The Waterwheel

For long spells the flour mill closed
And the waterwheel would be overrun
By morning glories,
Even anchored by the vines,
Like a wreath for the funeral of the sun.

Other times I thought the wheel
Turned imperceptibly
Like a seasonal clock
Endazzled by its own reflection
In the sunken mirrors of the earth.

For all we know another wheel
Turns the wheel;
Another sun inside the sun
Outlasts the waterwheel
And the bread of dumb flesh,
Producing the flour of morning glories
Spread beyond its grindstone,
Beautiful as a second coming
That never arrives.

 

Head Rip

Hatred

Hacks heads
Holds hostages
Helps hypocrites
Hangs hope
Hawks headlines
Hurls hurt
Harbors the hell-born

Experience

Eats earth essence
Educates entirely
Estimates existence
Eradicates excuses
Enduring evenly
Eager for ease
Even ebbing erudition

Autocracy

Apes accordingly
Accepts affluence
Avoids apology
Attracts analphabets
Attacking all accusers
Amassing assets
Arming for Armageddon

Death

Delivers definitiveness
Destroys damnation
Deceives desire
Distancing dreams
Dissolving days
Deactivating disease
Discharging denial

Rapture

Reeks of revulsion
Requires roiling
Raising redeemers
Raving redundantly
Revisiting revelations
Racing to rendezvous
Rupturing reality

Ignorance

Idolizes itself
Ignites indignation
Interpreting incorrectly
Insulting institution
Impeding immunity
Insisting in innocence
Impregnating iredom

Power

Pollutes the public
Panders pathetically
Poses presumptuously
Paltering politically
Perfecting pretence
Pimping profits
Planning piracy

Ink Wash

fogdom isn’t the absence of clarity
it is a walking suspension of disbelief
blankness in every direction
snow melting into cloud
granular fog setting like hushed static
a few mental brushstrokes
and I brush in what’s erased
deer crossing highways
old apple trees from childhood
first love vanishing in the void
the incompleteness of everything
blending with the saturation
adds such sadness to this picture

Origins

Revised.

Salvatore Ala

Trees walk out to sea,
Waters encircle them like floating barrels.
Tall mastheads with green sails cross the sun.
Thick lateral roots act as rudders.
The trees plunge in rogue waves
And trim sails, following a tree star.
Barely visible now, cargo birds break free,
Clouds of them on the horizon.
The last tree to cross,
Branches brushing the backs of elephants.

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Origins

Trees walk out to sea,
Waters encircle them like floating barrels.
Tall mastheads with green sails cross the sun.
Thick lateral roots act as rudders.
The trees plunge in rogue waves
And trim sails, following a tree star.
Barely visible now, cargo birds break free,
Clouds of them on the horizon.
The last tree to cross,
Branches brushing the backs of elephants.

The Cruelest Pretender

Poetry happens.
Intelligence doesn’t create it.
Talent is no guarantee.
Hard work mistakes it
For something else.
In the saddest scenario
Poetry appears, indifferent;
As police search your car
Lines of it detain you;
Ecstatic coactions
Of love, banal poetry;
A barren place, a singing wind;
An unexpected guest
Or confirmation of results.
Stop pretending.
Poetry happens.