Category: poetry

Fun With Frost!

“Occam’s Razor (The Road Most Taken)”

Two roads forked in a golden forest.

And of course, physics proving

One cannot at once be in two locations,

I stared up and down in my confusion,

Admitting to the wood’s whispering chorus

That I had no idea where I was going.

“You’re lost,” said she, looking rather coy.

“I am not,” I say with a smirk.

“North is that way,

If you check the moss upon that birch.”

So I ventured left with much courage,

Satisfied in my quick thinking and primordial knowledge.

But she, stubborn as a knotted root

Decided on the other.

For in her mind, the grass was springy

And would not muddy up the boot.

“And besides,” said she,

“On my path the weather is fairer.”

I shall be telling this with some dismay,

For an ancient instinct failed that day.

Whereas she traversed steadfast in her persistence

And made it home to a glass of warm liqueur

I stumbled under the stormy skies of October

Down the path of most resistance.

Spilt

This pen I hold is awful sore
At all the things I use it for
It wants, of course, to be a part
Of some fantastic work of art
Intently, exactly, dutifully made
To dance across a virgin page
Laying down its lines and arcs
To illuminate the light with dark

But, alas, I’m sad to say
It saw no purpose in today
In making lists and signing checks
This instrument was never flexed
The ink it spilled was martyred, thus
Without a cause, with no purpose
This human realm sure takes its toll
On me
My pen
Its liquid soul

~r

Imagine Nation

15 billion years young,
15 billion light years wide,
I try to wrap my mind around…
…everything inside.

What was before?
What is outside?
Is this universe part of me?
Or simply part of my mind?

Metaphysical maybe?
Oscillating perhaps?
Do parrellel worlds?
Require detailed maps… ?

Pueblo

other cities in the world seem to age with a sense of grace

but American cities grow into a state of forlornness.

a film of rust and mold plague the surfaces

of neighborhoods once booming in their adolescence,

like the raspy hungover stubble on a drunkard’s face.

smokestacks erected as proud monuments

for winning the west

now stand in sunbaked isolation, a mocking vulgarity,

epitaphs to a hope quickly ignored and forgotten.

graffiti tattoos the train cars and drainages,

flashes of color sprawled across a hardened skin,

providing the only real signs of life in this desolation,

but even they are bleached and faded now,

chipped and lost to the deep wrinkles of the city.

this is the premature aging of American cities

that makes us long for a prairie fire,

a quick end to life turned decrepit.

–

to feel lonely in another country is expected.

to feel lonely in a new town is understandable.

but loneliness in the place you grow and have grown

can be unbearable, unrelenting,

only truly known in cities that should have never existed,

in cities that no longer want you.

– jordan

Solitary Pilgrim

Honed for discrimination,
empowered and passionate.
The spoiled monarch roams,
the heart’s kingdom hungers.

Thirsting for distant waters,
calloused feet resent the earth.
Rivers stand still in grails,
beloved denatured by conquest.

Clinging to beauty found,
the heart weds and guards.
Plucked flowers in gold vases,
wilt behind palace walls.

~r

Sundance

sundance, #1

Broken, cracked lips
Blood stained cigarettes,
Wind so strong
It moves right through me,
No longer here
No longer solid,
This is how we return
To the ether of beginning,
The clouds move with the rhythm
I hear in my sleep,
The stars reside
Behind closed eyes,
We are hardened by the land
And thus become part of it,
We are broken down together
And together become one

sundance, #2

You can smell the moisture in the air
as the thunderstorm approaches,
The practiced indifference of the desert
is momentarily cracked,
All things become suddenly silent.

The Earth craves this respite
as much as I do,
And together we look to the sky
lost in our thoughts of what gifts might follow.

– jordan