Tag: Literature

The High Lakes

The high lakes, frozen, clear, Distort reflections of the mountain.   Old men with trekking poles Filter through the forest.   All with some form of Achilles And Homeric hunger pangs.   Drawn to recite soliloquies To the unmoving cold.   Return to the…

Mary Shelley

Remnants of the past…embedded. Curled inside chalky lava flows Stuck to a shape…ripples in stone. Only elements change its appearance.   I and everything wait for the rain. The parched flowers and grasses Fragile skin, stalks, browns and beiges. Bloomed full, so easily, last…

My Father’s Mouse

—-“Is it her singing that enchants us or is it not rather the solemn stillness enclosing her frail little voice?” -Franz Kafka I know the place he visits…those melodies. Songs like children that make sure you never forget your heart. I’ve tangled with them,…

Emily Dickinson’s Refrigerator

‘Twas the vinegar that tippeth Toward the leftover quiche Oh, lonely empty bottle, recycler boon When sun meets to kiss moon— And mustard, your yellows bold A bit old, but still at play— Mummified lime, plastic lined Awaits blessed water of the fizzy kind—…

Receiving a Fine In a Station of the Metro

The apparition of these fare inspectors in the crowd; Donuts with icing, cream filled full.    

T.S. Eliot Bumps Into A Second Person

    The voiceless have built a city within this city, structures embedded within the grid, pulled together by patchwork—cloth, tent, sawdust floor and plastic sheet. You’re there, measuring your life in coffee spoons, on that same street, right next to them. You see…

Frankenstein

We think the river a wild beast, amok, tilling a path in soil. But it’s us—in another form, searching for a mate who can only be made in our own image.   We slow the stream, to a reservoir’s pulse, in hope to drink…

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