“Plague of Dragons”
the world opens up as a new monster
looms on the horizon, belching fire,
slaughtering victims without thought
to gender, creed, or age: the smallest
of the small, resistant to her older
brother’s charms, no longer spared
not content to massacre millions by breath alone,
she melts crematoriums whose iron frames soften,
run from the heat of so many bodies burned
in so few hours, days, weeks of death; chimneys
crack from overuse, appalling mockery that mimics
hospital beds buckling from the influx of live bodies
they strain to save and might despite their failures.
Parks no longer host festivals but burning pyres
that brighten twilight like bonfires left behind
by the wyrms’ warm feasting
or colossal candles lit in earth’s cathedral
for each of those extinguished lives, bright enough
to catch the eyes of the gods in their heavens
or the demons down below.
the beast that plagued last year seems tame
beside his younger sibling, the serpent virulent
exhaling flame who does not deign to spare
the lives of children.
Will she leap across the waters, span
the ocean, leave that far off land
to spread her curse upon
our slowly awakened shores?
Does she await our recovery
only to make her scourge more felt?
Thanks for stopping by my blog. If you’d like to read about the crafting of “Plague of Dragons,” check out my Patreon next week for a free technical breakdown of the poem.
I’m thrilled to announce I’ll be reading selections from my book, An Optimist’s Journal of the End of Days and Other Stories, at Barberton Library on Saturday, September 11th at 2pm! I will also be selling and signing copies of the book for those who are interested.
In the meantime, stay safe, stay well, and read often!
*inspired by the Indian variant of the Covid-19 virus.
“last year’s revels” the toddler rolls from bed, a ballerina princess excited for the special day ahead, anticipates her long-awaited party. strawberry-topped chocolate cake with a grape soda chaser, she’s fueled for festivity: rainbowed streamers wave above a table piled with gifts, sunshine yellow ribbon seals each shining gold wrapper, as storm clouds gather unheaded outside her window’s thin glass. she tears a first package apart, eager, greedy for its contents, frowns at the dimestore damsel’s impossible figure and painted smile, tosses her aside for another bright box’s glinting temptation, enchanted to find inside flint enough to fire her tinder home. caffeine-fueled and sugar-dosed, she blazes pirouette on tip-toes, ecstatic homage to firenadoes swirling flame outside her door. she watches in delight, her face crimson bright as a demon risen to scorch this mortal earth with hellfire. hay-colored landscapes wither, flames kindle the world: fireworks enough to entertain her swollen all-too-childish brain. she collapses, in a fit of giggles watches murder hornets bloom across the blood red sky. her joy indisputable on a face free from the thin cotton mask she refuses to wear. she knows these days are hallowed, these endless nights will last for years to come. exhausted from her revels, quietly she tears the Barbie’s bloodless arms; the doll’s blank eyes reflect nothing, the hollow chest holds her silent scream, her frozen face beaming an eternally vacant grin. #
Today’s poem was inspired by a prompt to write a poem personifying the last year. Many thanks to Diane Kendig and Cuyahoga County Library for their Read + Write Poetry daily postings, which included this prompt!
If you’d like to know more about the craft that went into this poem, next week I will be posting a poem dissection on my Patreon–which is free during the pandemic. Thank you for stopping by. Stay safe, stay well, and read often!
I hobble out of bed at daybreak
an Igor with dreams of being both doctor
and creation, waiting for just one spark,
juice enough to fuel that night's creation.
Excitement looms on this horizon
pregnant storm clouds heavy with rain,
whipped overhead by hurricane winds,
ready to strike, incite the dead to life.
Petrichor coats my tongue, fills my head,
lightning flashes, blue-white channels
blaze down these rods to these hands,
fire enough to burn, birthing this beating heart.
My blood boils, my eyes open.
*Thank you for visiting my writing blog. I hope you enjoyed the poem! If you’d like to read about its creation, I will be dissecting it next Friday on my Patreon.
If you would like to read more of my writing, I will be posting once a month (both here and on my Patreon) for the foreseeable future; I’m concentrating on my next poetry collection, as well as writing a novel.
In the meantime, Happy April--aka National Poetry Month!
i remember when i thought twice,
thrice, a dozen times moreover
whether to call myself writer,
a title hallowed in my heart
throughout my childhood years,
the ones who wrote the books
i devoured with my every free hour,
my escapes into worlds of make-believe,
my gateway to learning beyond
what adults prescribed for me
i’ve known too many writers
to be intimidated by the title,
known their kindness and generosity,
heard of others’ lack
lucky enough not to experience it myself
i remember when i hesitated
to call myself poet, the title
seemed too pretentious, too artistic
to apply to just anyone, like lumping Van Gogh
in with the man who graffitis the roadside
in the dead of night. but why not?
why should a canvas command more respect
than the underside of an overpass?
why should the verse of authors long gone
hold more esteem than the coffee house clique
reciting their rhymes in the meeting place
of modern minds? the old and new both live
i’ve known too many poets
to be awed just by the word
when their humanity alone humbles me
my own attempts to grasp each
abiding image, each emotion collaged
upon these pages like flowing script,
rivers of ink and electrons
imprinted upon our collective minds
with or without title, i’ll write
these words, this verse, hope
someday they will be read, felt,
imbued with life
words change form throughout time as organic
as a climbing vine growing with each age
titles are more specific, rigid like concrete
i call myself the words
the titles themselves unknown
“She Who Was the Helmet Maker's Once-Beautiful Wife" you didn't know what awaited you when you began the long trek to see your son bare feet and fallen arches old bones aching with miles of marching your final journey all for one more glimpse of your boy become a man why bare yourself for the artist's art? how much more could you have to give? the tragedy of your worn form outlives your mortality, the young girl you were forever trapped in iron gray. *Rodin’s model for She Who Was the Helmet Maker’s Once-Beautiful Wife was the mother of one of his male models. The photo I used reminded me of a younger version of Rodin’s model, since I was unable to obtain permission for an image of the original sculpture. You can find an image of Rodin’s masterpiece here.
What mask!? Oh, I have so many… Invisible.
Disposable. I Replace each time
the least uncomfortable Those eyes
I have more than I need given I rarely leave
I have different masks. One for work.
Another patriotic. I wear all at different times.
It depends on my mood hopeful
sometimes, painful other times,
but rarely removed
When customers, friends n family talk to me
about politics or the news
my face is my mask I put on when I'm depressed
I have playful ones but for my job,
disposable Funny not funny.
My private one simple and lovely.
I have so many, but mostly wear
my Edge of insanity
I have designed these masks
the ones I refuse to wear
hard to breathe
I have a lot of masks
but today it’s this one…
Standard but pretty on the front.
A smile, nod, wink that says everything’s just fine.
*Found Poem based on tweets found in this thread based on the question, “What’s your mask like?”
"Feline Dreams" --in memory of Winnie-cat the Milky Way empties itself of pure white light into the moon's shining bowl the cat stretches languid her body liquid smooth like moonbeams she reaches for silent and thirsting Her head dips into the cosmic saucer rough pink tongue darting in and out lapping up this lunar feast Luminosity fills her beneath each fluttering eyelid *Although this poem was inspired by a tweet, I’m posting and dedicating it to my sweet kitty, who died January 2nd. Rest in Peace, Winnie.
on the eve of my mother’s birth
and the swearing in of a new leader
last night i dreamed:
i came upon a strip mall
and stumbled upon the store
my father had built from scratch
all those years ago
i did not dare believe my eyes
though it seemed too real
not to be believed i ran
inside hoping for a glimpse
of the man that ruled my childhood
my hero who taught me chess
gave me his own bike to ride
today i thought i saw another gone
silhouette perched upon the windowsill
he died so long and yet not so long
i longed so to see his familiar face
i could not help but catch a glimpse
his bald(ing) head and bright brown eyes
today my mother opens chocolates
“her president” as her present
she says as each morsel melts washed
down with a cup of steaming Lady Grey
i couldn’t quite catch a glimpse of another
dear departed, gold fur and eyes brown
as warm caramel, i couldn’t quite help
but wonder what else dies and is born today
sometimes we need to coat our tongue with
warm sugar, sweeten our swallowed bitterness
is this a new beginning or another end?
**In my previous post I said I was going to resume regular scheduling in February, but since this poem is topical I decided to post it today. Normally I let poems sit between edits, but obviously that would not work for a timely posting, so (although edited) this poem is more raw than what I normally share.
My broken brain
lets memory fall through
the cracks, the fissures
of forgetfulness, crowded out
by newly made imaginings
Drunk on ink
I love to lose control
all sense of time
to the images,
the voices calling out to me
the words I’ve yet
to press into each page
Since today is Black Friday, traditionally the beginning of the holiday season, I thought I’d post something a little more lighthearted. Please, if you need to go out this weekend, be careful. Stay safe and well!
In the interest of Black Friday, I’m also offering
(while supplies last)
BLACK FRIDAY/CYBER SATURDAY ONLINE SPECIAL:
DIRECT FROM AUTHOR ONLY
my poetry collection, Soul Picked Clean
$12 $10 with free shipping within the Continental USA
my short story collection,
An Optimist’s Journal of the End of Days and Other Stories
$29.95 $25 with free shipping within the Continental USA
BOTH BOOKS for $30
with free shipping within the Continental USA
autographed upon request
*Don’t forget to include your mailing address in the PayPal note section, as well as any special instructions if you would like an autographed copy.
**Offer good only Friday, November 27-Saturday November 28th, 2020.
My books are also available through Amazon, although this special deal does not apply to Amazon purchases.
“A Short Series of
Haikus Falling Like Autumn
Leaves through Fading Sun”
Not the burning bush but
a flaming tree ignited
by God’s dying breath
Golden leaves outstretched
to capture sunlight within
this darkened tunnel
Trio of vultures
survey sunken waters from
their damned concrete perch
Deer peer from wooded
shadows, play hide and seek with
sleek metal killers
Bromfield’s ghost haunts
Malabar Farm’s gift shop from
within printed pulps
A roadside market
beckens with the promise
of great hanging gourds
The cliff’s deep beauty,
once its origin is known,
falls like a sharp drop
Daytime’s pattern strobes
across my retinas as
the highway unfolds
A wooly welcome
waits on our concrete driveway
worming its path home
Rhythmic heat beneath
cool sheets steam windows viewing
the summer’s last gasp
The above string of haikus was inspired by a family daytrip to Mohican State Park, with a series of stops along the way.