Category: My Poetry & Fiction

(Poem #203 on new numbering scheme)

Mostly I'm just drawing lines
across a landscape of bones
which rest beneath the dry rains
of ash, covering my sins.

– an englyn proest dalgron
[daily log: walking, 1.5km]

(Poem #202 on new numbering scheme)

A series of explosions
on philosophical moons
changes orbits and begins
to undo people's notions.

– an englyn proest dalgron

(Poem #201 on new numbering scheme)

My friend, who is my reader, celebrates
his birth date. He's older.
Some old snow lurks like litter,
here and there, on the corner.

– an englyn unodl union.

(Poem #199 on new numbering scheme)

I'm plummeting through life: down...
Voices on all sides: a din...
Days end; days begin: each dawn...
Without purpose - but not done.

– an englyn proest dalgron

(Poem #198 on new numbering scheme)

On that first day, just one step
starts the world's making. Top-
down it goes, never to stop,
quantum nodes placed on a map.

– an englyn proest dalgron

(Poem #197 on new numbering scheme)

Weirdos are chanting by threes, and dancing,
Yelling at the pine trees.
From the north there wails a breeze,
So their madness starts to freeze.

– an englyn unodl union. This strikes me a more than a little bit Dylanesque – not that that’s an assertion of quality – it just has that feel to it.

(Poem #196 on new numbering scheme)

On the shelf I found a book.
I pulled it down, took a look.
But sadly, the words shook: no meaning;
foaming gobbledygook.

– an englyn unodl crwca
[daily log: walking, 1km]

(Poem #195 on new numbering scheme)

She'd heard the teacher's call, so she tried.
Her pride before her fall -
Orange letters - not so small -
she wrote her word on the wall.

– an englyn unodl union. This is about my student who said “no.”

(Poem #194 on new numbering scheme)

Laser-focused, I stumble
through my apathy, tremble,
wishing I were more nimble,
each step a kind of gamble.

– an englyn proest dalgron

(Poem #192 on new numbering scheme)

On a long trip on a bus,
from Temuco's rainy moss
to Santiago's vast mess,
I read a small, torn book. Thus,
because of Neruda's songs
there took root a vague longing.
my inner poet grew wings.
Although maybe I am wrong,
since, in fact, I still long failed
at becoming more controlled
in habit, till I was told
perhaps this blog could be filled.

– three englynion proest dalgron

(Poem #191 on new numbering scheme)

To let them languish, and use
them for nothing? Thus I chose.
See, the saddest spoons are those
that sleep, unloved. Is it wise?

– an englyn proest dalgron

(Poem #190 on new numbering scheme)

His oleaginousness
causes me to start to miss
the clarity of past gross
crimes done in name of the cross.

– an englyn proest dalgron

(Poem #189 on new numbering scheme)

White, red, black, and pale: masses
plunging among the grasses.
Hooves pound. There are four horses. You see them?
Now watch them join forces.

– an englyn unodl crwca

(Poem #187 on new numbering scheme)

That book about Malcolm X,
which I liked so much, connects
with a thing I read that talks
about love, which our world lacks.

– an englyn proest dalgron

(Poem #186 on new numbering scheme)

We look for ways to resist
entropy. We feel we must,
or else we risk at last
our own being being lost.

– an englyn proest dalgron

(Poem #185 on new numbering scheme)

Out between the apartments,
the kids spread their footprints
in the snow. At bat, he bunts;
the ball rolls; he slips; she taunts.

– an englyn proest dalgron

(Poem #184 on new numbering scheme)

The topology of clouds
conveys their unlikely needs.
Likewise, the feel of the words
in my mouth is changing moods.

– an englyn proest dalgron

(Poem #183 on new numbering scheme)

Like wet sand stuck in my mouth
the days bunch together with
broken rhythms and uncouth
echoes like stones off a path.

– an englyn proest dalgron
[daily log: walking, 1km]

(Poem #182 on new numbering scheme)

She gazes out from the past,
a queen or goddess, now lost.
Can we know better than dust
whether she maybe was missed?

– an englyn proest dalgron. This is about the Lady of Elche.

(Poem #181 on new numbering scheme)

I was finished with my brain.
It began to slow its spin
and spill out like a pale stain
from my skull into my phone.

– an englyn proest dalgron

(Poem #180 on new numbering scheme)

It was the near last twilight
of January. It let
fragments of cold and gold float
down, as if heaven forgot.

– an englyn proest dalgron

(Poem #179 on new numbering scheme)

Instead of snow, we got rain.
The streets outside are now clean.
The old snow's cleared and undone,
Snowflakes reduced to a line.

– an englyn proest dalgron

(Poem #178 on new numbering scheme)

The alligator was mad
'cause the rainbow monkey said,
"You're crazy and kinda bad!"
So he bit him on the head.

– an englyn proest dalgron

(Poem #177 on new numbering scheme)

The cold crawled along the ground,
creeping across without sound,
grasping at fragments it found, unfurling,
swirling slow, round and round.

– an englyn unodl crwca

(Poem #176 on new numbering scheme)

The monkey and the raven
contrived a fine plot, and then,
compelled by jealousy, ran
to steal the other beasts' fun.

– an englyn proest dalgron

(Poem #175 on new numbering scheme)

The sun had forsaken all,
having slipped down a deep well.
There were bad fish in that pool
that had stolen the sun's soul.

– an englyn proest dalgron

[daily log: walking 1km]

(Poem #174 on new numbering scheme)

It's so late... I stay awake.
Now and then, sleep fails to make
anything but a brief, fake appearance -
a short trance - no real break.

– an englyn unodl crwca

(Poem #173 on new numbering scheme)

I like snow in the winter,
but this dawn's fall seemed bitter,
like some song flung forth in fear
by a reluctant choir.

– an englyn proest dalgron

(Poem #172 on new numbering scheme)

The empty shell of the state, sold to fools;
its roads, rules, and dire fate
compiled for transition... wait...
no... as of now, it's too late.

– an englyn unodl union

(Poem #171 on new numbering scheme)

I write this on a small scrap
of paper, with a vague hope
that the words might develop
into a poem, then stop.

– an englyn proest dalgron