All they do is take
Once upon a time
I was in love with a man
but he betrayed me.
He
took
my
chocolate
covered
pretzels.
Leaving me no choice
but to kill him.
Tag Archives: Poetry
Miles Away
In another country today
Someone is bent over a dead body
In another country today
Broken buildings and scrambles for water
Miles away from where we are happy
We are devastated.
Merry Christmas, children
Open your presents
And know how much you are loved.
Your parents, your family, everyone is here
Eat until we are sick
Laugh together until we cry
This is the best way to live
It’s a lucky day, children
We found a scrap of bread. Take my share
And know how much you are loved.
Unsure where your father is, your siblings
Sick from not eating
Never let them see you cry
This is the only way to survive
floating
I had a wonderful break. I’d tell you all about my awkward adventures but I have to catch up on work! O_O
everything is weightless here
rocks lift water
water supports leaves
a stick, hooked on a rock, held by the current, forever nods
creek cups air
air elevates clouds
effortless
gentle
trickling, wet plashes, and bloops
tender caressing breeze
leaves float downstream
leaves stick in gullies
leaves collect on the bank
i too sit weightless
being nothing is easy
i don’t mind the rocks underneath
neither do they mind me
the clouds in the sky
churn
ever mixing, never blending
overwhelming blue
swallows us all
creek, rocks, sticks, leaves, and me
beyond the hill sounds Dragon Fire
a Heavy Breathing Hot Air Balloon
Inflates into view
guess nobody told them
they don’t need to try so hard
to float
Probably just the wind
Have you ever seen the cat
Pawing at something under the door
Out of the corner of your eye
Death-blackened fingers withdraw
Back into the closed room
And you think to yourself,
…nah
Bloomin’ Onion
AKA onion blossoms. They’re always at state fairs and greasy steakhouses. Do people outside the States eat these? It’s one of those things that’s just so bad for you, but worth it. Like everything at the state fair, all of which is deep-fried. Cowdog Creatives and I were joking about writing a poem about onion blossoms, now it’s reality.
greasy witch hands reach upward
pointed fingers of batter
inside are pale, limp worm bones
lost vegetable, battered and fried into crustacean
oil pooled in pockets
golden anemone
god of saturated fats
I think there’s an onion in here somewhere
pick a piece like a flower
light, empty crisp
loose guts slip out
How are we going to finish this and then
a sodden cold napkin and dark brown leavings
which even we couldn’t face
throw it away, wipe our fingers
and pretend it didn’t happen
but evidence remains
in our fingers, breath, stomach gurgles
