literature

Nymph-o-mania

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The Nephelae,

In their endless nebulousness,

Floated,

With empty jars,

Once filled with rain water.

The Hamadryads waited,

With breath bated,

For a little drizzle,

But the Nephelae,

Wasted all of it,

Once again,

On a parade.

So to save face,

They went to their sisters,

The Naiades,

To fill their pitchers.

“Back so soon,” they asked,

Poking their heads out,

From the running rapids.

The Nephelae looked at their feet,

“Use it wisely,”

Said the Naiades.

“Thank you, thank you, thank you”

The Nephelae screamed,

Dipping their jars,

Into the river.

They floated off, toward the forest,

Then the Aurae blew them away,

Over the Amphitheater.

“Now’s as good a time as any!”

And they dumped their cargo,

Onto the concert.

In Microcosm

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“I’d rather be sleeping,” said John, sliding hangers back and forth, trying to find an appealing shirt.

Every day he left pieces of himself behind in his bed.

And the dust mites would eat them, as dust mites are wont to do.

He slid a t-shirt over his face, smearing his skin cells into the fibers.

He has left many impacts on the things in his life, sometimes too small to even be seen.

But they meant everything to those dust mites, who lived for generations, before he’d lay himself to rest again.

Is he still John then?

Views From Lalaland

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I’m happy to hobnob,

In the enclave,

Despite the mobs,

And the roads unpaved,

It’s a beautiful place.

Stay away from the villlages,

Those folks aren’t known for hospitality,

Lack dilligence,

And have no mentality,

To speak of.

Climb scenic Mount Delirium,

But don’t read the signs,

And their false criteria,

They’ll try to trick you.

Inhale some helium,

Spin three times,

Stand at the summit,

And survey the land before you,

Beautiful, isn’t it?

Good thing you’ve got no work to do,

Stay as long as you’d like.

Vermin

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The spider in the corner,

Of my dorm,

Foreigner,

Hoarder,

With web in disorder.

If I were shorter,

I’d steer clear,

And try not to vear,

Into his hunting gear.

He’s well-equipped,

Works from home,

And quite strict,

When prey roams,

Toward his crypt.

The monster,

Stands,

A stone’s throw away,

Saunters,

On silken-strands,

He’d be easy to slay,

With a magazine,

But that’s mean,

And I’d have to clean,

After.

He keeps,

His heaps,

Tidy,

And tiny,

So I’ll let him stay,

Maybe.

Tilt-A-Whirl

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Diamond-plated steps,

peeling paint,

and a cardboard ruler

demonstrating the height requirement.

Pewter pistons,

hidden hinges

standing cushions,

eroded by time

and centrifugal force.

Blinking lights all around the ridges

and a long line of patrons

brandishing bracelets

soft drinks,

plush prizes

and crumpled tickets.

The ride spins,

blinking like a UFO,

ready to launch

and fly faster than light,

but it never gets off the ground.

You stumble around,

pretty dizzy,

ready for the next thrill.

“One more time?”

she says.

Your hair is mussed,

from the last six times,

she asked.

“Why not,”

you say,

while turning about face,

to stand single-file

once more.

Evergreen

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It’s not that pine trees,

Have a lot to hide,

They just don’t have much,

To show.

Standing solid,

Solemn,

Stable,

Their needles as green,

As they ever were.

Crows, for being draped in black,

Are not very stealthy,

Rather garrulous,

Cawing in threes,

Bobbing, posturing,

Perched in the trees.

The rusted-out fire pit,

Doesn’t do very much,

In the day,

Besides,

Retain,

Past rain.

I’m sitting on the old bench,

That’s been here,

Since before I was,

Thinking about how,

The more things change,

The more they stay the same.

Extremophiles

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Bacteria

stuck to the side

of a hydrothermal vent

metabolizing,

with black smoke,

rising,

or encased,

in ancient salt crystals,

photosynthesizing.

Processing cyanide

or sulfur

to grow,

then split.

Residing,

where it’s corrosive,

with high temperatures,

and/or 

intense pressure,

dissolved metals,

minerals,

or chemicals.

Found,

in massive, arid, vacuous deserts,

the bottom of the arctic,

or gaps inside boulders,

or the vacuum of space.

Extremes are not insurmountable

just because they are not conducive

to life.

It’s full of proverbial surprises

after all.

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Remember?

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Holding a stack of Polaroids in my hand,

“I was there,

I was there,”

I said counting and recounting.

My thumb stuck to their glossy surfaces,

I turned them over to find the dates scribbled in black sharpie,

“April 10th, 1997– Hannah’s birthday,”

Curly, unruly hair and a missing front tooth,

And a little frosting on the tip of her nose,

And her brow.

She  was laughing,

We all were,

Now I am.

The next picture,

All of us,

Surrounding,

A dented cake,

Seen from a bird’s eye view,

In a fisheye lens.

The next picture,

Blowing out nine candles,

Her face amber through the dim light,

While we stood nearby,

In the shade,

My face was buried in my hands,

Now it is again,

The stack falls to the floor,

Spreading the moments all about,

I look toward the hall,

I hope the door opens,

And you’ll be back again,

Someday.

On the Road: A few Highway Haikus

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1) Black, cracked tarmac,

Potholes dot  line,

Craters on the moon.

2) Grey plastic fragments,

Torn toys, paper bags, roadkill,

Litter on the shoulder.

3)  Dented divider,

Past event– tragedy?

Unnamed accident.

4) “Fuel, 16 miles”

Gas light on, alone, no signs,

Driver’s dilemma.

5) Deer crossing; beware,

Old habitat rended now,

Just passing through here.