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Joe Workman Aug 2014
The radio alarm is a bit too strong
for his afternoon hangover taste.
He goes downstairs, sets the coffee to brewing,
rubs his hands through the hair on his face.
As he sits and he smokes, he can't quite think of the joke
she once told him about wooden eyes.

The coffee is ready, his hands are unsteady
as he pours his first cup of cure.
He tries to be happy he woke up today,
but whether being awake's good, he's not sure.
Outside it's raining, but he's gallantly straining
to keep his head and his spirits held high.

As soft as the flower bending out in its shower,
fiercer than hornets defending their hives,
the memories of sharing her secrets and sheets
run him through like sharp rusty knives.
He decides that his cup isn't quite strong enough,
takes the ***** from the shelf, gives a sigh.

He goes to the porch to put words to the torch
he still carries and knows whiskey just fuels.
Thunder puts a voice to his hammering heart.
Through ink, his knotted mind unspools,
writing of butterflies and of how his love lies
cocooned under unreachable skies.

From teardrops to streams to winter moonbeams
to a peach, firm and sweet, in the spring,
he writes of pilgrims and language and soft dew-damp grass
and how he sees her in everything.
He rambles and grieves, and he just can't believe
how much he has bottled inside.

He writes how the leaves, when they whisper in the breeze,
bring to mind her warm breath in his mouth,
how when walking through woods he loves the birdsong
when they fly back in the summer from the south
because she would sing too and he always knew
he wanted that sound in his ears when he died.

He writes even the streetlights, fluorescent and bright,
make him miss the diamond chips in her eyes,
how the fountain in the park plays watersongs in the dark
when he goes to make wishes on pennies
and while he's there he gets hoping
there will be some spare wishes
but so far there haven't been any.

He writes that the cold makes him think of the old
hotel where they spent most of a week,
lazing and gazing quite lovingly,
and how he brushed an eyelash off her cheek.
The crickets and frogs and all of the dogs
sound as mournful as he feels each night.

He writes about chocolate and fun in arcades,
he writes about stairwells and butchers' blades,
and closed-casket funerals, and Christmas parades,
then sad flightless birds and tiny brigades
of ants taking crumbs from the toast he had made,
and political goons with their soulless tirades,
old-timey duels and terrible grades,
strangers on  buses, harp music, maids,
the weird afterimages when all the light fades,
the pleasure of dinnertime serenades,
sidewalk chalk, wine, and hand grenades.

He writes of how much fun it would be to fly,
and saltwater taffy and ferryboat rides,

sitting on couches, scratched CD's,
pets gone too soon and overdraft fees,

the beach, the lake, the mountains, the fog,
David Bowie's funny, ill-smelling bog,

jewelry, perfume, sushi, and swans,
the smell of the pavement when the rain's come and gone,

and shots and opera, and Oprah and ***,
and tiny bikinis with yellow dots,

stained glass lamps, and gum and stamps,
her dancing shoes on wheelchair ramps,
that overstrange feeling of déjà vu,
filet mignon and cordon bleu,

bad haircuts at county fairs,
honey and clover, stockmarket shares,
the comfort of nestling in overstuffed chairs,
and her poking fun at the clothes that he wears,
and giraffes and hippos and polar bears,
cumbersome car consoles, monsters' lairs,
singing in public and ignoring the stares,
botching it badly while making éclairs,
misspelled tattoos, socks not in pairs,
people who take something that isn't theirs,
the future of man, and man's future cares,

why people so frequently lie
and bury themselves so deep in the mire
of monetary profits when money won't buy
a single next second because time's not for hire,
and that he sees her in everything.

Then unexpectedly, unbidden from where it was hidden
comes the punchline to the joke she had told him.
He laughs -- it's too much and his heart finally tears
as a blackness rolls in to enfold him.
The last thing he hears is birdsong in his ears --
the sound brings hope and is sweet as he dies.
Jonathan Witte Oct 2016
The morning walk
along our stretch
of shore suspended,
my daughter, alight
with curiosity,
holds the hard husk
out to me in her palm.
Obsidian black
and desiccated,
flecked with sand,
the skate egg case is open
at one end, a nascent tear:
a modest aperture to briny,
underwater amplitudes.

I explain that somewhere
out in the Atlantic—today
tinged cerulean blue and green—
a skate is swimming.
Its diamond shape
soars in subaquatic space,
wings through water like a kite.
And from its body
the color of sand
an invisible thread
unspools for miles,
rising eventually
out of the waves,
enchanted fishing line
into my daughter’s hand.
Terry O'Leary Jun 2021
The noblemen control the pen, indeed they own the farm,
but nonetheless exude finesse (and need I mention charm?)
with revenue to sate the few, exulting arm in arm;
for all the rest, they wish the best and certainly mean no harm.

The fourth estate stands proud and straight, emplaced upon a peak,
beside a birch where parrots perch and claim the truth to speak;
while hatching schemes, they’re hawking dreams to keep us mild and meek,
promoted by the gods on high, that clever reigning clique.

They spread their lies throughout the sties to keep the truth at bay
and horoscopes are filled with hopes for those with faith to pray;
the other few wait in the queue, with faces made of clay,
collecting crumbs which have become their dreams of yesterday.

The tube embeds the talking heads (you know the ones, the tools)
who on the screens won’t spill the beans, lest mighty might unspools,
so bend the news reflecting views of those who set the rules
to obfuscate and fabricate their pabulum for fools.

With pyrite smiles and other wiles, they thrive concocting tales
that lead to wars on foreign shores, which help improve the sales
of missile tips and battleships, discounting death that pales
and broken hearts for body parts a graveled grave regales.

You wouldn’t guess, the yellow press, when out to make a ****,
will sell their soul (to dodge the dole) and feed the swine some swill –
a trenchant trope with inside dope that gives the crowds a thrill
(when mixed with tripe, they call it hype) and masks a bitter pill.

The tabloids reek of doublespeak – when did the stench begin?
In olden times, with paradigms, no doubt with but a grin;
but nowadays, in subtle ways, there’s far more discipline:
they scrawl their screeds neath headline ledes that give the tales a spin.

A clever dunce tried hard just once to read between the lies
and thereby found that facts are drowned within a newspeak guise.
Yeah, all that stuff reflects the slough they hide behind their eyes,
although absurd it fuels the herd like  sustaining flies.

Within the fort a special court is hidden from our view
where sits a judge who’ll never budge, called Captain Kangaroo;
as justice bleeds, those evil deeds (like leaking what is true)
will be convicted as pre-scripted by the hangman’s crew.

A blue-eyed wight uncloaks the night and when (by chance, perhaps)
his whistle blows, the airwaves close, high crime stays under wraps,
and those that sin prevail again with feathers in their caps;
the price instead’s the leaker’s head, precluding a relapse.
Vernon Waring Jul 2015
I. The Assassin

    Smoke and dust
    **** oxygen
    from his puny lungs
    as he rises on an
    ancient freight elevator

    At the warehouse window,
    he assumes a darker mask,
    his bony finger
    tracing the trigger's curve,
    his beady eyes narrowing in
    on the slow moving target:
    that famous sculpted
    head of state
    so perfect
    in the plaza light

    Finally he will plummet -
    a bruised puppet
    slipping through
    a surreal night,
    a phantom of smoke and dust
    blinking in the glare
    of a Dallas lineup

II. The First Lady

    Her deep whispery voice
    unspools a reel of film:
    crowds, blinding sun,
    a promise of shade
    in the distance,
    then a sudden odd quizzical look
    on her husband's face

    She recalls that moment
    of slow motion shock:
    that serrated piece of his skull
    floating lazily
    in a blur
    toward
    her
    bright
    pink
    lap
Chris Saitta May 2020
Mothers come gently to our rooms, the sunset kiss on the forehead,
Woven homilies from their baskets of forgiveness and spools of yarn.

But for the grave, this heart its coiled sunset unspools, so long entwined
In woods and seas that redden now into the soul of all sunsets combined.
Jayne E Jun 2019
Night binds me blue in blackened silk
elemental sleep stolen by deadest dark
needing rest, comfort, kindness's milk
sifted tears & sobs do leave their mark

still
cold
black
quiet
feels so solitary stark

no escape hatch though I crave release
as wants pull me unto vapoured arms
no succour here I will feel no peace
only bitter pills and swallowed harms

crested light brings harsher days
tattered remnants of coppered dreams
reminds me its the psyche that pays
as fragile silk tears joy at its seams

harsh
bright
bitter
light
of winters mourn

dawns bring the bitten blinded sighs
a glassed in cage for wing clipped birds
oblivion obscura in the masses eyes
ears deadened to my silence unheard

oceans full of childs supple soft bones
his hunters blade glistens the breaks
the wind whispers tortured moans
the sliced knife tip just takes and takes

endless
deep
black
water
the sea swallows me down

Its serene to the point of painful, pretty
this forest where sprites could be at play
no lighter folly for this game is too gritty
secret lair to lead his new lambs to slay

as these vignettes proxy via my dreams
projector unspools reels sickly unsweet
his breath putrefies unpeals my screams
his scent petrifies my heart shale & sleet

hurt
broken
hollow
husk
brittle
a once fierce heart lays flayed.

J.C. littlebird 07/06/2019.
Savannah Grace Nov 2014
It's been two weeks
four days and
seven hours since you left
It's cold in the bed. I can see the fog unfurling on the floor around the bed posts. The morning sun burns through the blinds and unspools like liquid metal in patches on the quilt.
"You're acting crazy" You told me
"I am crazy" I said

I threw a glass at the door after you shut it. I heard you laugh as you walked down the sidewalk. I heard you laugh as it shattered across the tile.
I fed the cat. Sat down on the floor next to her while she ate. Watched the steam from the teapot tumble through the air. She doesn't purr like she used to.
It's been two weeks
four days and
nine hours since you left.
I'm still picking up pieces of glass.
Mike Hulstrom Jun 2017
Assemble the gang speaking retro slang
Name itself rang future fame and acclaim,
Heard a siren sang, and came to do their thang.
Surpassed and contained,
Unmasked with disdain.
Complaining the gangs to blame,
restraining, not having shame.
Solve a case with a great appetite,
And dang, an even greater Great Dane

Ancient tombs; the disturbed, unearthed, unbound.
Patience. Soon, absurd will be served by a hound

Unlacing the case til it’s off base; the crisis unspools
They’ll finally find the place where the ghouls stashed the priceless jewels

Unresting meddling kids testing theories like litmus,
Caught a ghost reveling amid queries for the witness
Get this;

A jealous menace,
Who thought he could fight the team
With a few fake screams
Some fog and a light screen
Once again, dream team hops in the mystery machine
Off to get soda pops and raspberry ice cream
Jack P May 2018
a bag of sand
a dead man's hand
withered but alive on the fractured land

what's a hand to do
without the arm its due
or the muscle and the bone from which the hand took cue

hand wanders the plains
hoping somehand deigns
to interlock its fingers and alleviate his pains

hand curls into fist
weak without its wrist
shaking for the company which it has sorely missed

then fist unspools to wave
for across the sandy grave
another hand is looking for the warmth of hands they crave

one hand makes a sign
then fingers intertwine
if these hands keep holding their bruised knuckles shall be fine
ay girl lemme get ur digits
ha ha
jess p Aug 2016
every story has a beginning, a middle, and an end; and yours begins with her: the girl with steel spine and sunshine smile and a hurricane heart. it begins when she says your name and it sounds like it was always meant for you. it unravels and unspools and suddenly the mark burns on the back of your hands: best friends.

a couple of weeks pass and you make a home out of a bay window. a couple of months pass and you make a home out of each other. a couple of years pass and she is every crevice, every corner of home you keep coming back to. a couple of years pass and her name and her soul and the soft lilt of her voice are stamped like a map on the back of your hand: sister.

they say it ends in middle school. they say that a friendship such as yours isn’t built to last. but the girl carved on the back of your hand never really knew how to listen to what other people say. so she stays.

every story has a beginning, a middle, and an end. and this story is ours, she says, her fingers tracing the lines stretched across your knuckles, finding their way home. ours, ours, ours.

*and it begins and ends with us.
Evan Stephens Jun 2019
Watch the wild swans
that glide the pool.
In the blooming dawn
watch the wild swans
spread wing until gone -
A white thread unspools.
Watch the wild swans
that glide the pool.
Dissident Oct 16
My face reflected
in her scratched sunglasses.
Her crooked teeth,
floral scent tattooed
on my brain stem,
wrestling with the ripe
blush
pink skin stretched
over a naked clavicle.

I am calm
as she unspools,
   inching
     ever
       closer
through sun-warmed grasses,
asking—

Barefoot & electric,
ponytail tight,
blue eyes pinned to
Saffron lips tracing circuits,
playing damage control
with my structure-fire wiring.

She climbs naked through
My razor wired nervous system.
A deep soul cavern spark—
two embers flaring,
momentary,
through the darkened
dazzle,
leaping
Through the cinders
blooming in our ribcages.

— The End —