So I’m thinking about getting back into poetry. But the extent of my “good” poetry is pretty much exclusively dream poems, in which I have a dream, wake up and write it down, then transform it into a poem. So I guess I’ll just share a few I wrote while at university and see how it goes!
Here’s a short collection called “Of Games and Grief.” Hope you like it and, as always, I appreciate any feedback you may have.
Infinite
I hang from a clock tower
by one hand.
Three hands.
One dangles. A second.
One ponders. A minute.
One watches, damaged. An hour.
What should be seconds,
minutes.
Her there,
through the tower window.
Elizabeth.
She is torn
between this infinite and seamless time,
sings her lullaby.
Nine fingers pressed against glass.
I’ve fallen.
But I am back at the clock tower.
I’ve climbed.
Back at the clock tower.
I’ve died.
Clock tower.
I’ve lost track of when I am.
Flashes of memories,
too ancient to see clearly.
Time, torn to bits.
Oh, caged bird,
little sister.
Wake me
from this nightmare.
Middle of Nowhere
I walk into the clearing where
tall trees lean into the sun and
tower over albino grass.
Sight so beautiful I want to
stare and drool.
I ignore what the new people are saying in Spanish
until I almost pass out at the end of my breath.
Gasp.
They say words I’ve never heard,
I know these words.
Something about a car.
Another about my friend.
I walked here
from somewhere.
My friend?
Someone could get lost for days in these trees.
I imagine getting lost in the green giants
that go sideways and upways.
In a sea of white
too bright to see clearly.
Adrenaline
She, shot.
I, barefoot.
Gas station.
I, a compilation of no how
no way.
Insurance, yes.
Nine one one,
no.
I run
three miles to my car.
Well, two miles with feet,
one mile
with hands.
Grandma’s house,
borrowed shoes and my car
not where I left it.
Adrenaline confuses the hell out of me.
It scatters senses,
dulls sensitivity.
Who knows where she is now.
mack rogers writes 