Poems

Here are three poems that I wrote and I submitted to Analecta, our student-run publication. Hope you enjoy, constructive criticism is appreciated.
 

Vices

A man from AA
is scared. Like ripples
on the water he is running
out of space. The waves are
imminent and silent
as snowfall.

He lingers
like stale smoke
in the church basement
after his sponsor. She is
all he has that’s worth
anything – like a pearl
among pebbles.

What’s wrong?
She asks and turns
from the mirror
trading beauty for
disdain. I work so much
for nothing, He begs
like a child in pain
Can you make it stop?
Her eyes flicker
sympathy,  I’d like to
she replies
But I can’t do that.

A shame, he mocks.
His eyes roll and
air envelopes his lungs,
I think my wife has left me,
Can you help me forget?
She blushes as red
as cranberries, You know
we can’t do that.

I see, he lies; but he can’t         
see since the blackouts.
I sit in His basement
feeling like an outcast.
Can you help me belong?
She looks away to this
as if floor boards
hold all the answers,
I’ll pray for you but
I can’t do all of that.

He stares and nods
habitually like the
blinking of eyes;
every  other  second
is lost. No need, he smiles
and turns
famished no longer.

Follow the Cab back Home

 

I despise country roads
and their secrets—
I muse as I’m lost
looking for landmarks
concealed by the late hour.

On this Indiana back road
night shrouds landmarks
like funeral garments
turning friends
into strangers.

Ten miles of farm houses
and frosty fields,
I’d almost prefer a maze
to this torture; a maze
is predetermined,  
and can guide
like a river to the sea
leading somewhere.

This road
like a vagabond
roams freely and can go
anywhere.

Tail lights loom
and a cab drives ahead
like a preacher
promising sanctuary
to lost souls.

As I follow the cab a thought
flickers like the vacant stars
above — Everything happens

I follow the cab back home
but it leads to a bar instead.
Dollar wells and loose morals.
Everything happens

 

Staying in or Dining Out

 

(Order Up)

Beef stroganoff, my
favorite. The lines in the yellow hair
almost perfect, like
tree rings.
I wonder how old she is…

The joint is empty
except for us. An
old rock tune,
like this tonic,
raises hopes
and dwindles inhibition.
I savor a bite…

(dry mouth)

               (watermelon seeds)

She waits for an answer; ants
take pleasure in their hills, you know…

My breathing shifts; cows
are overrated, like the truth.
Everyone knows the first animal man tamed
was himself.

She leans, takes my plate.