Semicolon
He slows;
she passes
He grins;
she blushes.
Wink
wink.
(The other 12 poems in the Punctuation Poems series have been accepted for publication by Cricket Magazine Group, USA. The editor thought Semicolon "too oblique". Perhaps it is.)
riddle poem 1
As ideas flow
the shorter I grow:
What I put
is what you know.
One day, I fear
I’ll disappear
a tiny stump
a carbon lump.
I’m rescued when I finally see
these words you write are always me
transformed into another shape
I am the lines your mind can make.
(If you are stuck on this one send us an email. Riddle verse is frequently doggerel. However it shares with its more pretentious cousin, poetry, the frequent use of metaphor. There is a collection of Classic Riddles on this site.)
Hole
Down spade in and up spade out,
flinging all the dirt about.
Down spade in, and up spade worms,
among the roots of grass they squirm.
Down spade in and up spade shoe,
mouldy, mangled and unglued.
Down spade in and up spade bone,
one that to the dog was thrown.
Down spade in and up spade sand,
soft and sinky sort of land.
Down spade in and up spade clay,
that’s never seen the light of day.
Down spade in and up spade shock,
my shovel just solid rock.
Down spade in and up spade fossil,
imprint of a Rex colossal.
Down spade in and up comes water,
(After this its getting hotter.)
Down spade in and streaming lava
for a volcano in Java.
Down spade in, I’m at the centre -
toasty spot to spend the winter.
Then all the layers come round once more
as I shovel past the core:
Lava, water, fossil, rock,
clay, sand, bone and shoe.
The worms of course are waiting too.
Down spade in and up I come
All grubby in the China sun.
Sink Feeling
At sink I reach to turn the tap
my routine stance
with loud harangue by cat.
As frozen meat ball slips the tray,
new sun alights the awakened bay,
in far sheet glistening
bright, bird silence listening,
and I once more the expansive vista drink
from work day posture at the sink.
The microwave be-beeps the unfrozen meat
my carnivore cries out to eat.
Reveries
morning
On a dusty street, dry sun
aslant a warehouse floor
where crinkled motes
hover in a long white shaft
and deep in the dim within
a small boy holds his father's hand.
There round manila barrels
stacked rim to rim with
whiff of spice in the stillness,
cinnamon, cardamom, cloves
dust of paradise.
noon
The tall stool has a soft bulge
edged with wide chrome
screw heads a pattern of bumps
under his fingers, legs dangle and
round seat spins at the health food counter.
One final revolution ends at
a large fluted glass of carrot juice
with froth of foam to make an orange mustache.
night
He lies across the back seat
feels the motion, the highway dark sky
gaudy neon constellations
a big dipper lager empties light by light
and instantly refills.
There the long tail comet trucks
rocket past emitting gravitational sound suck
strung along orbits, ribbons arcing
far into the night.
All poems copyright © Steve Isham