Playing with Prose Poetry #1

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Tiny Universe

A star exploded in a tiny universe sending an immense expanding sphere of light outward. On a tiny planet at the farthest reaches at the edge of nothing, an old man stood in his garden next to his tomato plants. He had been kneeling to turn some manure into the dirt with a trowel, but stood up to stretch and rest. He felt the wave of light, the initial intensity of which had been multiply reduced by the vast distances it had traveled in the tiny universe. Still, it was terribly hot. The hot wave washed over him. His face flushed and he felt dizzy. His face flushed redder yet as something burst like an infinitely small star in his brain, discharging a tumbler of energy from his body. the old man fell to his knees then toppled forward. By the time his face hit the soft dirt of his cultivation he was dead.

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No title

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I stand
at your grave
waiting for words to come,
but no words rise from my depths, only
peacefulness: acceptance
that you have
expired.

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Magician

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Inside
the top hat,
a rabbit nibbled greens:
the man tipped his hat away to show
the rabbit, still, with long-toothed
grin, as mean
as hell.

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Birds Flew from His Mouth

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Birds
flew from
his mouth – larks,
sparrows, swallows and black –
they fluttered forth in strange formations
scribing wild story-land
adventures:
his great
love.

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Poem for an Autumn Day

Everyone Knows

On an Autumn day,
the path open,
and the leaves orange
like a whirling orb,
he said,
“I’m going to walk a way
down the trail.”
Shoulders bent, back bent,
just to clear his mind,
he went.
She watched him go
and put soup in a pot
for his return.
“I’ll be back,”
she heard him say
before he closed the door.

He went that way
of his own design
with a stick for a third leg
and a brown scarf he liked.
She loved to see
the trees sway
in the Autumn sky,
their leaves in flight
and scattered on the ground,
sometimes swirling in circles,
a golden tunnel down the trail
inside the trees,
a spear of sunlight
through the middle
with a tip of hurt
that traveled to her heart.

Reading Poetry

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Late
at night,
past midnight,
the fan’s hum sporadic
overhead: red wine tastes of wood: thoughts
fade into emptiness
as I read
one last
poem.

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Going to the Tenth Continent

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Air –
mountain
peaks cut through
thick fog banks: black clouds shaped
like mountain peaks drift above: a glimpse
of fabled continents:
Immortals go there:
home.
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Sea:
the other
shore: a hidden island:
the rippling wind breaks off the quiet
sand: wave after wave: they
roll away:
now.

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