Friday, October 22, 2021

Poem: Wrong Way Earthworm

Sitting on the front porch during a rain, 
a long earthworm meandered out of the irises onto the concrete. 

Knowing that they can drowned like the rest of us breathers, 

I did not interfere, only watched. 


In my time that has been much longer than the life span of a worm (so far),

I have seen many wriggle upon concrete 

only to die away from native earth and dry in the sun.


This one made it several feet away from the soaked ground

 only to stiffen a little and reverse its course back to moisture.

  

As it turned back, it lost the way

 and moved closer to the bricks of the house. 

 

From my point of view, it seemed  confused. 

Do I help it or let choice take its course? 


For a time it sought shelter in a crack between the concrete and the bricks, 

but was too large to fit. 

It gave up and moved on, the concrete drawing away the water from its body. 

The trail it left glistened. Then it turned and moved back toward the rain. 


A question of conscience arose. Knowing that higher ground was so near,

do I help? 

If it received help, would it expect the same help in the future? 

What if I wasn’t near? 

Is there something above me watching with the same conundrum?

Friday, October 15, 2021

Poem: A Living Ghost

 I am a living ghost. 
A walking memory of someone else who says, “Remember when he—“
I engage with and move past other ghosts, but they have stronger ties to existence. 
They do not know that when they go, others will continue. 
I know. I have. I will. Until I do not.
Made of star stuff and touched by an angel is all bunk. 
Some say that energy cannot be destroyed, and we are energy. 
They mix science with religion and comport being now and being after. 
I do not feel like energy.
I feel like the empty space between a nucleus and its electrons. 
There are forces and particles moving through me, but I am zero space. 
At least, I am a location. 
This place is haunted by me. 

Thursday, March 18, 2021

Poem: The Unseen Construction

 Surely as the red fox walks our streets at night and doesn’t realize that humans built the houses and made the roads, there are constructions in our world built by others that we do not recognize, but just as assuredly we walk through and ignore the builders thinking only of the moment and our stomachs.

Thursday, October 8, 2020

Haiku: On Death I

Leaves fall from the tree.
Existence is all I have known.
We are not the tree.


Food gives no pleasure
When someone you love suffers.
Tears salt everything.


Go out with a bang, 
Or go out with a whimper,
It is all the same.


Sunday, June 28, 2020

Halfway

Sitting under a redbud tree looking at a branch from the underneath, silhouetted against the clouds, I see an ant making its way toward the end of the branch and wonder how that little body could contain enough energy to complete its journey; because unknown to it, it has traveled to the end only to realize it is halfway back to the beginning. 

Wednesday, March 25, 2015

Poem: Blooming out of Place

In the garage you smoke a cigar
Outside there are several inches of snow
You look at the lemon tree that you stubbornly keep alive through the winter
By installing grow lights and a heater in the garage
Lemon trees do not grow here but neither have you
You've planned to move back to where you call home
But things and events conspire to keep you here
Like the tree, you resist putting down permanent roots
You see the beginnings of flowers, little buds of white
The tree has found a way to bloom out of place
But you have not.

Monday, July 1, 2013

Short Fiction: Luther's Long Locks

A fun challenge. Write a short using all of the words from (hover mouse for definitions):
Illustrations Of Unusual And Rarely Spoken Words


Walking slowly by a penny arcade gazing at the machines yonderly, Luther's neck was hurting, and he felt in a zugzwang. As an acersecomic his burden had become great, and was afraid that it would be his hamartia. He was trying to suppress scripturient feelings, but as he walked the ostentiferious clouds seemed to darken with each step. Even though he often regarded such machines as ultracrepidarian, on a whim he approached a fortunetelling machine and supplied it with a penny. In a glass container, the upper torso of a crone in the posture of issuing a jettatura, spit out a small slip of paper into a dispenser. With reservations, Luther retrieved the message and read, "Hair binds you. Cut it and be free." The words were a recumbentibus to his very way of life. Upon recovery, he rubbed his smooth chin and decided to take the advice and to take up pogonotrophy instead.