Absolute Nothing

Floating in nothingness
A place without heat
An absolute zero
Without the cold
Simply no sensation at all

No colour
No black or white either
Simply nothing
All around

In a no-place
With no feeling or thought
Endless and without beginning

Non-existence complete
Without memory
Or promise
No hope or future
No being
No is or was

To contemplate this
An aching chasm cracks open
Until I come back to the comfort of being
Seeing the fear, I sense a great sadness
And can only be thankful
Forever to cherish
The value of life
And even death, I suppose
Knowing the alternative

Notice of Schedule Change of Commitment

-For the summer I'm allowing myself to be less consistent with my poems. So when I either forget, or simply do not manage to post one, I will not post a "Failure," and will simply post when I can and when I feel like it. At the moment I'm planning on returning to my regular schedule in the Fall.-

Poor Jayne

There once stood a girl in the rain
To all passersby she seemed insane
But what does it matter
If she's mad as a hatter
When also she can kill you with her brain

Cloud Watching

The day the sun died
No one noticed
Except for the little girl
Who stared at the sky
As minutes pushed by

Lovers embraced
And friends and family
Most didn't believe
But others hurried
To do what they would
With their last moments of life

The little girl took in the blue
And basked in the golden light

When darkness came, some were surprised
To still be there
The city electric companies got the streetlights on
And scientists huddled
While newscasters did their jobs

The little girl opened her eyes wider
She took in the galaxies and stars

When plans failed
And the desperate and the faithful prayed
The little girl laughed and cried
As cosmic wind took her hair
And kissed her cheeks

Composing Idle Thoughts

Humming to a made-up song
Singing words that fall before
They're fully formed
Dropping from lips that stutter
And bumble through
Sometimes making sense
And others making sounds
At least, filling an empty house
Or a sidewalk, or the underside
Of trees. Their branches curved upwards
Bear the weight of the sky
Underneath the song continues
As the absentminded or thoughtful
Seeks musical company.

History and Old Movies

How curious the world before humans stood up
Where skyscrapers were the necks of animals
And massive greenery. In the land before time
When the stars hung in trees.

Refined

Politely sipping pinky-tea
Extended with unconscious pride
Fine-boned fingers feather light
Touch the rose-patterned china
Silver in the grains of white
Crystals poured to sweetly dissolve
Tempering the bitterness of tongues
With little better chatter
Than swordplay of the social kind
And idle commentary on the faults of life
Blood thinned by repeating circles
Keeping out the working man
Strong in his crude striving
The top have been refined
With their blood poured through the strainer
And their dogs insipid idiocy
And their bread devoid of grain or flavour
Colourless and white as the sugar
In the bowl with the silver spoon
Granulated fine and pure.

Backwards Thinking and Inaction

Delirious despite the clearness of the sight
Decisions made from doubt or duty
Sitting down to fight
Standing up to walk towards avoidance of the cause
Wanting better still while flirting
Picking deeper flaws

White Noise

The shhh shhh of cars slicing puddles in the streets
The plink tap of dripping drops from roofs and fire escapes
The steady hiss of sidewalks when it falls in gentle sheets
The overwhelming tumult when it pours and rages down

The churning chss of rivers running rapids over stone
The phlot phap of waves that lap at wooden planks of docks
The silence at the bottom of a well that stands alone
Forgotten depths that resonate and echo once found

The ocean deep and wide impossible to take in just a glance
The crash and smash against the bluffs and rock erodes as it rebuffs
So loud and powerful and yet unheard its lunar dance
Water moving everywhere makes music just because

Nervous Chatter

Chirping noises birdy voices could have been
Computer-made.
Oil seeping, dry skin flaking, could have been
Washed away
Left to be, never checked, it could have been
Anything
But all littles accumulate to whisper to your brain.

The Sky Outside Today

Today the sky was strange, the quality of light
Changed. As if a lightbulb replaced threw off
More yellow than white. A bright yellow, different
From the warm light of the sun, different
From the orange of streetlights in the brown city night
Sky, as if it weren't outside, but the dome
Covering the stadium was different
Fluorescent bright in the operating theatre
Sad taupe walls peeling in school halls
And along the mental ward. The sound, pealing
And unheard in the fog that rolls along,
Mountains of mist, clouds that walk the Earth
Filtering the sun to this strange yellow.
I will forget it tomorrow, perhaps it will be the same
But I will have become used to it perhaps, or not
But likely it will change into something I have seen before
Although I cannot see the future, I see it new each day.

Bad Habits

I keep picking at the scab I mean to heal
Digging deeper laying in the scar
What is it that calls to me this way
The fingers move before I notice

Stones of the Elements

Fire flaming orange at night
Stones to keep it ringed 'round tight
Strike two for a spark of white
Stones to set tinder alight

Water rushing swelling flowing
Stones so smooth from liquid rolling
Oceans pounding out fine sand
Glaciers carving out the land

Earth compressing layers grand
Granite deep within the land
Poured hot from a molten core
New rock cools along the shore

Wind to blast the mountain pass
Stripes of sandstone soft as glass
Grit and gravel blown en masse
Power to this unseen gas

Would Should Could

It's that clenching of ears when chalk squeaks on the board
The train in slow-motion, crashing too fast
The glass as it tips just over the edge
All falling for hours, and no one will stop it
Tensing inward, unable to reach, our instincts freeze
Even as they scream to move

My other occupation

I may, for a moment, hold that thought
A dream in my clutches, struggled and fought
And when I thought that I had won
It faded away with the rising sun
I think I feel different. What did I learn?
I know that often I toss and turn
Is something accomplished, some other place?
I awoke in a sweat as if from a race
The dream may be more true than here
Every moment awake wastes time, I fear.

Responsibility

A pocketful of lead
Treading water
And wishing that
I knew more

Fifth Failure

Concerned with what else
And then asleep
With three hours in the day
It can slip by so quickly
And so one more comes
On the back of the other.

Inside my Head

Is it strange that standing in line at the bank
Today I felt my heart race as I imagined a scene
Where robbers attacked and I dove under the table
Or no, made for the window, or that little office nearby
With the door open. Then I sighed and let it slip away
The feeling of being in one of those crime dramas
Not the feeling of true terror, that I couldn't imagine
Or didn't put enough effort in the moment, chose not to.
So then I felt normal once again and observed the other people
In line and through the window, and then I started wondering
About what the point of it all is. Life. The way we go about
Our lives. After a little while I let that slip away too
And soon it was my turn. The lady was nice behind the counter
I hummed and sang a little as I walked down the sidewalks,
Up them, on them. I think a few people heard me as they passed
I think one or two thought I was stupid and weird. It's true.
Later today, inside, I thought about moving two steps forward
And one step back. No. One step forward and two steps back.
I saw a hall of dirt, red-brown, and a line across. I stamped one foot
It left a shoe-print, one that I doesn't match to my actual shoes,
But that's what I saw in my head. And then I ran away back in my old section
My old sections, with other lines. I needed the space to dance.
I like to take up space when I dance. So I forgot about that foot-stamp
Over the line, and danced farther and farther away. Forgot about
How I was going to plant both feet firmly, and march across the new section
To a new line. And cross that one, too. I hope it's not too late to make it
Still. I want to show them. And I want to show myself.
I find a lot of importance and meaning in words.
But I want to have more than that, too.

Fourth Failure

This month has thirty days, not thirty-one
How many have twenty-nine? All of them
But most have more, too, one or two
And I've let this ending pass by unmarked,
We move into May, and it snowed just days ago
Maybe this year we'll have snow in June.