Manifesto

A poem has a unique voice that should sing and resonate

            on some level, though everyone's memories are different.

A poem should carry the reader along its path

            and not let the traveller veer until the road ends;

            the path must be incomplete.

A poem should give you pieces to meddle with and tie together

            until you can form your own stepping stone walkway.

A poem should teach, in this process of follow-the-leader,

            and describe ideas in never-before-seen ways.

A poem should be able to alter itself until it controls its body

            and can seduce a reader, no matter the form it has taken on.

Each poem should be different, and use its hidden voice

            to serenade its subject, and you as well;

            to draw you in and needle at your mind.

A poem's voice should be beautiful, if even in a haunting way

            and should bestow life of its own, even if that life is damned.

A poem should show you the world it describes -

            not through its eyes, but yours.

I am...

I am aqua

as water bounces

on a drumbeat

I swim in my

soul's music

I am a seal

in lonely, dark quarantine

splashing in dark                   air thick as water

I am afraid                                         of this void

trapped in a box pyramid

nature's attempts                              to destroy my prison

only sharpen its walls

I am the lone pinecone

that's been rooted by luck

the last among 37 sisters

many layered discs

        wooden fibres                       spun in tight circles

      wound up like                        thread on a spool

        I sit in my                             computer chair

     and wind myself                   until my head bobs

      now it's                                      all heavy

        the world                                   looks askew

       seeing past my brain's             straightforward filters

        a world rotating                       on an unseen axis

     that spins us                               to our cores

  

*Inspired by Ellen Jaffe's "I am..." prompt

Our Beloved Atrium

The Atrium of pale blue and pink

a staggered arch in middle

a crinkled banner suspended at its height

and a strand of yellow hanging loosely.

A TV up on the right-hand wall

static-laced noise from a silver-striped box

some days it speaks of hockey, others politics

its picture rough like the speckled floor below.

"Not all that glitters is gold," it says today

the lights above have no glimmer, no gold

white skylight above dulls artificial light

though neither source can make the floors gleam.

Pyramid steps on the room's edges

stretch a third of the way up the wall

on them sit people, silent and pensive

little notebooks on laps or in hands.

Sometimes people cross the upper balcony

their footsteps fairly muted

a jangle of keys or a slam of a door

are the quietest of this room's noises.

Hallways stretch away to all sides

and if not hallways, then doors

one set is dark, as yet unopened

another lit by clouded sun's light.

"Buy Your Yearbook @

     stsenyearbooks.com"

the "jo-" missing where the banner's folded

the little logo on the right is still whole.

Straight ahead, a mural, painted

from white, hard-to-see peace symbols

to a trail of flags from an artificial distance

towards clutter; each flag's country defined.

*Inspired by the "Realism" prompt

Freedom of Function

A function has its limits

at almost every value, every point of its existence

unless it's broken or disjointed

                 

             flawed

             but still a function

as it nears zero from the positives it shoots sky-high

it reaches 12 and now it's flat-lined

a missile homing in

then it comes up from the shady negative side

creeps up to zero somewhere near -3

gains speed and hits a straightaway

pieces explode outward and create a messy gridline

on which the dots can be connected

no matter what they're made of

but both beams, though they hit, halt dead

at the black wall of y's straight backbone

defiant of the high-soaring angels, the low-swooping demons

still the figure won't topple

though it's shot from right and left

it's not trapped under one gunpoint

it has learned the hard way to bear it

knows that to be free, it must withstand it

because it's broken, its limit ceases to exist

free to stretch to heaven or to hell

but always at a price.

*Inspired by the "love of a subject" prompt

Something Seldom Sought

I see the silence like no one else does

it hides

it settles in

my body soaks it up

and I let it circle me

I'm the Absence Whisperer

It is complete:

a clock's melancholy tick paces it

it shadows the rhythm

it ticks

it clicks

it pulses

it snickers

but still it makes not a sound

It lasts forever when it's ignored

but flits away when it's embraced

a wounded animal

wounding others

It renders me incapable

all action ceases

I don't want to disturb it

as it steals

as it hunts

as it leeches blood from my minutes

my seconds

my passing time here

each moment that escapes me, a great casualty

I hear their last requests

and make sure they are remembered, forever.

My forever.

The Ascension of Man

God reduced to a symbol for only those raised to See

Angels linger as guardians if you have loved ones above

Demons spew from hells with fierce, pixelated snarls

Stars shine dully behind blankets of light pollution

Moon only seen once the late night's parties end

Kings known by title wield fists of velvet words

Princes smother lovers on wide static screens

Men sit all-powerful on electronic thrones

Wild animals live in homes of human apathy

Domesticated animals sent in hordes to butcher shops

Trees stand tall as brothers are sliced by screaming saws

Other plants reign over land tor n by man-blessed machines

Precious stones welded into rings galore, given then given back

Precious metals reshaped in war pyres, ready for mechanized battle

Other minerals, just stardust residue, make up our decaying bodies

Climb from the Catacombs

My cold and mottled hand
thrusts forward through the dark,              

the air as thick as sand,                   

its tendrils cut deep marks. 

The time seems endless here,

perhaps it’s just begun,

no longer will I fear,

my hesitance undone.

One hand, now raise the next,

my feet will scrabble too,

in shock, my limbs perplexed,

shadow echoes, voices coo.

Do I see light above?

or glimmer of lost years,

my eyes so long been gloved,

most often sealed in tears.

The ledge gives up the game,

I heave, and from it rise,

the darkness stays the same,

no light? it's a surprise.

I crawl up from gnarled crust,

pocked blemishes and fire,

The Earth's pale face has rusted,

see children in her pyre.

This world of mine has since

been blackened, lost in time.

Knowledge just a pittance in this world's solemn beat

our voices naught but rhythmic pulses; unsteady, incomplete.