Poem-A-Day: Day 18

Winter Nights

The air smells cold
and the wind calls my name in frigid whisper.

My gloves are on,
but I still feel the sting
of the freeze
tingling fingers
and soul alike.

I take two steps
and numbing air tells me to take ten more.

The wind doesn’t know,
but it tries in vain
to intercept
my veins and thoughts
with a chilling desperation.

My feet are a burden
and I wonder if walking has turned to bitter conversation.

I lay down to death,
but it’s no less a yoke
than it is
some joking anxiousness
waiting to be heard.

The algid air winks
and reaches out to me with compassionate boreal grace.

Poem-A-Day: Day 13

Sitting

I sit
blood purpling
on my fingertips
from working hard,
hardly working.
Slamming away at my mind,
punching,
berating,
debasing everything
by restating it in sentimental fashion
over worded,
and complicated.
It’s no wonder nobody ever understands
me.
The keys to my soul
laid out “qwerty,”
when it should read “dirty.”
A cesspool of life
that’s sharper than it appears,
cutting each examining hand,
rendering them bloody
and lost,
stumbling to figure
what just happened.
Nothing happened…
It’s no wonder
I sit.

Poem-A-Day: Day 8

Caretaking

Stick a fork in him,
but not to check the done.
He’s been done gone
and dead
for years.
The fork
is simply to pull
what little left of worth
remains in these remains.
It’s a tiring act
that’s left the caretaker
caring less each day.
The body
doesn’t really need care
it just seems to enjoy it
in some twisted way,
gnarled fingers
pointing in
conspicuous directions,
motioning
in some half begotten way:
hither.
Too bad
it has nothing to say
but rotten
drops of teeth
and leathery winks.