This is an extension on the concepts presented in "A Day In Limbo," condensed and, hopefully, polished a bit.
The Late Birds’ Call
He releases the beige pillow clutched to his breast and prepares for productivity.
He slurps porridge while late birds sleep.
The traffic oozes.
His cubicle leers.
Colorful propaganda peers over his flickering monitor.
The paper stack moves from one beige tray to the other without challenge.
His coworkers congregate to drink flat sodas and argue candidates in their cubicles.
The peanut butter sandwich clots his mouth.
He gags silently.
Time slithers by.
No colorful propaganda urges at the polls.
The beige ballot warmly instructs him in how to properly fill a circle.
The evening newscaster reports the election went as anticipated: a landslide win.
He chose correctly; he won the game.
The propaganda worked.
He makes a choice.
He calls Zoe.
The numbers are familiar as he dials.
She wears a fluffy yellow pullover with an embroidered sparrow, the colors radiating.
They huddle together as colors and shapes dance seductively on the silver screen.
The film’s din fades to distant thrumming.
He feels alive.
His mind seethes.
He tries to pluck up the courage.
He walks Zoe to her glossy, crimson car, his mind churning like butter.
There is a moment’s throbbing pause; his burning gut screams to dare it.
She pecks him abruptly, breaking his paralyzation.
Her colors fade.
Home seems empty.
Outside, he hears the late birds’ call.
He clutches the beige pillow tight to his breast and dreams of choosing.
Showing posts with label poetry. Show all posts
Showing posts with label poetry. Show all posts
Thursday, November 18, 2010
Tuesday, November 2, 2010
A Day in Limbo
I'm very pleased with how this came out. It was written as something to include in the college's New Tricks 2011 magazine, as well as something to potentially read aloud.
A Day in Limbo
A man awakens.
The sun shines brightly in his eyes.
He lets go of the beige pillow he had held to his breast.
He eats breakfast.
He takes a hot shower and dresses.
He prepares for another day of work sitting in a sterile, beige cubicle.
He feels comfortable.
The weather is calm and mild today.
Lawn mowers growl and beige birds chirp as he gets into his sedan.
He works easily.
None of his duties really challenge him.
The paper stack moves from one beige tray to the other without issue.
It’s lunch time.
He unpacks his PJ sandwich and water.
A beige-shirted coworker chats about the weather, sports, and his favorite candidate.
Work is over.
He punches out at five to vote.
The beige ballot warmly instructs him how to properly fill in a circle.
He returns home.
He sits at the television with beer.
He sips the beige liquid and sees his candidate lost by a landslide.
He’s feeling lonesome.
He decides to take Sam out tonight.
He picks up the beige receiver and invites Sam to the local cinema.
Sam arrives late.
The two hurry in to get seats.
The flashing images cast twisted shadows across the beige seats that surround them.
It’s soon over.
He can’t recall much on second thought.
The two leave the beige-brick theater and walk to Sam’s car together.
His blood boils.
He tries to pluck up the courage.
He is suddenly pecked on the cheek and Sam’s beige car rumbles off.
He walks inside.
The evening has crept into his home.
He undresses and crawls into bed, hugging the beige pillow to his breast.
A Day in Limbo
A man awakens.
The sun shines brightly in his eyes.
He lets go of the beige pillow he had held to his breast.
He eats breakfast.
He takes a hot shower and dresses.
He prepares for another day of work sitting in a sterile, beige cubicle.
He feels comfortable.
The weather is calm and mild today.
Lawn mowers growl and beige birds chirp as he gets into his sedan.
He works easily.
None of his duties really challenge him.
The paper stack moves from one beige tray to the other without issue.
It’s lunch time.
He unpacks his PJ sandwich and water.
A beige-shirted coworker chats about the weather, sports, and his favorite candidate.
Work is over.
He punches out at five to vote.
The beige ballot warmly instructs him how to properly fill in a circle.
He returns home.
He sits at the television with beer.
He sips the beige liquid and sees his candidate lost by a landslide.
He’s feeling lonesome.
He decides to take Sam out tonight.
He picks up the beige receiver and invites Sam to the local cinema.
Sam arrives late.
The two hurry in to get seats.
The flashing images cast twisted shadows across the beige seats that surround them.
It’s soon over.
He can’t recall much on second thought.
The two leave the beige-brick theater and walk to Sam’s car together.
His blood boils.
He tries to pluck up the courage.
He is suddenly pecked on the cheek and Sam’s beige car rumbles off.
He walks inside.
The evening has crept into his home.
He undresses and crawls into bed, hugging the beige pillow to his breast.
Tuesday, October 5, 2010
To The Sculptor
I wrote this poem last weekend, based on sudden inspiration. As is often the case with me, I write with little revision and don't got back to change much. Free-form, of course, because I didn't want to spend more than an hour with this.
To The Sculptor
This reflection bewilders me.
I see your fingerprints on my flesh,
The ridges of your hands in my limbs.
Were they always so clear?
I was once soft,
Any flaws unknown and unthought.
If only you had been a better artist,
I may have been a better sculpture.
Had you but softer hands,
My form would be smoother.
Had you but altered the mixture,
I would have dried stronger.
Had you but added more clay,
I would have stood taller.
Yet had you added none,
I would have never begun.
I notice the cracks in my form,
The chips on my features,
But were these your marks?
Are you to blame?
They formed without your aid,
Time sculpting freely,
Without your artistic care,
Without your dedication to perfection.
Sometimes I long for the days,
When I was just soft clay,
Easily molded under your hands,
Willing to take the form you sought.
Now I am formed, but can I change?
Can the statue sculpt itself?
Is hardened clay unmalleable,
Or may it be wetted?
Surely I must try.
Now that I see,
Ignoring the flaws makes me the worse for having them.
But what if I cannot?
What if time has cured me?
Can I still blame my sculptor?
And then I wonder,
When I sit, ready to mold,
And I form a figure from mere clay,
What will my sculpture think of me?
To The Sculptor
This reflection bewilders me.
I see your fingerprints on my flesh,
The ridges of your hands in my limbs.
Were they always so clear?
I was once soft,
Any flaws unknown and unthought.
If only you had been a better artist,
I may have been a better sculpture.
Had you but softer hands,
My form would be smoother.
Had you but altered the mixture,
I would have dried stronger.
Had you but added more clay,
I would have stood taller.
Yet had you added none,
I would have never begun.
I notice the cracks in my form,
The chips on my features,
But were these your marks?
Are you to blame?
They formed without your aid,
Time sculpting freely,
Without your artistic care,
Without your dedication to perfection.
Sometimes I long for the days,
When I was just soft clay,
Easily molded under your hands,
Willing to take the form you sought.
Now I am formed, but can I change?
Can the statue sculpt itself?
Is hardened clay unmalleable,
Or may it be wetted?
Surely I must try.
Now that I see,
Ignoring the flaws makes me the worse for having them.
But what if I cannot?
What if time has cured me?
Can I still blame my sculptor?
And then I wonder,
When I sit, ready to mold,
And I form a figure from mere clay,
What will my sculpture think of me?
Monday, March 1, 2010
Flood Lake
This poem was written for a Modernism/Postmodernism class. The assignment was to create a Confessional poem. I rather liked it.
Flood Lake
When trapped in hell
There is little to do but fish.
What sin had we committed
To land us in this place?
The paradise of our parents
Was our personal inferno.
Thrust into a pre-digital wasteland,
Mutual boredom bridged our differences
Of past and complexion.
Net on my shoulder, rod over yours,
We traipsed past the forgotten cemetery,
Where babe and sage lay side-by-side,
To the tumultuous lake
That swallowed the park
Man had erected in its honor.
We made our seats amongst the boulders
Set to shore the foamy waters
Against the lonesome road.
We sat silent. All had been said
In the past three weeks
Sitting on those stones,
Catching flotsam.
We weren’t alone. An elderly man
Felt it wise to spend his dwindling moments
Prospecting for silver pike
In the murky depths.
We were prospecting for sirens.
We found entertainment
Somehow.
Time passed. The elderly man readied himself to leave.
I noted his proud, slimy catch with envy.
He walked up to you, selecting as
A shard of flint from a bed of quartz.
The break in monotony caught my attention.
You draw closer with a scowl and explain.
“Says I took his tackle. Dowallie; didn’t even.”
We scoff in unison as his compensationary jeep departs.
A thief in our midst? How absurd!
The rippling of the waves as they lap at our perches
Speeds the drawl of time. We wish the sun down.
There are fires to make. The rippling tranquility of the water
Can’t hold a candle
To a roaring blaze,
Hungry for nourishment,
Insatiable, but never ashamed.
The destruction enraptures us.
The fetid decay of the water,
Stinking of carcasses,
Only captivates us.
The elderly man returns.
With firm absolution, he apologizes
And hands you the fish.
He says his tackle was in the back.
Now we are three. It’s near supper.
Time to show our guest home.
I clutch the net that holds the fish,
You manage pole and bait.
A smirk sits tauntingly on your lips.
“Probably too heavy for you, anneh?”
I grin in response to mask my strain
And insist I’m more than sufficiently mighty.
With a shrug, you dash off ahead,
To the hunting lodge,
With its trophies,
Past the cemetery,
With its markers.
I watch you crest the hill
Each step burns in my arms
And my shoulders decry my pride.
The trek had never seemed so long.
As my frustration and shame build,
The fish, in all its hideousness,
Seems suddenly pathetic,
Wound in the net, gills gasping,
Its mouth gnawing out a silent plea.
Was it pity, or pride?
I claimed pity. It upheld my pride.
I went down by the waters,
And, with soothing words, let the creature free.
It lay limply near the shore,
Unaware of its opportunity.
Probably soon another carcass,
Rejected by its habitat
And thrust into the world above
To stink and fester amongst the stones.
It would be easy to retrieve it,
But, free of the burden of the gift
Presented to you, I found new fleetness of step
And hurried after.
Easy come easy go.
“How was the fish?”
A friend of the elder had asked you.
I filled with indignance as you conveyed
That you’d told the truth.
I’d set it free.
“He let Ned’s fish go? For shame!”
There was a thief in our midst.
But I’d never thought it was me.
Flood Lake
When trapped in hell
There is little to do but fish.
What sin had we committed
To land us in this place?
The paradise of our parents
Was our personal inferno.
Thrust into a pre-digital wasteland,
Mutual boredom bridged our differences
Of past and complexion.
Net on my shoulder, rod over yours,
We traipsed past the forgotten cemetery,
Where babe and sage lay side-by-side,
To the tumultuous lake
That swallowed the park
Man had erected in its honor.
We made our seats amongst the boulders
Set to shore the foamy waters
Against the lonesome road.
We sat silent. All had been said
In the past three weeks
Sitting on those stones,
Catching flotsam.
We weren’t alone. An elderly man
Felt it wise to spend his dwindling moments
Prospecting for silver pike
In the murky depths.
We were prospecting for sirens.
We found entertainment
Somehow.
Time passed. The elderly man readied himself to leave.
I noted his proud, slimy catch with envy.
He walked up to you, selecting as
A shard of flint from a bed of quartz.
The break in monotony caught my attention.
You draw closer with a scowl and explain.
“Says I took his tackle. Dowallie; didn’t even.”
We scoff in unison as his compensationary jeep departs.
A thief in our midst? How absurd!
The rippling of the waves as they lap at our perches
Speeds the drawl of time. We wish the sun down.
There are fires to make. The rippling tranquility of the water
Can’t hold a candle
To a roaring blaze,
Hungry for nourishment,
Insatiable, but never ashamed.
The destruction enraptures us.
The fetid decay of the water,
Stinking of carcasses,
Only captivates us.
The elderly man returns.
With firm absolution, he apologizes
And hands you the fish.
He says his tackle was in the back.
Now we are three. It’s near supper.
Time to show our guest home.
I clutch the net that holds the fish,
You manage pole and bait.
A smirk sits tauntingly on your lips.
“Probably too heavy for you, anneh?”
I grin in response to mask my strain
And insist I’m more than sufficiently mighty.
With a shrug, you dash off ahead,
To the hunting lodge,
With its trophies,
Past the cemetery,
With its markers.
I watch you crest the hill
Each step burns in my arms
And my shoulders decry my pride.
The trek had never seemed so long.
As my frustration and shame build,
The fish, in all its hideousness,
Seems suddenly pathetic,
Wound in the net, gills gasping,
Its mouth gnawing out a silent plea.
Was it pity, or pride?
I claimed pity. It upheld my pride.
I went down by the waters,
And, with soothing words, let the creature free.
It lay limply near the shore,
Unaware of its opportunity.
Probably soon another carcass,
Rejected by its habitat
And thrust into the world above
To stink and fester amongst the stones.
It would be easy to retrieve it,
But, free of the burden of the gift
Presented to you, I found new fleetness of step
And hurried after.
Easy come easy go.
“How was the fish?”
A friend of the elder had asked you.
I filled with indignance as you conveyed
That you’d told the truth.
I’d set it free.
“He let Ned’s fish go? For shame!”
There was a thief in our midst.
But I’d never thought it was me.
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