torn from a glance

 stalking calendar myths,
may to december--
 the night sky spills like
a horseshoe losing its luck,
leaving a trail of candescent garbage
spread across the bowing wheat;

enough to follow,
just enough to find
until the words come like they were supposed to
the first time


as summer flips the last few rays of sun
like a butter-gold coin,
to decide each day whether to make the moment
last

until what came of late winter
is woven back
into the shirt that clings to bone too much (more)
every year

and my wayside wonder bites her thumb
before holding it to the sky,
courting the indecision
we threw away,
neglected in the fumble to make lips mean more
than spitting poetry into the breeze.

--
Word prompts: cotton, horseshoe, predator, kingdom

curled into the wall

curled into the wall,
a moment of complete distraction--
she watched the window break;
a shatter spread across the floor
met the dark stain of her calves,
as footfalls play
connect-the-dots
for the official story.

my patience slipped

my patience slipped like a summer day
without a hint of breeze

future

words written, held
especially in my hands
as more than just the universe
pours forth
without a reservoir of any consistency

but when the sun strikes the water
just right,
enough to melt this cultured ice,
and the shooting stars above
can bring the night reflection
and break this lonely mirror glass--
a shuddering wave,
the turning page,
brings this lifeblood back to my skin
enough to sink, to drown
or simply
dive in.

--
I drew a picture for this one as well. It was a fun concept I'd like to revisit with more skill, if I ever get that skill, since I so rarely practice.

extraction

causes I placed myself in, unwanted,
adding another burdened mind to a swarm
still not sure what it looks to find
behind the chants and lazy dreams of better days;
and it's always the case that the deepest pain
comes from knowing you are the rot in the tooth
that needs to be dug out,
and having the nerve
to do it yourself.


--
Not about the Occupy movement. Not about anything, really. Trying to get back into poetry, dreck or not.

bat

up to bat, all dirty knees and dusty shoes,
traveling the streets that brought the fog rolling gently in
at a dead run, bad pun
but better than splitting the thick grey cloud
with flutter of misplaced wings.

--
Bats--baseball term, vampires: I'm so original. Oh well.

latter

seeing the world through a camera lens,
where the eyes can easily take a silhouette
and lend it more than mere shape;
in florescent light that neither seems too dim, nor yellow,
no warmth on skin from accustomed unnatural glow.

--

rather than title, inspired more by this picture, taken this morning as dawn broke through my dirty window, and the contrast between what my camera and my eyes could see: