They are subtle flavors on the tongue,
these failures in the midmorning, between
coffee and lunch break, or in the bruised
and blustery evening as thoughts of old,
unsafe tires overcome any urge to
good, where the lassitude of these
shocking days of mundane horror
makes mockery of all the pride we
may once have had.
Small complaints like paper cuts
dwell here, where all the unfulfilled
promises we only alluded to by way
of shrugs in the dark fester, old
and superficial wounds now scars
as faint as phantoms under
cellophane, somehow horrid through
that pale currency of inconsequence.
Myriad small sounds, though, grow
great like the swelling of orchestral
horns in the hollow places within, where
we hoped to be filled with other wonders,
hot spent gasses of burning wishsongs
in a young man’s halting tenor.
These are the subtle flavors, ground hard
against the dry roof of the mouth, the
aching teeth long out of touch with
dentistry, disappointed looks on faces
we had the fortune to laugh with in
better times, when goodness was not
stripped away by the dry wind's
lonesome cry, when we cared enough
to ignore the void places within and the
crawling thought that nothing ever
would turn out properly again, when
we could force out smiles convincing
enough for the uncritical eye.
A Haibun The sound of the hawk’s talons as they click against the cement floor is sharp and crisp. The raptor moves carefully, head duc...
We have been dreaming in unison but those dreams have fallen into disrepair, eaten away by the persistent rust of the many days here...
This ringing silence this house, once filled a place of voices now gone silent, a place that once echoed with the laughter of the...
Note: I taught a poetry class at Fyrecon this afternoon, and we did a few challenge poems during the participation segment of the class. Th...