Ghosts in the Posts

I believe they are what makes it worth while...

Though I do enjoy listening to toads when I write poetry :)

Summer Class Poetry:

Alright, so here is what I've been working on this whole time.  Let me know what you think!

(I think this is all of it... but I might have missed one or two...)

Insecticide Armageddon

How serious for the ant

to be lost and sense

for itself.

It's the only ant left

from my invaded garden,

circling in panic to find

traces of its kind.

(My foot twitches as it nears

toes curling inward, ready

to smite the thing.)

The colony is life,

a worker predetermined

by genetics and fate

desperately trying to survive

when there is nothing left.

I crush it and leave

a smear on my walkway.

Nothing deserves this.

 

Late.

despite an eternal devote, I

cannot note: nothing beyond haste

was made to the empty institute

where the air bag questions remain.

ask father to be with me, but

eighty percent fail the course

life treats them, I wonder now

what happens to the other twenty.

hurrying inside only to see

a wife begging for one last

valentine’s surprise we won’t

regret.  Instead: a box consists

of husband attire.  Waiting.

in five hour minute increments

perhaps maybe the surgeon

won’t lie.  perhaps maybe

sons of adam will be forgiven

and the floral gates of eden

relinquished to us, to an non-

existence in a Madagascar.

whispers in madness cast stones

at my eyes to crack in shame

the ongoing sinus infection that

plagues behind my face despite.

too Late.  He is

now reposed at five twenty five.

brother embraces mother while

man embraces man, holding on

to the seeping warmth within.

fingers run along departed roads

the cruel feet holds, my hands caress

ignoring the chalked right hand with

a gaping maw my God left behind.

      my eyes show the scale at less

                    three fourths an ounce.

Shark 

One slides towards the surface in circles
weaving an uncertain path before
silently breaks the surf using only

a tip of it's tail and the white of the crest
that sounds itself until, predetermined
sea fowl irritate the curious fish, enough

as it sinks beyond view an uprising above
sends a wave that erases the dark vision.
It doesn't mind where it swims, it just swims.

We catch it, You buy it

I own that thing, that creature in the bag

Still stiff and still alive.

Somehow, I manage to salivate

As the water boils up foam white

To kiss the flames.

Mercy kills are between the eyes, I read.

Silence follows the shuffle of drawers

And there, an executioner amidst them.

There is no response from the bag.

Inside, the creature stares me down.

Black moon eyes give sideways stares.

It shows no thought, no emotion

But in its place,

Cruel regret.

'Soft Death Courier'

How can someone do this?

Now it rustles in the bag,

It is a convict in rubber band cuffs,

to stop it from salvation.

Still no sound.

I place my head to the bag.

I am in session with

Me, the creature, and myself.

It refuses to speak,

Only to stare solemnly.

I put forward some evidence, including

my stomach and taste buds,

but the creature is relentless.

Still, I decide if it lives or dies.

I own that thing, that creature.

My carapace to a sarcophagus.

August 31st

an old bear,
       caught
          grazed groans root by the rare
rhododendron... distraught,
       in the saffron garden.

claws rake deep,
       rough
          gorging the weed and creep
the old garden can tough,
       it receives some pardon.

to the Brush,
       home
          the red wood leaves and hush
calm the beast with dark chrome,
       prone and slow, to harden.

 

Barren

In the chamber of dry bouquets

wakes the dead water damsel

holding her pale asian display

to become my garden grave

among the name tag rebels

the red dress, classic death scene

revisited by a blinking motel

who wants the girl to go?

a girl in heels, hoeing seed

deep to root and remind

reason for synapses to cease

sending her draperies to climb

across the oculus blind

blooming dreams unclaimed

when the threads disentwine

dawn yawning across the crows

cackling to earwig decay

left behind on bed sheets

barren as the last bouquet.

 

The Third Voyeur

Dusk rushes across the olive husks

Sending fields to bay softly

Against two stubborn willow trees.

The fields often wail in thick tongues

You can't say or sing or scribe or sign,

but to realize would be fiercely native.

Abrupt stillness sent from the horizon

leads to a chorus of one thousand sirens

and a single toad.

                      Moving slowly, I try

To be bent into the earth and grass

For a chance to touch the rare song.

There is a vacuum in the tenebrous air

as light peers through holes in the veil

that is the world's emissary to amuse observers.

Moon breaks silent through to a uniform hue

that unmasks the stranger of discord,

the white noise.

Now, only the toad sounds a solemn moan

letting me know I am not the third willow.