Child’s Play
from Metro
a Traveling Tales of Waybackwhen book
He was here before.
In another life
removed from the
hustle
and bustle of
making
ends, and beginnings
meet. Always
toeing the waterline
as it rises
rises
rises.
Castles in the sand, king
surveys his land
as the fortifications
lay bare, wasted,
washed up child’s play
sowing his wild oats
and beans and barley grow
but nothing
in this barren marsh.
based upon the photo
Dreaming of Sanibel
© Bruce Wallace
pacing ‘round the parking lot
still
with white snow
ball bearings
making their move
tracks
bearing the weight
that which
they were never meant
my back against the building
mirrors yours
against the door
grimy with
schmutz, and dust
this window’s
reflection
into a bitter, torn up soul
a shell of its former self
superheroic fortress
solitude, alongside Superman
robots, yet you
are no longer the hero
and one I could never be
so again I walk away
deep in thought, hands
deep in pockets
fiddling as I get my bearings
a worrying
balancing act
one forever alone
the other
Two-Step
from Homelands
a Traveling Tales of Waybackwhen book
What a tangled, mangled
web they weave
dancing
with the dewdrops,
mirroring universes
reflected
in each others’ eyes.
Hung up on the harangue,
breath catching
the sticky
sweaty stench
suffocating
beneath the spinning
twirls and dips
however harmless and halting.
Music
strums the heartstrings
and it triggers
something else…
primal
that which
needs to feed
waiting patiently
black widow
wearing white
hourglass
is but a mask.
Hot Pursuit
from Metro
a Traveling Tales of Waybackwhen book
The cold
does not bother him.
Etched into his bones
as the emptiness
resides there.
It has found
a home, to languish in.
It is where the heart is:
to have
and to hold
as it bleeds out
bridging fate and fiction.
What once
they shared
wrested between,
gate forever closing the gap.
Snow having fallen
flakes like teardrops
make their own tracks as well.
Ties and ballast
holding the rails
in place
his purpose
a shape.
Parallel lives
lines that will no longer
cross,
but that one
once he catches up.
Penned In
from Homelands
a Traveling Tales of Waybackwhen book
Cock-a-doodle
how do you do?
Rooster, fair weather
shaking his tail feathers
strutting his stuff
never enough
that comb on top
preening, scheming
non-stop.
Rudest of dudes
leads his brood.
“with a
cluck-cluck
here, and a
clack-clack
there, here a
cluck
there a
clack
everywhere a
cluck-clack
cluck-clack
cluck-clack
cluck-clack”
chicken run,
racing down the tracks.
Which came first?
The ‘lectric or the lights?
Boxcars, larders laden
gently laid in
a mistake to break
a few eggs for
omelets.
Yard bull
the big shake
seeing red
busting heads
toe-to-toe
with hobos.
All the while
the wily fox stalks
over in the henhouse
picking up chicks
yip-yapping
yadda-yadda-yadda
jaws flapping
gotta gotta gotta
Reds and oranges
joined the chorus
skish and crunch
listened to the leaves
beneath the feet
of those that
forge the forest floor.
Ogethan pondered on
his path marked out for him
map, yellowed
at the edges
like calendar pages
falling
as time went by
quicker
and quicker
with the dying light of day.
Sharpe, Garth Addison, Jones…
…Lynnae.
Cheery cherry
pit in his stomach, turned
grew dense
caught up in
lives of little sparrows
and breathed
chest,
too narrow
inhaled the crisp
cool air, breathed
out a sigh of relief
and his heart
fluttered
migrated farther
and farther
how much more the Lord cared for thee.
The flock of fifteen
or so, blue birds, Jays
across the field
and that of my vision.
In twos and threes
and struggling singles
making their way
to winter over
James Brown road way.
After the living room shake-up
the pleading fight
to watch
“just one more show.”
The brushing of the teeth
lasted less than I care for
gummies and two Batman phonics readers
the long I and U
sounding suspiciously
like a Bugs Bunny cartoon.
Say it with me now.
After the bedroom shake-up
the pleading fight
to read
“just one more story.”
The gnashing of the teeth
lasted longer than I care for.
After the noodle song
which was first composed
from the front seat
during the witching hour
(expertly timed to the latest breakdown)
a tune, incorporating
long vowels of its own,
yet never mentions noodles.
Say it with me now.
Nah, we’ll not go into that nonsense.
Then come the prayers,
say them with me now:
We pray for Harrison
We pray for Mommy
We pray for Daddy
And we pray for baby Ida Mae
We pray for all of Harrison’s friends
all of Mommy and Daddy’s friends
and all of Ida Mae’s friends
We pray for Grammy and Bop-Bob’s house
Poppy and Julie’s house
Gumpy and NiNi’s house
And we pray for our house at North Hall
Last comes the freestyles:
Heavenly Father, thank You for this day.
We especially pray for Mommy
for NiNi…
…and Gumpy.
Yes, Harrison, Gumpy, too.
…and the 3Ds
…and George
…and GiGi.
Think I”ve got just the poem!
EPIGRAPH PRESS is currently hosting an open call for submissions for our first issue, “Fazed.”
Submissions close Monday, October 1st at midnight (PST) with a projected release date in October 2018.
Faze: (v.) disturb or disconcert (someone).
What fazes you? We’re looking your darkest and most eclectic imagery, whether it’s Sharp Objects-esque or related to our current political state, in the forms of:
We are interested in submissions that are multidimensional and subvert the horror genre while humanizing our deepest fears.
We encourage:
DEADLINE TO SUBMIT: Send submissions for “Fazed” to epigraphpress@gmail.com by no later than midnight on Monday, October 1. We will respond to your submissions via email.
SUBMISSION GUIDELINES:
For poetry, please submit 1 – 3…
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