Poetry/Prose

You Would Have Been Lions

photo credit: mine

photo credit: mine


Cubs

What can I say?

When I can’t lick you

I know

You would have been lions

My mind is part of nature herself

All twisted and dressed

In cement

And male ambition

My mind is part of that nature too

And it got made up

Still, I want to lick you

Cubs

Both of you

You are still here

You would have been here

You will be here

And yet

You would have been lions

Cubs

Everywhere

Every moment

Every chance

I think of you

You are still here

You would have been here

You will be here

And when you are

I will never let you out of my life

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Art, Poetry/Prose

Weatherman

Photo credit: Flickr, Vivienne Gucwa, "New York City Rain and Wet Sidewalks"

Photo credit: Flickr, Vivienne Gucwa, “New York City Rain and Wet Sidewalks”

Skinny lace lost

This must be the place

We took a look together

And a mirror looked back

He was commenting

But we were deaf

Draped over a book

Craning from a bed

In an adjacent room

He looked at us

Looked through us

Looked at the book

Looked at the wall

We were trying to be alone

Trying so hard that he vanished

I wanted to go for a walk

You wanted to stay indoors

Raining on rear windows

A checkerboard of city night

People’s lives

Vignettes

Slices of drama

The pieces moved

The spattered pavement witnessed

I wanted to go for a walk

You wanted to stay indoors

Weather systems

Sheltered lives

Lives lived

I looked nowhere

Saying somehow

Let’s not argue

Subtle surrender

Skinny lace found

You got the umbrella

Indoor-outdoor

Together

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Art, Poetry/Prose

Visual prompt exercise: Dubai Metro Stop Interior

dubaimetrostop

Photo/art credit–mine

Did her feet ever touch the stairs?

City life. Pure flight. Ethereal.

A high-speed chase–Houdini’s escape, from nobody, from nothing, but the time he never will.

In no language, in no words, she heard a sharp announcement “it’s 3:03.”

It continued:

“That thing is automatic; it spits you out, like coins along the tracks.”

“But I’m not a coin!” she howled.

Inspired by deafening traffic.

Her inner poet laughed:

“What are any of us doing here? Funneled from place to place, tower to tower–spanked by the hand, that sweeps the marks, between the hours.”

 

 

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