"trundling" poems
A dandelion sits alone
dreaming emotions that don't belong
inside a flower's wilted heart
A dandelion on it's throne
sees a man trundling along
and grabs him before the start
A dandelion rips the bones
from the man without qualm
until his head is the last part
The head falls upon a stone
the flower knows it's all wrong
the wilt covering it's heart
and whispers slowly to itself:
"She loves me not..."
Aug 8, 2014
Aug 8, 2014 at 12:25 PM UTC
Today heard I a train,
while I smoke my cigarette, I heard a train.
The rumbles came trundling over mossing steel street bars,
the hooves of an iron horse shattering glass floors-
pebbles bickering like stone woodpeckers on the grounds to come.
The wind shudders,
and apologizes for the frost on the leaves,
the cracks in the ground and the holes in the sky,
my cigarette part blur,
awkwardness so comfortable,
this plastic train i recreate,
moments in-between,
where we lay down to day-listen.
The kinsmen that forgot call blacksmith,
scared with his welded skin,
protection in battle,
drunken dichotomy,
a hero ***** dans l’amour.
As great the fall of king, the fall of next in line.
The only thing to have moved quicker with age, time.
Lest we forget, the blacksmith here reside;(unfinished)
While the angel hath walk,
with long grey and black web moth wings,
stalking its sleeping prey,
his eyes wide open back,
watching the angel pace,
infesting the air with despicable knots,
its dangerous to stare,
but a contest never started is a contest never won,
and into the eyes of hell the blacksmith hast stared-
to the foot of his bed.
Where a three headed dog flap its ice wings to keep hell cold.
These nights in particular had been an awful one, and again the tapping, again the train.
Nov 29, 2012
Nov 29, 2012 at 1:24 AM UTC
The spider Queen, aloofly vain!
She rules a silent ruthless reign,
with black-bead eyes like pearls of rain
that damp the depths of her demesne.
.
.
.
A spider spins, with nimble feet,
a sticky web of grim deceit
that drapes the corners, dark, discreet,
in catacombs of her retreat.
Her jointed legs (in number, eight)
traverse the threads with stilted gait,
but often more she'll lie in wait
within the hub of her estate.
Shy spiders live their lives alone
ensconced within a silky throne;
unless a transient guest comes flown,
their lives bide empty, monotone.
.
.
Well, now and then, a sullen breeze
may twitch the toils, begin to tease –
yet nothing's caught and nothing pleas,
so patience's bid at times like these.
But then again, when stars ignite,
may maunder by a gnat, by night,
be taught a dance, a writhing rite,
within a lace of death, wrapped tight.
Sometimes a spider's in the mood
and waits awhile, whilst being wooed –
and then, to later feed her brood,
the widow slays her mate for food.
In time a spider dies, 'tis true,
bequeathing but a residue
entwined, devoid of retinue,
in fibers decked in silver dew.
.
.
.
One asks "What purpose serves the GNAT –
to feed and make the spider fat?
Well, 'tis perchance just naught but that
within a mindless habitat.
.
.
"Yet, what's the aim?” you may inquire,
“at the heart of MAN's desire.
To which goals should WE aspire
reaching high and reaching higher?"
We've, through the ages, left the mire,
trundling wheels and taming fire,
doing deeds that must inspire,
nursing needy, calming crier, …
Such things as these, most may admire:
- placid dove and war defier
(some are bolder, some are shyer)
- patience (mess-up mollifier);
- humankind (Life's justifier)
- charity (charmed self-denier)
- tolerance (proud pacifier )
- love of Life (folk unifier).
What more could we, as flesh, require?
Needless kneeling neath the spire?
Childish chanting in the choir?
Preaching hell's impending pyre?
No, Death's the only rectifier,
comes the instant we expire,
nothing after, sentience prior.
So, treasure Life and don't deny Her.
Oct 6, 2014
Oct 6, 2014 at 1:29 PM UTC
belaboring hurt-bells
of twilight
outside there is a furious wind
sweeping the sour-faced pavement.
the helm of the morning
fits through the pinecones.
through the dandelion,
the diadem of some mystic flower,
the flurry of children
and the fury of the populace.
i know whence the wind stirs
cold flame from the many a dead
stones, sequined floor and the
dreary stillicide of night.
our bodies rise to the sun
that is a full woman
or a ripe apple
or a half-bitten moon in glare
and when her lips purse
there is pang in the wind that blows austere beneath the foot
of hills in ruin.
let the night come later than
a bird's secret sojourn,
or the cicada's enigma.
let the cathedral of my heart
quiver later than the unsheathing
of the night's bone
but in the twilight,
when the skies are bruised with
silence and somnolent without voice
my hands shall leap into the wind
and make do, the belaboring
hurt-bells of twilight.
no more than a crepuscular twining
of a sad vine on a melancholy hymn
that makes fuller with its tender
maneuvers, the trundling in
love's wearisome vessel.
Sep 14, 2015
Sep 14, 2015 at 11:20 PM UTC
For instance, recall daisies,
or if you have not seen one, so much the better.
Paint me a crass picture and sleep
on the shallow crevasse. Stilt through
the orchard and search there: nothing still.
Even the nothingness is form-fitting, and thus,
your vestigial image of daisies. Mold something
out of the vacuity, and there a retrograde sculpture
will wind back to clay. Cornerstones have your name,
and your name even so, has taciturnly placed stones.
Stones. These tiny bodies that lay, undemanding,
scourged by the rapid passage of a carriage.
I wait there, with them, still thinking of daisies.
I know of a child, cylindrically obtuse, in front of the mirror.
Have you seen yourself in the hazy windows
of the Metro? What do you see? I still see daisies.
Or people with heads of daisies. But remember your
forethought of daisies? They are nothing. I am a beheaded daisy
in the lackadaisical wind of Summer. There is nothing to gain
here but the sadness of cold passing. And the child that I am speaking
of, his name, Magno. Sturdy like the rucksack he’s carrying,
lovelessly trundling altogether with the pipes and the
handrails, almost signaling the alarm without warning.
This uncared-for sultry evening decides to splinter
itself against the masses. Again, the daisies appear to me,
this time, in heady form rogue with peripatetic fragrance.
Magno used to unearth daisies and give them to her
mother when he was stiflingly young – he hustled through
the carefully placed furniture. Whatever happened to him,
I know not. And just like the daisies we have come to know now,
trains that do not belong to anyone, and the daisies too, that go
unheard of and unknown to the behest of the city,
have gone into the subtle beginning of everything
that once started in itself, the form of splendor. Nothing.
Jan 27, 2016
Jan 27, 2016 at 3:27 AM UTC
They huddle in the cold damp darkness
grateful for the sheltering sandstone
shuddering at each echoing blast
a remorseless dull ache
like their meagre rations
eyelids shutting wrinkling between attacks
seeking peace and inner sleepless solace.
'Them docks is taking a pasting.'
'Me Dad works there.'
Another attack, tunnels rumble
evoking century old echoes
of rusty trundling drum-line wagons
bearing sandstone blocks to build the docks
now being blitzed blighting the night sky.
The morning brings a dusty disquiet.
Merseyside emerges curses soldiers on.
Nov 1, 2015
Nov 1, 2015 at 10:42 AM UTC
Thrift Shop Confessional
Old carts squeak down re-sale aisles
"One of," "two of,"
Sometimes "three of" items
Tempting treasure-sifting shoppers,
Bargain-needing families,
Women seeking up-brand names at low-brand prices...
Our wives, followed by their husbands,
Acquiescent, but quiescently seeking
Seeking a thrift shop oasis.
A cast-off dining set beckons,
Sturdy enough, if a little battered,
To make us solemnly content to wait
Carted clothing trundling
Off to fitting rooms.
He shuffled up with a foolish grin.
"I think I'll join this convocation of
Waiting gentlemen.
My wife is a shopper...
She'll close the place down."
I moved a chair and gave some space;
Strangers become brothers in this place.
Five minutes on,
I knew he was a vet:
Army, Vietnam Nam...
"I don't like to think about it,"
Cleared his throat,
"Never can forget."
I turned to look at him.
"A little girl came running,
With her hand behind her back.
She only stood this high," he said,
And showed me with his palm her height,
"They carried grenades that way...
All of 'em...couldn't tell which ones...
Sergeant told us, 'Don't ever check...just shoot.'"
The voice trailed off....
I sat sweating in a thrift store,
Captive of my own politeness,
Half a century,
Half a planet,
Transported in his words
into a soldier's Hell.
"So I shot...
Nothing else to do."
Silence then.
A total stranger staggering
under the weight of having
Murdered his Albatross....
Of having carried this thing,
This memory,
Inside him all these years,
Of finding me,
The unsuspecting thrift shop guest
Who'd listen to his lonely tale,
Perhaps so he could earn some rest....
I, his unwitting Confessor,
Uncertain what to say,
Certain something must be said...
Certain nothing could be said...
Sat dumb, but understanding
The wisdom of confessional dividers,
The private comfort of two booths
Where prayerful exchanges
Intersperse uncertain silences,
Present in the overhanging need:
Demanding sorrowful returns,
Impending memories of sorrows...
And lonely trudgings home....
(Connections with Fr. Laurence's "Riddling confession finds but short shrift," in Romeo & Juliet, and Coleridge's "Rime of the Ancient Mariner")
Apr 7, 2013
Apr 7, 2013 at 5:39 PM UTC
Trundling through the loud clouds
that barrage me with thunder.
Pausing to smile at the lightning
shuttering from the red-carpet-crowds.
Tripping on the crimson rug
as they capture my blunder.
And smiling fake feelings,
whilst thinking of you.
You, with your unrequited
commitment to critters.
You, with your dedication
to the unknown.
**** you and only you.
That's all I really wanna do.
Apr 11, 2015
Apr 11, 2015 at 9:10 PM UTC
I've a song stuck in my head
No words, but it's still there
Trundling on with out a thought
It's something I should share
De da doodle la la de ding
boo bar fiddle riddle king
si saw be bop shhh shhh bing
do waddle dip don boom
There's no direction to where it goes
It's a melody of sorts
I've words a plenty, they don't fit
I've just this thing and all its warts
De da doodle la la de ding
boo bar fiddle riddle king
si saw be bop shhh shhh bing
do waddle dip don boom
I play nothing, but hear guitar
some drums there in behind
A backup singer singing loud
And a bass to keep in time
De da doodle la la de ding
boo bar fiddle riddle king
si saw be bop shhhh shhhhh bing
do waddle dip don boom
Jan 1, 2014
Jan 1, 2014 at 7:06 PM UTC
Trundling through the Room of Word,
The crude remarks and the young absurd,
They come an go, no valedictory speech,
Just to and fro, a vestige for each.
So I sit and I stare, with a nihilist prayer,
And I ***** my heart to the sticking place,
Left alone in the quietude, left alone in a private mood,
No crude remarks for a tired face.
So I sit and I stare, yes, I sit and I stare,
screen boring me holes for eyes,
I wait and I dare, my words in the air,
The atmosphere sets and dries -
The atmosphere sets and it dies.
I'll wait there, 'do something, accompany me'
I'll wait there, like waiting for a train.
But once I've waited, no latened, loving response belated,
I tire of this melancholy station,
I'm alone in the Room 'o' Words, my company split to fifths and thirds,
It's time for another, emotional vacation.
Jul 10, 2012
Jul 10, 2012 at 3:58 PM UTC
Sat upon the stone steps of my nanny's house,
Reggae playing loudly in the street,
The heartbeat of the people,
The heart beat in my chest,
Children with braided hair skipping in rhythm,
The trundling bakery van drives up the hill selling loaves and rolls for a few cents,
Aunties warm husky voice calling them for ices and mango,
The clip clop of flip flops and the jingle of beads mixed with laughter,
Brilliant white teeth,
Wide dark eyes,
A sea of noise, constant noise,
In a city, in London, this would be infuriating,
And yet all I feel here is happiness.
Jan 22, 2014
Jan 22, 2014 at 3:21 PM UTC
Winging ponderously through the grey tortured sky,
A crane makes its way to its homeland.
Lightening blazes illuminating with weird yellowness
Torrents of storm rain plunging earthward.
There, sighted below, a car trundling through the downpour
Yet another traveler homeward bound.
Jan 16, 2011
Jan 16, 2011 at 11:05 AM UTC
I am thinking about newly-hatched sea turtles,
and about how perfectly formed they are.
And about how, with independent instinct,
they head straight for the open ocean.
In our dream worlds,
where convention holds no sway,
we do the same.
Left to our own unencumbered instincts,
and when we are rested and happy,
we make choices that nourish our souls,
and the souls of those around us.
Finding a point of origin,
and finding where we belong,
are two sides of the selfsame coin.
Trundling into the sea of our own authenticity
may seem too simple, lacking in choice.
It is our bravest, most definitive act.
As vital to our real survival,
as to those tiny beings,
who innocently do as they must.
Oct 5, 2015
Oct 5, 2015 at 8:36 PM UTC
Lovely skies
Dark with clouds and rain
Leaden skies
Lead, Pb, Plumbum
Flat diffuse light, photographer's dream
Latin 4 lead = plumbum
We plumb our psychic oceans' depths, as the sailors did
With lead on their sinker lines
We plumb our depths if we choose
When we are earnestly explorative
Reflecting, meditating, in our psychic plumbing
Pb: the ugly duckling brother of glowing gold
Au of the aura Aurum
Both are soft, malleable, unassailable, & so helpful
Gold like Thor the glowing hero, lead like Vulcan the sooty artificer
We have made one the hero, and misused,
Demonized, besmirched the metal lead
Is it lead's fault we have put it in our paint, our gas?
That we made it accumulate in our fish, like fools?
Without lead, your car would not start
Imagine going on your trips on a mule
Or trundling down the road in an ox cart
Do not denounce lovely lead
Gravid, protector, quiet engine starter
Gently available to you to plumb your depths
Before your chapter's demise
Leaden skies
Lovely skies
Gravid with rain
Keep me grounded, serene and sane
Apr 3, 2015
Apr 3, 2015 at 2:52 PM UTC
Thursday morning and I board
the Preston train, a dumpy DMU,
but less of a cattle-truck today.
Over the bridge or beneath
lines to Platform 5 to wait:
Branson's Scarlet Pendolino
will glide in soon bound
for Birmingham - wonder
who I shall meet and share
travelling moments with ?
At the caverns of New Street
I must wend to Moor Street
and a Chilterns train trundling
me south for Warwick's 1,100th.
birthday weekend and 100 years
since trains of Lancashire PALS
cattle-trucked themselves to
Flanders fields never to return.
(c) C J Heyworth June 2014
Jun 4, 2014
Jun 4, 2014 at 11:47 AM UTC
Her wide-brim hat was pointed, and worn with ne'er a tilt
Her midnight robe was flowing, and wove from satin silk
Her Besom broom was hazel-hilted, twigged with fresh cut birch
As she flew o'er the hill, until she spied a rocky perch
The hill was trapped in moons light, caught in its silken nets
And grizzled trees were swaying casting eerie silhouettes
A howling wind came moaning, as it wailed a haunting sound
When her swishing broom came whooshing, as she swept o'er the ground
She alighted on the hill top, landing dainty on her toes
And took a tattered grimoire which she held up to her nose
She raised a magic talisman and cast an ancient spell
Then she waited through the gloaming, till midnight chimed its bell
The hill stood gravely silent, as the wind restrained its breath
The grass and flowers wilted and released their scent of death
The shadows neath the trees became alive and took on shape
And ghostly figures rose, as Hallows Eve called them awake
The sounds of horse drawn carriages, came trundling up the hill
Whilst babbling jeering voices exorcised the silent still
A sudden gust of wind called out the names of those condemned
Each manacled and chained up, as they rode to meet their end
As time echoed its memories, she watched the scene unfold
The victims forced unwillingly, to climb upon the scaffold
Some offered up the Lord’s Prayer, and ne'er a word was stumbled
They took a final breath of life, and into hell they tumbled
Their bodies swung ungainly, as they swayed a ghastly dance
With lifeless spectral faces locked into a stone-like trance
Their deathly shrouds were pale, reflected in moons silken sheen
And she watched as they cavorted, ne'er attempt to intervene
They slunk back into shadows, at the fading of the night
The hill reprieved from darkness by the early morning light
The ritual was completed, as she whispered them goodbye
And she climbed onto her hazel broom and kicked into the sky
On Gallows Hill neath stars and moon they hung
And ne'er a one had done the world a wrong
May 9, 2014
May 9, 2014 at 9:18 PM UTC
Piercing the shrouded sky
They fight against surrounding black:
Like flowers breaking through sidewalk cracks,
The light seeps through the darkness.
Between the leaves
The stars reach for the eyes…
But now thought reaches away:
I escape myself through abstraction
As the past violently asserts itself:
Remembrance induced by a careless focus
On a memory flowing from a present vision:
The tree
now
Clothed in leaves
Beckons forth remembrance:
*Autumn leaves,
Trundling into legs only to move past
As they ride the restless winds
Whispering their own poems
Of meaning only experience could collect…
They rush
Through fallow ditches
And enclosing brush which
Form a pattern around
The tree that beckons forth
- With disrobed branches glistening
White under stars,
Dampened by the still-settling dew-
A Self-realization that obliterates all boundaries
And encompasses no thoughts,
but the One
which gives them:
The One which gives a breath
Held together by the moments
Which trail the first puff of white
that joins the airs that wrap themselves
around the tree reaching up to the stars
which do not reflect the one who sees them
but give the light
towards which thought now reaches.*
All these memories induce
The longing to feel the openness
No words could possibly posses
As slowly the months fade
Into the dissolving moments it takes
For the eyes to reach up to the light.
Oct 11, 2011
Oct 11, 2011 at 6:06 PM UTC
On the road
Through many a town
Resting our heads
Laying down
Touring the world
Trotting the globe
Getting there via transport
Be it any mode.
Slow through the mountains
Fast past the fields
Trundling along country lanes
Winding round hills
Kicking up rubble
Spitting out fumes
Burning up rubber
From sea to sand dunes
Sights to be seen
Sounds to be heard
Places to be visited
Languages to be learned
Culture to be drowned in
History in which to basque
Food to be tasted
Wines to be quaffed
Seas you can swim in
Churches in which to pray
Beaches where it's possible to spend all of your day
Sweat it out in the Sahara
Freeze to death in the Arctic
Get bitten to high heaven but you can get past it.
On the trip of discovery
The experience shall last
Till the end of forever
Until your last gasp.
Feb 14, 2013
Feb 14, 2013 at 3:26 PM UTC
Wrought from the depths of a wound not at all neglected by the surreal anger of the earth, a cold construct comes to life. Its steps are pressed into the orange sand inches ahead of where its foot falls and it heaves itself through the cycle of animation and fabrication. Why am I- The cosmos are cruel indeed. Every cycle brings forth a new inquiry, a new level of hell as fluctuating as the wavelengths shared between the sea and the shore. The ocean floor was in a curious juxtaposition of lost sea gods and sunken ships. Trundling alone across the ocean floor had granted it a metaphor of unfathomable depth. As it looked towards the pillars above, tendrils of dark breached the cracked stones around it, allowing the shadows to creep across the luminous grounds feeding the premonitions of doom that echoed from beyond the rocks. For what purpose does- Immortality is despair. To exist as something that time can touch must be beautiful. Grief ridden and slowly being crushed by a perennial execution, the spawn of malicious intent and a sense of retribution is slowly being coerced into the tendrils of the outside. With each step, the opalescent figurine melded into its chest grows brighter, as if drawing power from the prospect of reaching home.
Aug 26, 2013
Aug 26, 2013 at 4:55 PM UTC
The owls line up
in the vicinity,
the street lamps
switch on;
traffic trundling by
with homeward bound
hungry crowds.
The kitchens hives
of domestic industry
as broadcasts
prepare to invade
the living rooms
of the temporary retired.
Night falls.
Jul 3, 2010
Jul 3, 2010 at 6:52 AM UTC
I read this poem once that said
if you run fast enough
you can leave your loneliness behind
Yet sometimes trundling along
some winding country road,where the
power lines split the night sky into sections and the fog
blurs and obscures all the other cars
so just the headlights cut through the dark,you suddenly find your loneliness sitting next to you in the car.)especially if you have sad music on.Loneliness finds you in the oddest places,doesn't it?at parties,when you sit against the wall and break away from the hubbub of people.in a car with your family.public places,just walking around watching people.)But sometimes I find trees are better than people.sometimes books make good companions.sometimes the loneliest places are the most beautiful.I don't know;that's how I feel sometimes.I don't know about you. I don't even know your name.(but--and I know this sounds cheesy--maybe we can be lonely together,and suddenly realize the other is lonely,too,and wonder where the other person is in this strange lonely world.
Mar 4, 2016
Mar 4, 2016 at 6:59 PM UTC
I take a pill each morning--
"to keep the madness away,"
declared the doctor,
her tone clinically nonchalant
as she handed to me
a prescription for
small, white tablets
that leave a bitter chalkiness
in your mouth
when you've left them
on your tongue
for too long
before swallowing.
But
there is only so much
modern-day pharmaceuticals
can remedy.
Sometimes,
I can still hear her,
you know--
sweet.
lost.
mad
Alice
scratching at the
tessellated patch-work
of my psyche.
I can still feel her
as my fingertips flit
across the liquor bottle--
"Drink Me,"
it murmurs.
Curiouser
&
curiouser
I become with
every shot.
When the room
starts lurching,
when I am too
dizzy to stand,
I close my eyes only
to find that the world
is still spinning.
Or perhaps
I am just falling.
Yes,
D
O
W
N
the rabbit hole I go.
And, as I plummet,
the phosphenes of colour
behind my eyes
transmute into the most
peculiar images:
a mercury-tainted top hat
encompassing the harlequin
countenance of a man
as crazed as I;
the trundling wings
of a Jabberwock
and the heaving snout
of a Bandersnatch;
a pocket watch,
its face lustrous and
encrusted with Jadestone--
"Time. It's time!"
it chimes.
"Time for what?"
exclaims the girl
in the periwinkle petticoat
(she appears simultaneously
excited and terrified
by the impending chaos).
"Bloodshed,"
reckons the squire
of the pocket watch--
the March Hare,
a grisly little thing
in a tattered waist jacket.
"Bloodshed, bloodshed,
off with her head!"
And that girl in periwinkle?
Why that girl is me,
and the Queen of Wonderland
has dealt her cards--
she'd like my head
(and my heart).
But
sweet.
lost.
mad
Alice
has a trick of
her own to deal--
a Wild Card
tucked beneath her sleeve.
She is capable of imagining
at least six impossible things
before the high is over,
you know.
All it takes is a
simple flutter
of an eyelash
and then,
gripped between
her fingers,
appears a substance
foreign to Wonderland--
***
"Bottoms up--
for with this,
I shan't feel a thing,"
she surrenders.
"What?"
roars the queen
upon her arrival.
"You will not fight?
Why, you must be mad!"
"Haven't you heard?"
replied Alice.
"All the best people are--
Cheers."
Oct 7, 2018
Oct 7, 2018 at 2:32 PM UTC
It must be nearly four on this side of the road.
With a great touch of import,
Trundling through the semi-wet
And gazing at the flints refracted in sod.
A few meters across and there is succor,
There is warmth, where the earth is
Turned fresh. Very little keeps me thus
From that solid solid open door.
Still, I should be a fool to with a one
Hand cast resolve into the nighted water
Of the soul and with the other
Craft the very means for its
Exhumation. As I turn around I close
The door and shamble into dawn.
Mar 5, 2011
Mar 5, 2011 at 8:16 AM UTC
Epitaph (by KT)
19 September 2012 at 12:11
Write me a poem.
Use the words you were born with,
The words you grew up with,
The words you speak everyday of your life.
Don't bring me a rose from a garden you did not grow.
Better the thick green stalk of a ****
Grown wild and unbidden
Behind the steps of your back porch.
Better a handful of parched grass
Plucked fitfully from your own lawn.
Write me a poem
And let me hear your voice.
Unsmooth, raucous,
Irritating as the sound of a rusty tricycle trundling by.
Let me see your face.
Scarred and uncared for,
Unwashed and unshaven,
Tender and sad.
Write me a poem
And deliver it to my mossy grave
With a ragged bunch of flowers
Planted and picked by your hand
And read me your words.
I WILL LISTEN.
And beneath the earth
And upon the winds
And across the seas
I will sound my applause
In the song of the tiny sparrow
As she flies forever home.
Sep 23, 2016
Sep 23, 2016 at 2:44 PM UTC
Street lights shift in tandem,
Flickering rhythmically
Sputtering small halos of safety
Bleached, cracking pavement
devoid of fellow travelers,
and subsequent passengers
I devour dotted lines,
The speed of light
no longer constant.
I allow heavy lids to fall
without much hesitation.
Feel the road sway beneath
I above, disconnected,
yet grounded still. Oil atop water;
Disharmonious cohabitants
Consistency is lost. I pretend
time moves as I please
With or without me
I begin to count
One
Testing preservation,
Instinctual construction of survival.
Two
How long can I trust
touch to keep the course
Three
Can distance be anticipated
without visual stimuli?
Four
I feel the whir of the engine,
obediently churning
Five
hear the wind whipping
defying my wish for silence
slipping through the back window
Six
This is bliss.
I swim envisioned oblivion
Seven
I should open my eyes
Eight
Reality in motion -
time makes me queasy.
Nine
Sight returns.
I stop counting.
Safe, trundling on
I slide silently down 48.
December 12, 2016
Feb 5, 2017
Feb 5, 2017 at 9:21 PM UTC