poetry

Honor

Soft broken devil
writhing in mine
shattered confines,
stage seeping red
ink, signing away
our gushing humanity.
Soft broken
devil denies the door
as a window,
shuttered by–
splintered by–
soldered by tweaking
builders of the concrete
wall, you cherish
them. You brought
them with sound
assumptions, seared
flesh adorned with gold
leaf, Greek letters,
gilded chain corroded.

Advertisements

Boone Winter v1

Brown-black mulch
speckled with cigarette butts,
bed carved by roots
of a barren tree, roots worming
their way across an island
prison in the parking lot,
asphalt white with salt,
black with oil
spattering the ankles of students—
students hugging, pressing
against the wind, wind
that tears at the flesh, freezes
the blood mid-stream,
crowds of students, heads
down, covered,
ears covered,
beaten, bearing weight enough
for forty men—
it silvers the hair,
poisons the water,
pales lips to ash, barren
as the ash-gray trees.

Y (a poem)

They think us strange,
we who don’t venture
into sunlight.
Scientists, Creators, Genius
bred in studios and labs–
strong-minded products
of a well-constructed mess,
we set ourselves apart
from yesterday’s beliefs.
We do not mold.
We do not bend.
We resist,
labeled stubborn
by the older generation,
self-styled mentors, our judges.
We question authority,
push out to sea,
bricks in that wall of defense,
seeking a seed of self-awareness
inherent in each of us.
Some might have died,
ripped open at the seam,
now broken, scarred.
We do not cry.
Our generation stinks
of death—
a sapling withered,
corroded by chosen elements,
leaving a stench
of lust, gluttony, dishonor,
rancid blend of blood like ours
and everything we’re not.
Mistakes clot in the vein.
We do not mourn
but smell the rot.
We do not mourn:
We live.

Nature As I Taste It

I bottle nature,
its colors, chaos,
patterns, scents,
moments kept alive
by the strange machine inside me—
I release them,
a ribbon of words,
segmented stream
with sinkholes, flumes.
Light and thought
undulate with the current.
Ideas cascade
down the page
in a language not nature’s,
bring life to slate,
sapling to wasteland,
channeled chaos,
explosion of words
I sculpt to portray not a thing,
but a taste.

These are a couple of poems I’ve pulled from an old document on my computer. No use letting them gather dust!