The Sunday Poem

Every Sunday I post an original poem.

  • The Sunday Poem: Since the Zombies Came

    Hours Categories The Sunday Poem
    Comments 2 Comments

    Between Left 4 Dead, and The Last Guy, I think something got into my head. 😉

    Since the Zombies Came

    Since the zombies came, you can’t get decent sushi;
    Zombie sludge, it spoils fish like nothing doing.
    And all the second hand stores, they had to close up shop…
    Stains just don’t wash out the way they used to, do they?

    Stuff that’s better – well, the horror flicks, of course. Duh.
    Extras just show up. And don’t need paid, or credit.
    Watch at home, though! Darkened cineplexes…
    Real bad news. Though crowds are thinner at the malls now.

    ‘Sides, the zombies, mostly peaceful, right? Like yoga,
    Tai chi, meditation, all that shit. OMMMM, then
    Nom nom BRAAAIIIINS. They mostly stand and stare in corners
    Seeing into places we cannot with jelly

    Eyes and dreaming of the sushi and the clothes, the
    Pay and credit, ordinary hungers (BRAAAIIIINS), good
    Posture, faces still intact, more moods than one… sad.
    Pity them; resent them, for the sushi’s sake.

    Worse? It could be worse, sure. Aliens are worse, right?
    Zombies get you, BRAAAIIIINS, you’re dead, undead, whatever.
    Aliens, you live on screaming, tentacles in
    Awkward places, slaved. I’d rather eat my friends, thanks.

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  • The Sunday Poem/Song in progress: The Road II

    Hours Categories Music, The Sunday Poem
    Comments 3 Comments

    Once you know the shape of the passage, and just how rough the road,
    You’d think that it would be easier, but it’s still so hard to go.

    We always have to part at the doorway, as I put on my shoes;
    You give me a jacket and that wistful smile, and say “Careful out there, silly goose.”

    Maybe the issue is the things that I can see that are left behind;
    There are parts of me you’re keeping close, and parts of me lost to time.

    There are boxes full of our old aspirations, and that one there holds our youth,
    There’s crazy music coming from that one — and that one used to have truth.

    When there are bridges to cross that sway in the wind, and adventure at every turn,
    Wild jungles full of mystery and so many new things to learn,

    I always mention that you could come, but you just always shake your head:
    “Too much to do here at home, someone has to make the bed…”

    But do these shelves hold all of the meaning?
    If the dust is blown off, can we fly with the sun?

    Or do these these pages sit here, quiet,
    until all of the sun setting is done?

    I try to remember to bring back a gift, from all those foreign climes
    But somehow most of them are dust, even if I get them home in time.

    “I swear, this was gold, that was precious diamond, and this one here was fragrant wine…”
    But you brush them aside with relief in your eyes, and choose instead to hold me tight.

    You say you know the shape of the passage, and just how rough the road.
    You act like it should be easy for you now, but it’s still so hard to let go.

  • The Sunday Poem: From Kabul to Kandahar

    Hours Categories The Sunday Poem
    Comments 1 Comment

    …The highway between Kabul and Kandahar was supposed to be a success story. Completed in 2003, it has instead become a symbol of all that plagues Afghanistan: insecurity, corruption and the radical Islamic insurgency that feeds off both.

    —Aryn Baker, Time Magazine, Oct 31, 2008

    “This is my road,” Saboor says: a dust
    Track gone the long way through the desert rocks.

    He drives the bus, two times a week, trusting
    Life and face to dirt he smears across

    His lips, a beard to baffle Taliban.
    He wears mechanic’s clothes: a claim the road

    Then makes on him, a thieving in the sand,
    The way last week the robbers burst and stole

    The crates with chickens, goats a-leash, the wealth
    That masquerades as dirt itself, the greens.

    I ask him, does he fear insurgent’s stealth,
    The bark of guns, the bullet’s code, the dream,

    When east Sarobi’s tea shops dish fruit cold and sweet,
    Pomegranates, porcelain plates, nuts and honey treats,
    The scent of lamb in stew, the simmering of the meat –

    He shrugs. Stolid, fleet. He says, “This is my road.”
    It is a dust track where the accent makes the meaning.

  • The Sunday Poem: Departures

    Hours Categories The Sunday Poem
    Comments 1 Comment

    Life is made of departures:
    The passage from the dark
    The moment of weaning’s sharp
    Longing, frantic gestures.

    Balloons slipping out of hands.
    A dog’s last stiff-legged sleep.
    Kisses in a closet, the deep
    Fear there, the moments grand.

    The move from maiden name
    And the way she feels once
    Delivered. A man who hunts
    Regrets, and finds just blame.

    Life is made of departures
    And occasional desperate returns

  • The Sunday Poem: Watching a Play

    Hours Categories The Sunday Poem
    Comments 1 Comment

    From afar, the patchwork paisleys, tights
    and robes, gaudy gowns
    a glitter, the ladies

    all a carnival, a sumptuous play, riches
    on display until full light
    hits her full force and then we see

    the sawdust backgrounds, painted bright
    to eye fool eyefulls, add horizons,
    set the stages

    gap between surreal, unreal, and real
    and really, do they know
    the way they fool us themselves?

    and then the way the light hits
    their saddened eyes
    the lacework lashes

    such pride in paisley promises
    stony pride
    in teetering at proscenium’s gap

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