Poetry: The Sundial

The Sundial

Here in the garden is a sundial,

Stone and cold,

It hasn't moved for fifty years.

I see the old men inside.

They stand on chairs

And raise their glasses high

And yell out,

“Here’s to the good old days!

They won’t come back again.”

Here in the garden is a sundial,

The shadow moves around the sun

But always returns to the same place.

I see their children,

Almost grown,

Outside. And they exclaim,

“The problems my father caused

Are in the past.

We can change and rebuild,

Build a better world than

There was before.”

But here in the garden is a sundial

And when the night comes

It loses its purpose

And falls asleep

To wait another day.

I see the turn of history

On my eyelid backs,

All gears and hearts.

The beginning,

The middle,

The eventual end.

Millions of old men standing on chairs

Millions of children, almost grown, exclaiming,

“We are different from all of time.”

But many gears, hearts, voices later,

Here in the garden is a sundial.

The direction of its shadow has changed,

But it has not and will not

For it is only a sundial

And cannot turn on its own.

Poem: Fall

A Shakespearean Sonnet: Fall

The leaves in my backyard are turning brown

And all the birds are starting to fly south

Less leaves are on the trees than on the ground

There is a certain dryness in my mouth.

The air is cooling down or cooling off

The wind has just begun to get a chill

And more and more I start to get a cough

I think I’m on the verge of falling ill.

I always get this way when winter comes,

A melancholy hue to my new tone

What happiness I hold must turn to crumbs

And there’s a great old sadness I have known.

But spring will come, just like it always does

And happiness, like flowers, always grows.

Fiction: Appalachian English

Appalachian English
            Y’all better lissen up ‘cause I gotta  few werds to say on the subject of mountain livin’. Yep, there are a few things you gotta know if you want to live here in Frawgtown, Virginya. First awf, the people round here are real friendly. They ain’t like them city folk, all talkin’ to themselves and drinkin’ Starbucks. Starbucks. That ain’t even real cawffee. Real cawffee’s blacker’n coal’n picks up your day.

            Anyway, like I was sayin’, round here people treat ya like a best friend, even if they ain’t never seen you before in their lives. If you go on an’ drive down the road, people in the cars you meet’ll wave at ya, nice as can be. Now, there’s three diff’rent kinds of waves, ya lissenin’? First, them there’s the index finger. Jest lift up one index finger awf the wheel, and give a little nod. Next one’s the four-finger wave. This one here’s the most popular. All you do is left up four fingers of one hand awf the wheel, keepin’ your thumb hitched on there. Last one’s the full hand wave, which is stupid-lookin’ and dangerous on these here curvy mountain roads. There’s deer everywhere here, and if you hit the varmints they hurt your vehicle more than you hurt them more often than not.

Fiction: Space Out Homeland

Space Out: Homeland

            “What,” Captain Gabi said, “is that.”

            She was looking out the viewport of the front of the ship, where a large purple swirling mass was hovering ominously.

            “It’s an anomaly,” Skreet Akar said helpfully.

            Gabi huffed. “Well, I know that,” she said, “What kind of anomaly is it?”

            Skreet fiddled with some dials at his workstation, looked at a readout, then said, “An anomalous one.”

            “An anomalous anomaly,” Gabi repeated, “Thank you so much. I’m so glad I picked you to be my helmsman.”

            Skreet gave her a lazy salute and spun around in his chair.

Poem: Care

Care

I do not deserve your kind of care

The thought stays deep within my mind

I fear I can’t respond in kind

To rosy cheeks and downy hair

Yours is a special kind of love

Which when the one you love you meet

Treat them as if they were a treat

That you and they go hand in glove.

I cannot make an even trade

For I can’t follow your love in fashion

I cannot imagine a stormy glade

Or stars that bedeck the night in passion

I fear I can’t return your stare

I do not deserve your kind of care.

Poetry: Short Poems

Winter

Colder winds blow there

Swaying trees on a hillside

A small flower grows

Voicemail

“I’m sorry, hang up,”

That high voice on the machine

Can make me angry

The Dog

As the

            Dog

  Sits

On the grass

            I wonder

Why

        I worry

    So

Much

Pretzels

Pretzels are good

Pretzels are yummy

As I’m writing this poem

I feel really hungry

Poetry: Help! I'm Trapped in a Poem and I Can't Get Out!

Help! I’m Trapped in a Poem and I Can’t Get Out!

Who am I? Where am I?

Why am I- oh

Was that a line break?

I think it was

And here’s another

Wow, that’s interesting

            And here’s an indent!

                        Abstract

                                    Fancy

I like it!

Too bad there’s no rhyme scheme

            Or meter

            Or cohesion

            I mean,

                        It’s hardly Shakespeare

But it’s okay, I guess

            Maybe

Oh, hello! Who are you?

Why do you have an eraser?

Ouch! That tic

(This poem has been discontinued.)

Poetry: January 1st, 2014

January 1st, 2014
Let's talk about beginnings
Beginnings are scary, dangerous things
Full of unknown properties
Unsolved equations
Unfinished poems
And ambiguity
Beginnings are the standing at the edge of the cliff
Wearing a blindfold
They are the wooded path at nightfall
Which is uncertain, but the only way through.
Let's talk about beginnings
Beginnings are exciting, wonderful things
Full of promise and hope
Release from the past
A way forward
Beginnings are the hushed moment of expectation
Before the guest of honor walks into the room
They are the unexpected freefall down the hill
Grass flying
Laughing wildly
They are the wrapped presents under the Christmas tree
The smile on a stranger's face
The seed of a great tree
Let's talk about beginnings
This is one
Use it well