dirt on the welcome mat

Monthly Archives: March 2011

Thoughts stretch

Until all color disappears

From their taut putty strings.

Only black and white

Answer bubbles bounce

In the brain,

Red herrings are sent

To the stomach

To flutter.


I give you a strong push from behind

When you fly toward my face

On your mood swing.

Kicking feet, tangled hair,

The metal chains squeak

As you soar higher,

But the rubber seat jerks

At the peak, mid-giggle.

Instantly your shrieks

Propel it backwards,

A playground twist of fate

You never outgrew.


Through words and stone immortalized,
These privileged lovers
And stubborn sons,
Surely thousands strong by now,
Puncture the earth
Like birthday candles on a cake,
Sticks of wax waiting to be melted
Just slightly by controversial heat
Then removed
From their sticky sweet platform
By eager,
Growing fingers
That fill their spaces
With newer,
Fresher faces
Plus one every year.


Simple and sweet

As a butterfly dance,

She floats along,

Barely brushing the ground

With her tiny toes,

Pink and soft as flower petals.

Stray silky wisps,

Like honeysuckle vines,

Escape the ribbon in her hair.

 


Rain boots and clover

fields,

Leprechauns and kites.

Aquamarine and birthday

cake,

Buttercups and hot air

balloon flights.


Yellow metal armored things,

Drivers trained

For frequent stops.

Rumble under heavy weights of

Swollen brains

And childish talk.


Colored lights

Wash each head,

Ignite every eye,

Tattoo bodies.

We all reach

For prophecy,

For empathy,

For A stronger beat

To pump our blood.


He makes a steady sound inside

Like a million computers

Whirring in a

Concrete room.

His veins form a

Steel infrastructure

Unconcerned

With pumping blood,

There’s no room anyway

For gray matter has invaded

Each cubicle of space

Oh so efficiently.


Riding in a locomotive,

Railway air submarine

At the bottom of the oxygen floor.

Smoky bubbles rise

To the top where they pop

Into white foamy clouds.

Barren tree branches

Stretch their seaweed limbs

Towards the mechanical intruder,

Barns and cars clustered

In colorful reefs

Leave riders gripping seat handles,

Wishing for nets to clutch

To capture brighter,

More fascinating worlds.


a silent space

hangs on a tightrope

between our chins.

it’s not empty,

just quiet

like the locked

medicine cabinet,

like the plastic storage bin

dusty in the attic,

like the black box

that survived the fire.