Poetry

At the end of the game the King and the Pawn go back in the same box — On this sunny day overlooking the laggardly rolling hills of the city park. I stand positioned facing my enemy — the army in black. It’s a glorious day to die. My friend the Bishop, reminds us to steel ourselves, to have faith. But the game is set, I don’t know where…

Testament You flourished, within the constrain, of a concrete sidewalk. Malnourished, twisted, gnarled remains a stump headstone mocks; testament, to your lofty defiance. Once eclipsed, by the structural… indifference of societal progress. I cannot help, But feel, A kinship, As I see… you’re ghostly outstretched branches, reaching… to drink the light; As it seems… I am forever, trying to do. I hear, the spectral sound, of the breeze, creaking…

For my friend deleting too soon from life — On vigil, my best friend dying – I hold her hand, yet she is steps ahead of me Out her bedroom window, the breathtaking skyline, haze harkening into a bridge, a star holding the handrail Or perhaps zip-lining, her fear of this height she is soaring no longer ascending Curiosity…

In ottava rima — I look back squinting, in case it was not what I did really think that I do see. Look down again into the eyes of what was this red rodent staring back at me. What’s in his cute white paws? What has he brought? Some small and shiny gift that couldn’t be. So painfully, I crawl…