Three Students in a Room

The quiet scratching of their pens

covered by the cool Icelandic

music washing mellifluously over their tired brains.

They lean steadily over futures,

working readily into responsibility.

Their hopes augmented by caffeine.

Three students in a room

strain tired eyes by lamp light,

regressing uncomfortably from playing.

untitled 7-25-10

The sounds of the city lightly play

while you lay, eyes closed and groggy head,

and listen to the mix

of digital and analog,

the virtual and substantial.

It's a lazy summer day

and Eliot's rhythms dominate your brain.

There are things to do,

but the heat muddles your mental cues.

You think you may, in fact, achieve

but we all know you'll only fall asleep

half-naked on your golden fleece.

It was a good attempt at least.

silent

save the tantalizing soft crunch

of my feet on lightly packed on snow,

and the ethereal whispering of freight

through the white-tipped trees

silent

but for my thoughts racing

like the flurries of crystal

dusting the black of my jacket

silent

save the fluttering of my heart

and the gentle gracings of my breath

Grand Tianguis

it was cold outside.

The type of cold

that three layers of protection

couldn't prevent.

We emptied boxes

until the empty

ones spanned the

fifteen feet of stairs.

Useless in ability to oraganize

I was ostracized

to network a computer alone.

Andres wore a blue North Face.

While he sat with me,

ability couldn't compare

to need for connection.

the drive home

billows of mist

from the semi-truck fly

into the windshield

while I drive.

the clouds are etchings

in a baby-blue sky.

that one is a wisp,

a floating butterfly.

Adison

there he is sitting

there in the curve

of his school desk chair.

gray as the shade

of his AE sweater,

my hands want

to have all he has.

more, I want to feel

everything he is.

The first days of Autumn

It's cold.

An autumnal breeze cuts through my gray sweater

to chill my bones in spite of their fleshy protection.

There's moisture in the air.

I feel it as pin-pricks on the bare skin of my face.

I came outside to sit for the cold-

to feel the cold.

My empty emotions exuding

what nature is producing,

its frost a reflection of my

jaded thoughts.

I used to feel empathetically-

the warmth of a summer's kiss extended

to others in an understanding of connectivity.

I lost that feeling.

Blown out by the gale that this Fall

is beginning to produce regularly.

Pelting drops- large heavy doses

of cruelty lofted in the direction

of those around me.

Do not surround me.

For I will feel what you feel

but I want only to know my pain.

It is too soon to feel guilty for

speaking as an ass to you.

Too soon to feel happy for

rays of sun after autumnal gloom.

raindrops glisten on the window

there is no denying the power of poetry,

but i have lost the ability to write.

raindrops skirt the windowpanes i look through

at the nightlight of omaha's skyline.

the trees bow to an unexpected breeze

that could only be the result of a transaction.

my sleep for your ability to think-

i would gladly participate in that exchange

if somehow my sleep gave back

the ability to harness emotions.

if somehow i could feel light

tickling the grass of a dew drop morning.

sometimes the only way not to lose a poem is to publish it. I guess this means that I should update again. Has anyone missed me?

-PM

It's raining. Pitter-patter

It’s raining.

Sinister assaults on first semester classes,

the drops fall on red bricks.

I sit outside my dorm.

Excuse me, resident hall.

The puddles form in a forward moving

motion that the thought of

administration cannot match.

And I watch.

I watch as freshmen, sophomores, juniors, seniors

all move to solicitous classes,

each in a manner suggesting superiority…

worth. As if each is indeed worthwhile.

The classes, not the people.

The people who step in my puddles,

shattering the serenity of their surfaces.

And the drops hit me

And their feet pitter-patter

And the rain splashes free,

reminding my ruined reflection

that I’m just pitter-patter,

empty chatter.

black bird

a flock of black birds in cramped campus trees

singing as night gracefully takes her leave

is this what the Beattles meant?

the black birds fly off into the morning sun