Pages: 1 ... 8 9 [10]
 on: September 18, 2017, 05:11:29 AM 
Started by Chris Dudley - Last post by Chris Dudley
Wrap of paper wrapping grease
Taco Bell for takeout
Fastest of all fast foods
Bagged and out for snack out.

Got a lecture to attend
No time for something fancy
Crunch of lettuce, crunch of shell
Paste of meat for filling.

But I make tacos at home too
Sometimes I use bison
Venison or pork, sometimes lamb
They all fall in love with the spices.

Chile and cumin shake out in patches
Color the meat and the onions
Maybe some peppers mixed in too
Then simmer all with tomatoes.

Chopsticks work for frying
Tortillas in some hot oil
Flip one then fold in half
From soft to crisp in minutes.

Grate the cheese on the plate
Piled next to the onions
Reserved in advance from browning
Toppings for the tacos.

 on: September 16, 2017, 11:40:59 PM 
Started by melanieroses - Last post by Massie
I like your poem John.

 on: September 16, 2017, 11:33:13 AM 
Started by Forrest Park - Last post by Forrest Park
I feel it on me like a tower of tiny people tugging at my eyes trying to see what's inside. Tension in rubberband jaws ready to snap at anytime. I hear my heart echo in the chambers of my hamster wheel thoughts. They spin me on a web of rollercoasters until I toss and topple to and fro with the stress of it all. The stress of consciousness. The smell of uncertainty fills the air like whispers during study hall in Hatcher Graduate Library. Those low lights on long wooden tables illuminating pale faces....faces that stress over some exam worth 50% of their final grade, but really only covers 1% of what can actually be used in the real world.

It all comes back to moments of vulnerability as a child, where the stress of bullying opened wounds and caused the stinging at the corners of my eyes. Teased tears that make their way down to my blue tank top. I violently wipe the rough cotton against my runny nose and keep jumping double dutch, trying to reach some unknown planet that will abduct me and take me away from the stress of being human.

 on: September 16, 2017, 04:07:14 AM 
Started by Chris Dudley - Last post by Chris Dudley
Tightening bones under the scalp
A whining behind the ears
Closing of vision down to a point
Like cobwebs making a hole.

Arms are jerky with shoulders so stiff
There’s a board bound between blades
Muscles clench over thin lunch
Digestion halted for now.

Heels tap as knees jerk
One knee then the other
Fist clench on in-turned arms
The body about to explode.

Mind is racing but going nowhere
Returning again in a rut
The bills are unpaid, money all gone
How will the kids get fed?

Turn of the mind in a tight circle
Turn to corners so blind
Turn and turn in anxiety
No answers can come in time.

 on: September 16, 2017, 03:54:12 AM 
Started by Chris Dudley - Last post by Chris Dudley
Straw hat on head, helmet against the sun
Woven to pass the breeze
Worn at the shelterless beach
Worn to protect the chrome dome.

Those helmets of tan are worn against the rain
A rain of shrapnel and bullets
Lined with kevlar, they’ve save a few
In the storm of death in the war.

This hat of straw, it keeps its shape
Keeps its shape for a year or two
Back to the garden store to find one more
The fit needs to try on quite a few.

Still the war goes on, the war does not end
We’re stuck in Afghanistan
Helmets of tan, lined with kevlar
Seen in windows of dusty humvees.

 on: September 14, 2017, 07:01:56 PM 
Started by Chris Dudley - Last post by Chris Dudley

Tottering on to the grave.

Better for a last line here? Does the rhyme feel forced?

 on: September 14, 2017, 06:35:31 AM 
Started by Chris Dudley - Last post by Chris Dudley
Count them in line
From den to circle
Always nine
So no one is lost.

Always count
Always ask
Did you remember
Your swimsuit.

Smell in the air
Cool of the lake
The shore
Out of the trees.

This is the break
Swim staff in charge
A time for
Shy flirting.

There are fish in the lake
Canoes on the shore
A far shore
To hold the gaze.

There’s a girl
You’ve seen in school
But now you talk
Talk about counting.

About counting kids
Kids in a line
Count each time
Each time you move.

You’ll count again
when the shoes
Are back on
Count to reclimb the hill.

 on: September 13, 2017, 12:03:42 PM 
Started by Chris Dudley - Last post by Chris Dudley
Sphinx riddle, three leg stool
Shuffle along, the one hand tool
Now it sprouts feet, now it has wheels
A two handed walker then a wheelchair.

Was it the balance, the protesting toes
The wobble feeling out of control?
Or was it the ankle, the shots of pain
At each halting stride, the soccer game?

It starts like that, the use of a stick
It’s not from a walk in the woods
The striding along and swinging the arms
A bough carried like Little John.

It starts like that, the wince or the wobble
The inconvenient infirmity
It starts like that and may go away
But the habit is starting to stay.

And so the sphinx asks about coming of age
It riddles on numbers of legs
Four then two then on three
The lasts steps wait lying in death.

 on: September 13, 2017, 04:13:40 AM 
Started by fndrbndr - Last post by fndrbndr
The feel of long, polished wood. The smell of old varnish. The dust trails left along the shaft. The fingerprints almost embedded in the handle after years of reliance. I can picture an old man leaning on this cane while slowly walking to the grocery store. I can almost hear the subtle groans of discomfort with each step, like the acknowledgement that without this bit of vertical assistance, there would be no walking at all. Sometimes a younger man might also carry a cane for very different purposes. A quick twist of the handle could produce a long shiny blade, fearsome to behold. The handle itself could also be a very capable blunt force weapon, if so deployed. The shaft of the cane can also inflict damage of its own. Anytime you see a younger man walking with a cane, you should pay attention and watch your P's and Q's. The sound of each assisted step across the hard wood floor, wood against wood, clap-trop-trop clap-trop-trop. The smell of moth balls in the air; you can almost taste them. The handle-shaped blisters on the right hand. They all have stories to tell. Was this guy a football player once, in much younger days when mobility challenges weren't even on the radar screen? What would he do differently today if the can was no longer required? Will I need one in the future, too? What would I do differently then? Could I make those positive changes now and proactively replace those years of regret? One can only wonder.

 on: September 12, 2017, 04:09:00 AM 
Started by Chris Dudley - Last post by Chris Dudley
Sticks and stones and hollow bones
Graveyard of the seabirds
Masted ships hold off the shore
Boats row for the guano.

The bones from generations lie
Among the shit stained masses
Of salty rock just off the coast
The strange dry of the desert.

Those hollow bones, the rigs of wings
The stays and masts for sailing
Upon the air over the wave
Dive on the flashing fish school.

Those hollow bones make a nest
Along with twigs and seaweed
The nest grows deep, now shovels sweep
The remnants into sackcloth.

A Hundred years, the ships still come
They come out to the islands
Scrape them clean, they come no more
Haber-bosch makes ammonia.

Pages: 1 ... 8 9 [10]