#dailypoem — Public Fediverse posts

We Never Know

We didn’t know we were the dead
we didn’t know we were the dying;
the world seemed bright the
summer gladly ground towards fall and
we could not know we
danced in bars in the evenings and
saw the mountain shimmer, shimmer,
we didn’t know this was the past
we did not know of
pyroclastic ash,
we never know we’re in
history,
we never know we are the dead.

We Never Know

We didn’t know we were the dead
we didn’t know we were the dying;
the world seemed bright the
summer gladly ground towards fall and
we could not know we
danced in bars in the evenings and
saw the mountain shimmer, shimmer,
we didn’t know this was the past
we did not know of
pyroclastic ash,
we never know we’re in
history,
we never know we are the dead.

We Never Know

We didn’t know we were the dead
we didn’t know we were the dying;
the world seemed bright the
summer gladly ground towards fall and
we could not know we
danced in bars in the evenings and
saw the mountain shimmer, shimmer,
we didn’t know this was the past
we did not know of
pyroclastic ash,
we never know we’re in
history,
we never know we are the dead.

We Never Know

We didn’t know we were the dead
we didn’t know we were the dying;
the world seemed bright the
summer gladly ground towards fall and
we could not know we
danced in bars in the evenings and
saw the mountain shimmer, shimmer,
we didn’t know this was the past
we did not know of
pyroclastic ash,
we never know we’re in
history,
we never know we are the dead.

We Never Know

We didn’t know we were the dead
we didn’t know we were the dying;
the world seemed bright the
summer gladly ground towards fall and
we could not know we
danced in bars in the evenings and
saw the mountain shimmer, shimmer,
we didn’t know this was the past
we did not know of
pyroclastic ash,
we never know we’re in
history,
we never know we are the dead.

maintenance

keeping some parts desiccated and
some parts humid;
everything sticks that should move freely, or
wiggles when it should hold fast –
the world tends towards rust. the
oilcan and rag can work until
they’re empty and threadbare, but still, still,
it’s all in the process
of rusting.

fine young man

we are no longer a fine young man,
grown out of kindness;
we watch a frail old woman
motor-scoot the grocery floor
pause and look high to the shelf –
we are no longer a kind young man,
i say to you,
you say nothing –
we pass by and
think, well,
some kind young man will
help her.

pricepoint

i have cut out every expensive joy,
i have taken a dull knife and
slowly flensed the fat from my belly;
i have made thin steaks of myself
and eaten them sparingly –
else what will be left for tomorrow?

LET US MAKE PLANS

in kitchens in bar-rooms in
cars in sand we talk we talk
and make plans and plans;
to go here go there do
this and that to
rise and fall as
substance demands we
eat and drink and
again and again
and watch and do and
make plans and plans –
we dance and sing and
drink, and drink,
we build we destroy and
make plans within plans.

spellbound

Spellbound and spalling
in every direction;
see how they stand and stare and
flake away with the wind;
see how their edges
spiral out, razor-sharp, accidental
and unknowingly cutting;
staring so hard and long they
can’t even see themselves –
so preoccupied they don’t
notice they’re in the lathe.

like this?

my love is the box-nail left upright,
waiting without anticipation,
and my love is the soft, soft foot
plodding carelessly through the meadow.

everybody needs a home

everybody needs a home,
not a house, but a home
to destroy,
everybody needs a corner
to let the dust pile in and
a closet full of screws, hammers,
ice-cream-buckets filled with scrap wood;
everybody needs a home
with laundry piled high enough to
fasten the doors sturdy,
with dishes ready to
avalanche and shatter;
everybody needs a home to destroy –
if you can’t destroy it,
it’s not home.

the little cat

the little cat thinks it’s made
for this, the little cat
mewls at the window when birds fly by and
does not wonder why, why,
why the little cat tears at upholstery and
paces furiously the dusty corners
listening for – something –
the little cat thinks it’s made
for this and
will age, long and graceful,
and pass on
without eviscerating
a single mouse

misfits, discards, and perfectly functional garbage

all piled up &
chipped, spattered, rusted or
jittery. so many believe that
so much is useless;
so many believe in
discarding the outdated;
so much use is
heaped at our doorsteps;
so much refuse is
fine if not refused.

work without hands

work without hands,
work without minds,
a spiderless web
brimming with flies;
meadows rolling in bloom
over cluster-mines –
work without hands,
work without minds.

Encore

once more back out and
everybody smiling, clapping –
the stage was dark for but a moment,
a hallucination of finality;
the lights are up and here they come and
we are oh-so-proud,
and we are oh-so-pleased
we lured them back for six more minutes;
six more minutes to hold on to
for the rest of a life.

breechblock

the last possible moment,
the last mechanical shifting –
here, now, it all
becomes deadly –
soon, a hammer falls
into something greater –
everyone hears the
shift, the click –
and nobody knows
the target

Absolute Stillness

there was a boy who sat so still
and thought so hard;
and thought so hard.
there was a boy who sat so still the
earth flew from under his feet
and the sun and planets spiraled deep into darkness
and he sat so still as
the stars sped by at double-speed and
the universe, ever in motion,
spun far, far, away
just a twinkle in the distance
and the boy sat
so still,
so still.

River, River

We will tell them we were from Earth,
the place made of earth,
and they will examine our Earth earth and wonder
how we name things, and wonder how our
language wends like the mighty River River
Avon, Nile, Cuyahoga, a thousand others
with enshrined generic names –
and they will cross our Desert Deserts and
live our baleful lives;
and they will wonder how we
lived like this

Romance Writer

only fools write about love
for, in love, they’re foolish,
and out-of-love, monstrous –
only fools waste time with
pen on paper when
there’s someone within reach –
and only monsters
can dream so sweetly
it feels like reaching someone.

gunstock

the blameless wood that
shoulders the barrel, that
crawls with spring and steel;
not deadly itself but
built for deadliness;
not threatening, unless
assembled

It's hans Christen Anderson's birthday

https://venera.social/display/85a863ed-1264-29e5-9794-432652891767

Today's poem

https://venera.social/display/85a863ed-1964-1b32-28c1-248600802021