post-apocalyptic

Two-Step

| Jared A. Conti

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.

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Hot Pursuit

| Jared A. Conti

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

| Jared A. Conti

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

Autumn Retreat

| Jared A. Conti

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.

A walk in the park

| Jared A. Conti

Witch’s familiar

unlucky

black

cat in the hat

pushed from its perch

with a squeak and a lurch

giving Barry the evil eye

curses

a hiss, unmissed

amid circles

that speak in creaks

stifling ciphers

toeing translations

in shifting sand.

He sniggers

as the pounce

send the beasts bleating

retreating

in their sheepish ways

turning tail

leaving trails

droppings, like breadcrumbs

led ‘em.

Fairest

| Jared A. Conti

The mirror’s glamour

gloomy shade

reflected not

what he thought:

 

the sleep on the road, on the run

prisons of papier-mâché

monsters of men, martyrs

wearing crowns of thorns.

While the tales have all been told,

and the lies

behind the eyes, as

crow’s feet peck and hop

and four and twenty black birds

murmur across

dark waters

and oft-forgotten woods

where dreams once dwelt.

Cauldrons scald of stone soup

made with love by

those Bremen Town magicians

visions of beasts, eat

and as they feast, their eyes

on the throne of bones

dragged away by their own

evil desire and enticed

their animal natures, rut, rote

reign forever in this world

atop a hill of beans.

 

He forgets his face

until the next time he looks,

gazing at the grays

that weren’t there last time.

Homecoming

| Jared A. Conti

This predilection

to malediction

diseases, such as these, if it pleases:

mad cow

hog cough

chickensick

 

bold wives tales

in old folks’ tomes

three, the number

of your destiny.

wishes, fishes,

cowboy creamer

spoons and dishes.

 

the prophecy

naught but a fallacy

whispered in the wings

over moonshine

and dandelion wine

in our cups

under the table.

 

the forest council

all but forgotten

spun from straw

the golden fleece

fooled, pulled

the wool over our eyes

thrown

to the wolves in sheep’s clothing

PYRE

| Jared A. Conti

‘tis only right,

but we ain’t got time

for a proper burial.

 

Even a cairn

of unbridled possibility

stacking up to cover up

bodies

we pray you’ll never have to see.

 

We don’t want no animals

poking ‘round the remains.

The scent of fresh blood on the air

will drive ‘em down the valley

…and we want to be long gone by the time they get here. 

WORTH

| Jared A. Conti

shuttled through the tunnels

like so much spoiled meat

snuffling and a’snarling

this beast upon two feet

 

Minotaurian presence

half-man, the body shared

double the size of mere mortals

if anyone dared care

 

he had no strings to tie him down

or keep him on the path

this city was a festering sore

‘twas dim, and dank, and daft

 

it was another of their tests

the smarmy, grim cabal

gave no twine or map, no lights down here

as he felt along tepid tiled walls

 

cast about into the depths

naught much more than thoughts

how it was he got this far

how much he had lost

 

find his way somehow, he would

these subways built to last

also ran quite systematic

he’d be out before much time had passed