Sometimes, a plane will fly overhead but it will be very low. I am always concerned for these planes, because it happens rarely enough that I fear they are either off course for Detroit, or they think they are much closer and it is time to land soon. I'm sure there is some actual explanation, but that actually means nothing to me, because I like my thoughts best.
---
The other day, I wrote poems for
nikitangel and what was supposed to be a silly little thing turned out to be a) three poems which can be read together as one and b) something I quite like. I'm shocked.
There are bones in the stones
and monsters in the closet.
They creep up from the carpet fibers
spewing tiny nits
and their fangs catch on your fingers and toes.
They nibbled away at her flesh while she slept
until she was muscle and
then sinew, then
just bone.
Her hair creeps up from the drains
in the shower and the sinks
and floats
in the dishwater
her face just beneath the surface.
The wind shakes the house
knocks the windows in their frames
and you can hear her
words rattling against her skull
her song dragging you into sleep
so they can nibble at your toes
and your fingers
and eat away your flesh.
Werewolves stalk the neighborhood,
silent only under the ripe swell of the full moon.
All the other nights they howl,
right outside the window,
their claws against the glass
teeth snapping just so.
If you turn to look,
they are shadow,
the glint of light off the tip of a fang,
but out of the corner of your eye
you can see them pass
and feel the hot puff of air against your cheek.
Werewolves haunt the neighborhood
and peace comes but once every four weeks.
Walls, too dark, devour
television shows, movies
entertainment fails
The stanza breaks are actually where each poem split. That last one was supposed to be a very rough-and-tumble haiku (I didn't even bother to really count, which is pretty important to a haiku), but it still fits into the overall poem.
It needs a title, and some work, but for a rough draft of a poem (which was supposed to be a throw-away thing anyway), I like it. Rebecca brings out the writing-on-demand side of me.
---
The other day, I wrote poems for
nikitangel and what was supposed to be a silly little thing turned out to be a) three poems which can be read together as one and b) something I quite like. I'm shocked.There are bones in the stones
and monsters in the closet.
They creep up from the carpet fibers
spewing tiny nits
and their fangs catch on your fingers and toes.
They nibbled away at her flesh while she slept
until she was muscle and
then sinew, then
just bone.
Her hair creeps up from the drains
in the shower and the sinks
and floats
in the dishwater
her face just beneath the surface.
The wind shakes the house
knocks the windows in their frames
and you can hear her
words rattling against her skull
her song dragging you into sleep
so they can nibble at your toes
and your fingers
and eat away your flesh.
Werewolves stalk the neighborhood,
silent only under the ripe swell of the full moon.
All the other nights they howl,
right outside the window,
their claws against the glass
teeth snapping just so.
If you turn to look,
they are shadow,
the glint of light off the tip of a fang,
but out of the corner of your eye
you can see them pass
and feel the hot puff of air against your cheek.
Werewolves haunt the neighborhood
and peace comes but once every four weeks.
Walls, too dark, devour
television shows, movies
entertainment fails
The stanza breaks are actually where each poem split. That last one was supposed to be a very rough-and-tumble haiku (I didn't even bother to really count, which is pretty important to a haiku), but it still fits into the overall poem.
It needs a title, and some work, but for a rough draft of a poem (which was supposed to be a throw-away thing anyway), I like it. Rebecca brings out the writing-on-demand side of me.
Current Mood: 
thoughtful
thoughtful2 comments | Leave a comment
