The Death Of A Poem

I tried to write a poem
That came into my head;
But when I tried to form the words
A void opened instead.

The idea crouched inside my mind
Piping up now and then
In a tiny voice as if to
Remind me yet again.

But I could not give it life,
As hard as I had tried.
The words simply refused to come
And so it promptly died.

Is This A Poem?

Is this considered a poem
If I break up the lines?

What if I were to
Break them at awkward
Lengths
In the middle
Of the sentence?

What if I took the time
To make everything rhyme?
And if these rhymes are cliché
Would it matter anyway?

Is this now a poem
If I took the lost sighs
Of love, loss, life,
And wove them between
The untied laces of
A lonely man’s shoes?

What if I threw in an abstract
Image for the reader to ponder,
Which in fact holds no meaning
to uncover?

What if one finds meaning in it anyway?
Is it the elusiveness of imagined meaning
That defines the spaces between these lines?

Is this now…
A poem?

Cynodon Dactylon

Welcome to the end.
Many little feet flash up and down,
Stomping over the grass to send
Millions of bacteria to their doom.

Screams erupt. Do I hear the death throes
Of microorganisms cruelly crushed,
Bemoaning their fate? My gaze rose,
And 'twas but the shrill cries of

Overexcited children. Sunlight
Bathed us all, giving the grass the
Energy it could never have at night.
But the grass doesn't look excited

At all. It just sits there, being green
And docile. Resting and soaking in
The sunlight like an old has-been.

Maybe it has secretly resigned itself
To being trampled on. Maybe it was
Unsuccessful in love, left on the shelf,
And so just mopes here aimlessly.

I shudder at the thought.
Poor grass. It gave up so easily.
I would have at least fought
A little, for something of value.

And so enraged by this apathy
I was, I proceeded to tear up
The grass by its' roots maliciously.

"Rise! Do something with you life!"
Not realising I was in fact, extinguishing
It. They could never be revived.

Gasps of horror and looks of befuddlement
Now fell upon me. I sort of stopped
And looked up. Behind this puzzlement
People remembered times past spent doing

Nothing. Did such an outcry lend
Some new perspective? Apparently not.
People scurry off to meetings they must attend.
Welcome to the end.

Caprice

He is a gray cat
Stretched out in
Undappled camouflage
On a grayer table,
Dust settling;
A small price to pay
For capricious
Whims.
He cares not for
Any command
Given with empty hands,
Nor anything offered
That is
Invisible beyond the kibble
Of an empty bowl.

The Extinguisher

Sawdust and leaves

Lay untouched in their abode

The drought never seems to cease

Leaving all life

Half-evaporated of life itself.

Disrupting the languid nature

An unexpected spontaneity

Amber sparks flicker about

A new life has begun,

Giving rise to smoke

Giving birth to carbon

As it crackles on passionately

Warming the carbon yet more

As if to lay

A cradle

With mittens and blankets--

A security for the newborn

That would have lasted

an eternity

But alas,

As age rises; as carbon ascents

As a young swallow leaves its nest

Embracing greater depths of the skies

With its newly formed wings.

Gone and beyond

In a foreign sky

Venturing

Into uncharted quarters

Where that protection

Slowly fades

Away from

Touch.

The climb up

Treacherous and torturous

The heart

Hardening and freezing

With unfeeling altitude

And as the currents

Nudge carbon back and forth

Back and forth.

It dares not venture any further

It shan't be increase the distance

Between itself

And its creator.

Till the whispering wind

Wanders about...

That devil.

In exchange,

That friendly protection

The red shiny cover

It had recently procured.

To cut all ties

That hold it.

To allow it to fly freely

Like severing

The string of a kite

Fire welcomes it home

That similar presence

As its silhouette wraps about in an embrace

Only to receive

A different air.

"Come over here, .... "

"Extinguisher." That reaffirming

Of its change of name

The altering of an identity.

Next a lethal spray

Cutting off all history

Of reason

Of its existence

No longer crackling

Nor passionate

The loitering mist,

A hint of a sigh.

Not disappointed

But acknowledgement

That the inevitable had come

The smoke fizzes

In laughter

"Its child still kept the middle name"

And in sheer contentment

Is brought away into darkness

It goes on

Like a severed kite

Directionless;

Subjected to the winds

Fancies.

To where one brings

That bright red

Canister

Exhausting every molecule

Of breath.

Speaking From A Glass

I spread over
Roads and houses, roofs and
Floors. Reminiscing of time spent in
The great non-existence that presides
Over all.

I fill
Great cavities, and conform to
Their shape.
I fill
Small cavities, and conform to
Their shape still.

Sometimes I
Spill out, unable to contain all that
Lies within me, and contaminate all
I touch with that glistening
Film.

When heat forsakes
Me, I must steel myself to compete in
Such a frosty environment.
And when
Energy blesses me, I am set
Free.

My touch is merciful, but is also
Deadly.

It is hard to measure
Intentions.

I may fall upon
Innocents, and woe befall
Them. Taking their last gasps, last
Struggles.

Is this not a
Kindness? Perhaps they are too
Blind to see for themselves. They will
Understand eventually.
Except that there
Is no eventually.

To those I
Devastate, I can offer no
Apology.

I am consumed shamelessly, sucked into
The voids of many, from which but
Emptiness springs forth. And this
Powers the creation of nothing.
Perhaps this
Nothing means something in the
Moment of its' creation, perhaps its'
Creation holds depth. But it is
Reduced to a shallow void
Nevertheless.

Do I empower any
Worth?

Who can grasp my
Form? Magnification and clarification collaborate
To explain such.
Detailing all they
Perceive in an Almagest of
Orbs and lines. I am not the Grand
Cross. Am I but a cloud instead? Are
We?

Bits flying everywhere, contorting in
Grotesque forms only to dissipate again into the
Void.
Lines belt out at the surface, disrupting
The view of the world from that tiny
Crystal ball of a droplet. Something
Rising from the rolling hills of
Nowhere.

Were it that I played God, and chose
Where to place my boon. But the void will
Find my blessings and curses, and take them
All, anyway.

Look at me, look at
Yourself. Do you see me or
Yourself? It's not up to
me. I can but distort your presence, dwindling
Accuracies and averting
Gazes.

I exist within, without. I
Speak from the rolling hills of
Nowhere.