I Haven’t Written Poems in a While

I’m trying to write more so I made myself a schedule that includes when to post something for Tales, Verses, and Life. So this week, the schedule says “Verses.” I panic, sort of. Well, laugh a little. I haven’t written poems in a while. 

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The Pen

with a mind―my mind. (I gave it away, didn’t you know? It’s called suicide.) I gave myself up before paper and pen. Paper became the oppressed; Pen became the ruler― The tyrant. And I became the deceased.

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Cow

Your creator has honored you by spotting you with paint. But you, tree stump, with cowboy eyes, glaze your mind and continue in your gluttonous chewing, chomping cud, letting the grass dribble over your lips.

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Rain, will you come?

Blue. Gray. Looks of foreboding. Hope in the distance. Rain, will you come? Rain, will you stay? Will you sprinkle the grass, The leaves, The air?

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Sleep

Only a while ago their fumes died. Their tiny engines— those keep-go engines, the ones chasing and yelling changed their purrs into idle putters.

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Somebody

I seek for truth. I seek for creation. But in the meantime, I abuse the habit of perfection. Round blue eyes, rough fingers, pigmy size body.

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Nothing

Almost nothing. The fridge drops. You know, that sound—the clunk. I hear it every night as I lay here. The rest of the house quiet. Everyone asleep.

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