The closing bell, the final gavel, the concession that it’s over,
and though we fight against the wicked nature of it,
best describes these worlds in which we find ourselves,
like mispronounced Antigone, just anti-gone, drunken, reeling,
whelmed back with the sea of nothing, being no one,
dreaming nothing as days tick by like the counters
of the mile on invisible, empty trains cutting a swath
across the distance between
and done with like wreckage and obsolete machine parts
are, still left to rot and rust and grimness without any
will to grace to make them sad in another’s eye, only
like the great thunder of the buffalo upon the plain,
the quiet mutter of rain beneath an clean and unsullied
sky, the natural and uncomplicated pain of unheated rooms,
of huddling in the night when snow falls, waiting for the
sun to return and make it better, make it
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...