Coins Between Bed Sheets
A jingling between sheets
at 1am, 2am, 3am.
Coins caught in coverlets,
trapped to tink off each other
as the clock wears time thin
until pinks and oranges light eastern skies
and the alarm clock sounds trumpets for a new day.
Jousting in the Dark
Turning words in my head
like the pen between my fingers
or like switching the shoulder the lance rests on
just before meeting your opponent,
or is it more like pulling the polished sword from the sheath
in darkness
with nobody there?
Maybe it’s juggling those words
and dropping them on the ground
like a clown that hasn’t practiced enough,
but fortunately nobody is looking yet
as I
pen curly waves,
because that phrase isn’t quite right
and in front of a painted sunrise,
but that one’s kind of cliche.
Maybe hide and seek footprints
or is that one too ambiguous?
Words like moments are riddled with imperfections,
but isn’t that the beauty in the world?
Stepping on the Carousel
Arms through black waters,
a coldness that wasn’t there before,
a feeling of terror, sheer terror.
A store
and voices
and smells,
an exploded pouch
of art supplies all running together.
The concept of words not coming,
but the absence of voice bleeding
into the air in purples,
yellows
and greens.
Swirling clouds
and the sound of a bird
breaking the tangible silence
with squawks that are more words
or chirps that are more screams
or tweets almost human,
but are indecipherable
to my ears.
Black,
buried in warmth
my heart runs
but my body is very still…
a return to this darkness
greets me with an array of
happiness and disappointment,
but mostly heavy eyes.
Dumpster Fire Press 