"There's not much doubt in any of our minds that no complete idea springs fully formed from our brow,
needing only a handshake and a signature on the contract to send it off into the world to make twenty-five billion dollars.
The germ of the idea grows slowly..." - Walt Kelly

Wednesday, April 11, 2012


Day 11: Write a poem using all five senses (and in my case, since it's Three Word Wednesday, the words draft, locate and serenity).

The air turns sudden around me.
It's there.
It isn't.
It's there.
It isn't.
It swirls and the hairs on my arm stand up,
at attention, a deep prickle rippling across my skin.
It settles and disappears, and the world sounds
missing - someone yanked the plug from the amp.

A deep serenity separates me from my surroundings,
but I'm on the wrong side of the line, the passenger
who missed his stop, now adrift in a sea of loss.
The taste is new, a sinister, too-sweet mixture that
makes a harsh blend with my swelling, drifting tears.

I can see this scene from the outside, as they often say,
an interloper, casual and blunt, looking in upon myself.
It's an empty place, this dorm room desk, callous and cold,
a place to rest your head as it descends through the aura,
cutting a path as cleanly as a samurai would, sword
tweaked and tuned like the finest musical instrument.

A draft of dry air sharpens the notes, and it smells of winter,
cool and with a twinge of firewood, long since burned -
curling through the scent receptors with an easy haste - 
to some a life and to others a pyre, steeped in tradition.
In it we locate our own, the one we've lost and cried over.

Playing on my iTunes at this very moment:
Emanon, The Words