MOSSY stones by brook, sun glinting through the trees. A
MOVIE would not linger–this is just a setting for people.
SCOPE for nature is as backdrop, or a place to get lost. What
GENRE can depict the Spirit moving in the trees?
Standing in line at the fast food shop
Close your craving mouth there, BUDDY,
I hate to see a grown man DROOL – a
DONUT’s not much about to write home, so
gRASP Your hunger buds, don’t be a fool.
Photo: Sarah Stierch
Hannibal on the March
RANGE: 2 stadia, the whole legion prone for ambush in
THIGH high grass–still close, can count elephants by the
TRUNK. It’s one thing to dream of fighting. Even
MANLY soldiers get shaky when they see Carthage on the march.
Empty space
I can remember the wonderful days of stretched-out CinemaSCOPE,
when one actor might be on the far left, the other on the far right.
There was time when spreading out your actors was a kind of GENRE,
but when TV started showing these elasticated MOVIEs
you could wind up watching a blank set with voices coming from either side,
arguing, or blowing invisible kisses, across a set that was
otherwise MOSSY.
Mountaineering
SCALE into the blue and white on hints of air,
BLAST as slope gives way above, glimpse of death’s curtain falling,
FLUNG off slope, yet held by rope, choking in a waterfall of snow,
FUZZY thoughts and shakes in the quiet that follows.
Witness Joy
SHACK in the foot hills, far from city and its king:
BORNE the sometime tramp of soldiers border bound, a
MINOR life is life, with little to defend, rather to
STORE–to witness–the joy there is, counting the blooms of a new spring.
Gnome King’s Dream
BRICKs ferried to the kiln in rhythm, a
METER to their pace, castle of the
GNOMEs rising into its walls, workers
ASHEN from the effort: kings cost a price.
Before Steam and Steel
RADAR not yet a blip in Watt’s mind, the
FOAMY seas crossed by trapping wind, sailors
ELATEd when scurvy does not strike, Indonesia’
S TEAK pre-eminent for crafting craft.
Reverse Piracy
BEGUN the coup, seizing main chance,
DEBAR the noisome jet boat from our small harbor.
CLINK not, dead of night, man softly the
KAYAK, prepare to board. Come morning, the mystery of the empty slip!
All in a day’s work
The
GNOME opened the gnome-sized door to the
METER reader, who first went red as a new-laid
BRICK, and then by turns pale, wan and
ASHEN, before tripping over his shoes, (made of suede).