Happy World Poetry Day 2016!
I decided to write a poem in homage to the bard himself.
What Horatio Saw
I hear it crawling in the distance–
fog so dense, my throat gets wet.
I join my friends upon the battlement
to see the unseen they’ve twice met.
They beseech me, Bernardo and Marcellus,
to join them in these dark minutes,
to accept waking beliefs they’ve stretched–
pushing their reason to its limits.
It was just a cloud mixed with a shadow,
surely, could not have been more than that– Continue reading
Just because it’s sometimes used incorrectly, doesn’t mean its advancement is a bad thing. A terza rima poem defending technology.
In the future we’ll all be connected
And our days and our nights will wash over
Like lights that somehow feel disconnected;
Then every intellectual rover
Will be forced to find a den without plugs–
Searching concrete for a four-leaf clover.
Momentous advancement will feel like slugs
People often hinge their writing duties on waiting for inspiration to click. I know I do. Really, it’s just another form of procrastination. Sometimes (most times) inspiration doesn’t hit until you have the first word down, that’s the real hurdle.
While it’s actually the second word in this poem, the first word that came to my mind was “crimson”. Weather, war, romance, regret — funny how they can all be connected so easily to that word.
Also, my fantasy mind got the better of me and I wrote “gnoll” instead of knoll. A shaved gnoll isn’t a bad image, though.
Bullets and a Rose
What crimson clouds careen across the shorned [knoll]
and spill their shades to transform the hue–
What dastardly mind could look on such a sight
and not see at least a foreign shape or two. Continue reading
Ichor-black streams pooling
on either side of the poor
cinder block basin–
two rivers diverged in the gloom
The flipped-switch automaton-voice
drawls over Continue reading
This is a very short story I wrote years and years ago for an assignment in University. I think it was supposed to be a study on crafting a story through dialogue. It’s nothing special and relatively cliché, but I enjoyed toying with the crime/quasi-hardboiled genre.
Smoke encircled his head, a drunken thought balloon from a comic book, as he dabbed away the last surviving ash of his cigarette. Reemus was worn out and lethargic, but obviously that didn’t account for his superiors. Sitting in the precinct office, it had just skimmed past nine o’clock in the evening and he was staring at the phone. He was hoping for a ring to interrupt his Lieutenant who stood over his desk, howling in raspy anger.
“You’d better get your act together quick, detective. Any more of this shit and it’ll make the papers. Headlines make me look bad and when I look bad, the city does too. And when that happens, I’ll be out of a job…then who knows what the commissioner will do to your sorry ass!”
Reemus smirked sharply. “Uh huh,” he acknowledged, leaning back in his chair to take one long drag from a newly lit cigarette.
“Uh huh is right. Now get down to the west end, there’s another mess to check out.” The lieutenant walked away in a flurry. Continue reading
Would that I could
ignite the seven seas and sail
a breadth of ocean fire
hitherto the mind-scream of
To have my life’s sails croak
and billow in the Continue reading
And slowly we are all victims.
These reticent minds
of callow choices
and poorly built
arguments of straw.
The wind is coming.
We never Continue reading