Haverford

[Another 10 minute poem written in Zurich. This one after a short nap and quick meal (also directly on the computer).]

Here I sit at the edge of Haverford

Watching the younger scuttle by

They brush past, they shrink on.

A wide gale of laughter,

My soft whimper of woe

Some boisterous, others unheard.

A hand whisks above the golden grain

Feeling wisps down below,

A tickling tendril totters up

Gushing giggles guffaw out.

The soil takes me in from the toes

I battle and win, but who’s to show?

They plunge down with sudden force,

The stabbing frost grasps me, clenched.

Such a feeling I have often known

Since the days of graying cold.

Now I court chirping birds

No longer being the one in Haverford.

[I came up with this while reading Beowulf. Go figure...]

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Undersaturated Overtones

[It’s been a while since I wrote something in under 10 minutes, sleep deprivation was the cure to that. Here’s a poem I wrote at the Zurich airport after the first leg of the journey to Chicago. (This is one of the few things I’ve ever written directly onto the computer).]

In a rush we scuttle and scamper,

Teetering from one end to another

A delicate feel of movement

But not much else.

Here we are, confined,

With no place to go.

It mushrooms within

Regurgitates itself time again.

You wonder at it,

Stare at its

Strange balmy pleasantness.

This is the end, here we go.

A feeble fluttering,

A sweet sensation,

An indication of final presence

Suffuses when surrounded.

Thinking of the inevitable

Just as we go.

Now we meet,

You and I.

After weeks of rumination,

Reflecting the inexorable

A breathless sigh in satisfaction,

Alas! we can go.

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NovelRace

[Here's a tiny extract from what I've written for the NovelRace. I've hit a colossal writer's block and might just drop out.]

It's a stale, permeating taste. Sucks you dry of all senses besides the light buoyancy of your stomach and the levitating tendency of your chronically lightened head. Wait fourteen hours for you next meal and you'll know the banal rotting feel of your tongue with its gossamer like dry surface. A certain peevishness seeps out from your choleric palate to everything around. Your eyes remain utterly focused, and your brows furrowed until the final sigh.

After removing myself from that familiar cesspool, I headed to yet another so as to play away my senses. A well-lit, unobtrusive corner in a large, labyrinth of a room is ideal for draining sensation. For company, a small cup with its inadequate handle, holding a strong brew and light froth arrived on a tiny saucer. A single sip diffused across the appeased muscle, delicately spreading its wily harshness to the extremities of taste.

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