A Crime Against Nature

Ghosts of amputees march silently on this hallowed land
They stalk through dew-kissed grass
Looking for lost causes
Midst the muted cannon's roar
Their charred limbs clutch the reeds
Unable to break them again,
For the fields have begun
to bear fruit once more.

While the angry spirits attempt their destruction in haste
The physical world shouts to them,
"Go back to your graves."
The earth is eager to swallow their momentary bodies
and to the refreshed soil
they all taste the same.

the following was written for Jingle's Poetry Potluck.

Your Audience

The prompt of "nighttime" from Poet's United brings me to create the following:

Somewhere between the neon lights

of your dreams of success

and the cold expanse of time,

I exist.

If I seem to blend in

with the moon and the stars

it is only because

I'm too far away to come into focus

properly.

The florescent bulbs hum your name

and the waves lap at your toes.

I applaud from my spot in the sky,

one among millions

eager for your show.

We don't even recognize

that the landscape trips us all up,

tricking me into thinking

that we are all part of the

same scene.

The tide is pulled back

away from you

towards me

and your exposed toes dry

all too quickly.

The Great Game

the following is written for Magpie Tales, because i needed to go somewhere in my head today and they suggested an intriguing place....

O to be a Titan!

Emanating strength and power and reserve

Fly rhythmically above the earth

and in silent motion stir the heavens

I would carry the world in my arms

daring the others to play "keep away"

with the luscious blue orb

tucked safely in my grip

A fluid struggle would ensue

The other Titans chasing me

Reaching, straining rock-like muscles

Circle in merry-go-round fashion

O to be a Titan!

Emanating stealth and speed and cunning

You would turn a blasphemous face from me

you tiny, tiny man

imperfections

Freedom is to know what is good for my soul
             and be able to take it
Freedom is to know what is not good for my soul
             and be able to take it, too
Freedom is to having to tell you everything
              Freedom is not having to explain myself, too
Freedom means being allowed to argue my point of view
              Freedom means i can argue yours, too
Freedom says i can walk away whenever i want
               Freedom says i can stay indefinitely, too
Freedom is turning around midstream
               Freedom is staying the course, too
Freedom is not liking the flow and sound of this poem
              and putting it out there, too


okay this is for Poets United ("freedom" was this week's topic) and im not proud of this one because i want to sit a while longer and tweek it.  i am forcing myself to let it be imperfect--however much it sounds like nails on a chalkboard.  i am running late.  rather than coming back to finish it, i will let it be what it is.  ah, freedom!