It's Still Life

The Myth of Planned Obsolescence Two plates are tapping. Tit.tit.titting against each other. I’ve loaded the dishwasher wrong. No, if it open it now, I’ll flood the floor. I hate those dishes anyway. They’re 40-years old, and refuse to break. Won’t even chip. Yeah, I know, they don’t make things like they used to. Damned…

  I. Tulip (rewritten) A tulip’s deep and echoed voice, a flower fountain, a red streaked revenge. It is a vanity, even in its own shadow. But such beauty drowns in rain. Once loved by spring, now dies away, carried off by a Narcissus glance. AprDay 22: A Plant   II. I watched a bee…

Tulip Tulip’s sweet and echoing voice. A flower. A cup. Red as revenge. It is a vanity, even in its own shadow. This beauty drowns in rain, once loved by spring, now dies away, as if carried off by Narcissus. Loves longings, deceived.   Day 21: AprPAD Danger and NaPoWriMo Narcissus It’s National Poetry Writing…

Auntie She drowned in a floral-scent bath, and we all went into nondisclosure. People drowned in the ocean all the time, sink like stone thrones in pools, but if you drowned in a bathtub, everyone’s full of questions that they won’t ask. They think pills or booze or both. It was both in her case.…

  The Limits There’s a gulf Between here and there. This town Is toughest at its limits, Hard as darkness, It ignores moonlight. The dogs howl out there. Don’t know why, and No one asks whether It’s rapture or despair. Dogs Mimic their owners, An ill-fated fang is reason enough Not to ask.   NaPoWriMo:…

(An Untitled Anti-Love Poem) There are times, when her voice grates, the way she speaks too true, to bruise, to lose her burdens on another, and no thought for someone’s time. Today I speedily walked on by.     AprPAD Day 17 Write a love and anti-love poem. This is fiction; I don’t know anyone…

I. On the Porch Last summer is caught on the barbs and wire, in the shadows of tumbled hay. The barn door’s slack, the hinge has drawn back, and up there the cat watches from the old wood beams. It plays with flies – all the mice have gone, and I drink my tea, and…

  Just Suppose That hurricane. It’s real. Lost in a traveller’s roam. What if, it was alive with a face etched haze-white, a beard stretched like the wind’s tail, and hair tangled like spun-sugar. And what if that hurricane was a child, a livid anger and wayward rejection. With a look. A slap. It would…