Ghost Town

Ghost Town

No one.

The world is quiet.

The world is still.

Nobody's home.

Silent.

The soundless void echoes.

Soundlessly open,

Unmoving, unstirring, unending.

Lifeless.

This place has nothing.

This space is oblivion.

Empty.

The world is gone.

Stranger

Take a look in the mirror,
what do you see?
How do you look;
are you happy?

Why do you cry?
Do you wish to fly?
Far away from it all?
You poor little guy.

Why do you hide?
Why not abide
the thoughts and processes
that ebb like the tide?

Do you not feel?
How can you heal,
if you’re to scared
to try?

If you’re so snide,
why can’t you ride
the thoughts and processes
that ebb like the tide?

Why do you run?
Why do you hide?
Why not have fun?
Are you that tired?

If you’re awake,
why don’t you sleep?
Wake up from the dream.
You’re not your own side.

You’re floating away,
you poor little guy,
on your thoughts and processes
that ebb like the tide.

Snow!

Snow!

Snow!

Frosted fluffy flying flurry flakes!

Grab the coats! Grab the gloves!

Grab the hats! Hot chocolate! Mugs!

Run through snowfall,

White droplets, ice

Floating merrily, fast in flight!

Statue

Statue, how do you feel?
Do you hear? Do you see?
Are you aware? Do you watch
As people go by, unnoticing?

Statue, what do you think?
Do you remember the deeds
of kings long past? All about
things that just didn’t last?

Do you remember your maker,
your sculptor, your past? Or winters
when you were covered in ice?
Rain, storm, spring, fall,
Do you remember them all?

Don’t you want to talk?
To tell the world? Or walk?
But you’re a statue; a figure
incased in stone. You're a statue.
You’ll always be alone.

Stress Dream

Running through a maze of gray;
always running, never stopping;
always fleeing, never resting.
~
Something chases, fast and fearsome;
always chasing, never stopping;
always hunting, never halting.
~
If I’m running, what is chasing?
If I’m chasing, what is running?
~
Who is hunting?
Who is fleeing?
~
Running through a maze of gray;
always running, always hunting.
~
Rushing through a labyrinth nightmare;
always stalking, always fleeing.
~
When I’m sleeping, always dreaming;
always dreaming, never stopping;
always dreaming, never ceasing.

Mashed Potato Medley

Thanksgiving. Christmas. The times of
succulent steaming solution: a Mashed Potato Medley.
Potatoes, mashed; vegetables, assorted; turkey, baked
The magic of dinner is all I need; I sit and salivate as it cooks.
The long wait, a culinary curse, a penalty earned for learning
the edible language of holiday meals.
It is served, I scoop it; it flows almost immediately upwards on forks and knives.
Words sometimes do, too. Like schadenfreude and elwetridsche.
Long, many-syllabled strings of unpronounceable letters,
which I twist, trip over, and test again and again.
In the boisterous setting of the holiday
Mealtime of the Mashed Potato Medley.