Experiment

Miracle of the Dixie cup
Granny Smith green leaves two
Sprouting out of burnt umber
A child's care manifest
_________________________
This one almost feels like a haiku it's so short and choppy.

Marionette

I'm a puppet, baby, pinocchio

and the puppeteer's dropped the rod

the strings are tangled

and I"m the fly caught in this spider's web

I'd sever the ties

but it's not my choice

see, I'm a puppet

and the puppeteer's dropped the rod.

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I honestly have no idea where I was going with this one, though I think there's some good potential here.

Aspiration for aperture

Comfortable in bed, I begin to close my eyes

shutterspeed set to an hour.

My aperture's way too high.

It won't turn out,

but I'm trying to catch the last light

of a summer memory:

a glint of windswept copper,

the smiles of close friends,

an East Side campus afternoon.

Now: the first red leaves have fallen

and school's begun again

as daylight fades, so does this

a moment in the camera of my mind

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I remember this one was kind of about my friend Ashley. Or at least the idea she represented to me at the time. 

Alexipharmic (or, Now that's a little cynicism for you)

I pour my heart out like

a pitcher made of flesh

and it spills onto these pages

a stain made of ink, spread by word of mouth

I don't really mind

the mess,

the Chaos wrapped in bedlam inside disorder

or the push the woke shove

tipping an already wobbled Weeble.

It's the moth's effect

once the butterfly flies away

that damn resolution to talk it out

the make-up/break-up not quite donenesss

everything that goes into cleaning, goes into

cleansing the soul of hurt's dark humor

or the stubborn confetti of joy's party.

It's all the same:

a hangover from being punch-drunk on emotion

and in the end

it all winds up being bottled up again.

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This one was actually published in Emerald Ridge High School's literary arts magazine ascent (Vol.7, 2007) under the title "now that's a little cynicism for you". I have no idea why, though I think the retitle helps mitigate some of the misgivings I now have about the opening/closing lines.

Coloring Book

I'm such a rebel

and I'm only nine

Here I am sitting

drawing outside the line

 - for Sandy Lempka

To Kill With Kindness

Why aren't you dead?

I smile at you every day

I call you my friend

We share laughs

It doesn't work

No matter how much

I shower you with love

or cover you in hugs

you're still alive.

Maybe there's a better way

than to try to

kill with kindness

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And so, dear readers, we start in on a series of poems I wrote in high school.

Culicidae

Zzzzzzzzzzz--

the electric whine

of a tiny blood-sucking mother

ends abruptly,

halted by a hand

that stares down

at her crumpled body

with unexpected remorse.

Careful fingers

pluck her tiny form from the sheets,

examining her brittle frame

and wondering what pond or puddle

brought her life.

She’s silent now,

segmented limbs still twitching

with the release of calcium stores

or perhaps it’s dying thoughts

(if insects are capable of thoughts)

as her life flashes before her compound eyes.