Monday, November 23, 2015

Robot dreams

do robots dream what
their purpose will be
if ever humans ceased
and fell into eternity
or does it even matter
in a robot mind
to have a reason
when working in line

instilled the order
of one zero zero one
never anything more
no laughter, no fun
in their creation
was made to release
the boredom of work
man's labor to decrease

what then can be said
of the creation of man
was it to decrease
the labor of creator's hand
to diminish demand
from the divinity rule
could man be thought
of as God's pack mule

can the same be said
for the reason of life
to lessen the burden
of God's own strife
for did man not instill
what man wanted not
when man first created
the purpose of the robot

Sunday, November 22, 2015

Silence of snow

pale sky and land converge
old lovers, they are
in a veil of displacement

a place once known
now hidden in white

soft, the world lays
in peace and still and cold

where passersby reveal
where they left and
where they long to go

a shuffle through the
shattered frozen rain
shaken from floating fleece

those sheep in the sky

and eternity is rolled
out into the distance
into the silence of snow

Thursday, November 19, 2015

Waiting for winter white

that orange and yellow
licks the fence in sunny
cold wind, the heart of
remnants beating against
the shadows stretching

whereas this time lingers
in those shadowy fingers

is it the leaving of life
to a solid slab underfoot
that lays linear squiggles
across lawns and up the
houses to their very eaves

whereas this time lingers
in those shadowy fingers

they long to hold what
now drizzles into the
black plastic bags or
heaps held in the back
of the house under tarps

whereas this time lingers
in those shadowy fingers

for all to come to halt
leaking liquid on the drive
clings to pavement in
bitter whistles as we
wait for the winter white

whereas this time lingers
in those shadowy fingers

Tuesday, November 10, 2015

Hell in

I broke a jar
she cut her hand
her skin so thin
those many years ago

and many years before
she spent her time in line
with chattering children
the echoes of odorous food
in commotion of feeding the masses
within four cafeteria walls

and then, when her work
was done, she didn't escape
the chatter of children
for I imposed upon her
and retired her rest

she had cartoons on
the basement television
while she microwaved
or whipped together a sandwich
for lunch, it wasn't much

a loud scream, abrupt banshee
sounded each time
she found me behind her
or simply coming up the stairs

frazzled the nerves
that shone from her tired eyes
and coiled out in the curls of her hair

thus the times she spontaneously
broke out in barks and whimpers
as though a dog waiting at the door
she got away with such behavior

for hell she might have been born into
a hell she may have lived in
she was a hell in

Friday, October 30, 2015

Among the stones

'twas the stone of a tomb
standing upright in the field
among the others standing tall

'twas simply a stone
looking back to the road
in the chilly eve of the Fall

couldn't have been
but the cast of a shadow
nothing else at all

couldn't have been
but merely an illusion
a trick to my eyes befall

there again it wasn't
quite the same color
as the rest of the sprawl

then again it didn't
reflect the sun as
the other stones in the Fall

pray, it also was
a shadow where there
wasn't a tree or a wall

pray, it was as well
a mist of a figure
its appearance its call

so perhaps it was
something other than stone
among the others standing tall

perhaps it might have been
something else entirely
looking back in the eve of the Fall

Worms and roots

they toil in the soil 
both the worms and the roots
the blood, the flesh
'tis their feast of choice
winding as laces through
a dead-man's boots

the force of death
courses through what's
underfoot to tempt
and snare with its
sparkling web

those drops of dew
that rain from shrouds
mournings of the past

shadows lap and savor
pools of tears and 
future fears, in frozen
tides they fall upon
their prey below

the viral sleep of the rotting
to devour us in
regrets, the birth of our deaths
tacking to the mire
trapping of desire the
whispers of worms and roots


how murderous one behaves
to become a refined digger of graves
knowing what earth to sink the spade
slicing through worms the metal blade

and what time to do the dig
when midnight wears its darkest wig
what depth to make the soiled bed
how to place the feet and tilt the head

then what lies to lay upon the hole
devouring the proof and bits of soul
to sweep the crime beneath the rug
this the reason the grave is dug

Friday, October 9, 2015

Paper birds

from the office window
take flight the paper birds
their pages of wings flutter
and shuffle through the breeze

up to the tallest branch
of the bending bundle of boughs
the paper birds soar and impale
themselves on the swaying hands

clutched and held so tight
the figuring of overdue debts
lap up the drops of night rains
and bleed onto the gold lawn below

ink stained tears into the mud
flows the words from 1948 year
when mom and pop shed their own
their tears now neither there nor here

and paper birds still roost there
weathered and plastered to their own
bleached and pure of words
the death and freedom of paper birds

Wednesday, October 7, 2015

Sight unseen

never wanted or
couldn't have turned
my head and glance away

so difficult to do
when there's no escape
from the sight unseen...
when bestowed the fly's
multifaceted pair of eyes

only one thing to do
when what isn't yet
or what's been again
grabs on to shoulders
whispers, shakes, then screams

they are the twinkles
that have traveled in time
in dark and cold and space
to show a figure drawn out
from dot to star to dot
penned upon cosmic sheets

they lurk in the ordinary
the everyday happenings
to be swallowed up unless
the sight's net plunges in
and pulls them safely
to digesting discernment

only then the pattern's path
unfolds the fern's bracket
in the warm Spring of view

only then are scriptures spared
and numbers flow freely
through the pollen laden air

never wanted or
couldn't have turned
away and missed the sight

Tuesday, October 6, 2015

Jargon jaunting: part dirt

spade spilled soil
clods, the clots
do glimmer glow
slug slathered slime
the creeping seeping creeps
feisty feasting fiends
yet halt the salt!
none at their tater table

damp dug dirt
rooms, the wombs
you excavate earth
for sown silent seed
the wriggly winding worms
favor tending friends
so weave the leaves
into their composting compote