
by Jemia
Jul 11, 2022
Jul 11, 2022 at 8:18 PM UTC
She runs through the woods
panting for breath,
needing to rest
she listens out
dogs barking
they're growing closer
eager for blood.
She hears them in the distance,
Men,
she lets out a cry,
weaving round tree trunks
going under Bush,
they draw closer,
Her lungs feel crushed.
Her beautiful red coat
is covered in mud,
twigs and leafs,
whatever's under foot,
terror curses through her vains,
she's been chased for hours
feeling drained.
Startled by a blow on a horn
she comes to a Holt,
petrified she urinates
as footsteps fall in behind her
they're here!
Cornered now
her hair stands on end,
A tear drops
as death creeps upon her,
She has no time...
The hounds pounce!
tearing
tugging
And ripping
They do their masters bidding!
Fox hunting a fun sport for all...
(SW)
Feb 25, 2013
Feb 25, 2013 at 3:13 PM UTC
We lived briefly outside and at once
all of our one lives one innocuous evening.
I think it must’ve been a round ten.
We’d gone, really and already, in every sense,
a-stoop-smoking to clear the air of Murakami
and his personal identity. I guess we knew
we’d end up breathing significantly
before time came to shepherd us back in.
On the stoop, aglow in rosewood smoke,
in the streaked light of our chosen nostalgia
and strawberry hope, we pointed to things
we really saw—everything—pressing their
dimensions sharp through the buttery plaster
of our personal identities, like certain words
I happened to glimpse, in and out of Murakami.
I was startled when a car cut through the viscous
street in front of me like a hand underneath a piece
of cloth. It bent still shadows around a perfect
globule of movement and returned each to rest
only after each of its past moments had passed.
That’s when I saw my smoke trail slowly leave me,
unapologetically, heading across the invisible prairie
on its horses to drink by the bending river in the street.
It asked me if I knew, now, why I should come along.
I pointed and asked: What was that I just saw?
Where?
There by the street. What was that?
Oh, that was just
antlers on a fire truck this past Wednesday.
I don’t understand.
Of course you don’t. You won’t remember I said it.
Then why’d you say it?
To remind you you’ll forget.
Oh, I see. Thank you, then. I was about to
forget I’d forget. Now I know
I never will.
Mar 27, 2012
Mar 27, 2012 at 5:46 PM UTC