Pocket of Space

I am

Within your grip

the moon the tides
gravity
Can not change it

I will struggle
Strain at the hips
Drive my teeth
Through my jaw

before I lose you

There isn’t a force on earth greater than you

Not a pocket of air
More comfortable to be with in
every bit
Of what I am

You grasp

Proposition

 

 

There was a pungent not quite socially acceptable smell in the air

under the darkness of the end of the work week.

Down the  corridor of the cul-de-sac

thick green smoke swirled.

 

Animated turns,

into the windowsill.

Under the shade of  a wrinkling summer umbrella

The locomotive

as useless as a caboose

slowly exhaled.

 

Peering at the neighbor for judgmental reactions.

 

The train wreck

behind bright lighted out windows

yelled out with scorn

your wind is coming my way.

 

 

 

 

Vegan Poem

 

Some say the world is divided between the strong and weak

So don’t sit across the table from me if you are meek

The leaf eating vegan should take a far away seat

For an animal like me might mistake your arm for meat

Put a fork in it and take a nice bite

I like steak raw, so your arm would taste just right

So the question is….. what animal will we have for dinner?

Who will be the winner?

I have an idea!

Let’s have steer!

But how?

Smack a cow

Between the eyes with a sledgehammer

Such harsh, coarse behavior might cause a clamor

Rights for the animals they dont need to die

We should eat plants because they have no eyes

To stare at you when they die

A sacrifice, is a sacrifice…is a sacrifice

No matter how neat, clean or nice

The vegetables on your plate are struggling to stay alive

Cut, bleeding, helpless, little chives

Tomatoes punctured with a fork and oozing red goo

You know fruits are alive too

Skinned alive, their fleshed sucked out

All this while their blood, their juices move about

Plants have no where to run, no where to hide

Plants are the weakest of the weak, who would be on their side?

Well… they could be left on the side of my plate

To compliment the flesh I just ate

Vegans are beyond a doubt killers too

The flesh they eat has no face like me or you

But plants are alive when chewed and swallowed into stomach acid

And vegans claim they are gentle and placid

Vegans are wrong to kill to survive

To eat things that are still alive

Vegans should talk to plants, I believe that plants can hear you

And know what vegans will do

Rip them from their roots

Cut their shoots

Pull off their leaves like the tail of a newt

I don’t see the difference between eating a hog

Or picking berries next to a bog

Whether its a plant or animal that goes under the knife

They are both organisms that give up their life

Maybe vegans and carnivores are the same

After all we all need to sustain

So please don’t call me the sicko, don’t start to shout

From your mouth hangs a baby sprout

Maybe it’s not chicken, maybe it’s not veal

But the life it gave up is just as real

Perhaps there isn’t such a great divided

Cause sick vegan bastards eat plants alive.

 

 

 

Where Are We Now?

I am lost in a world where there is no family

I have the privilege of being a part of

What so few do

So few know the rules

Crusted sand stands as a reminder of once fertile ground

The lost

The lonely

Thirst for what is before them

Unable to drink they insist they can’t

They insist they tried

Text message thoughts without a face to face

How cold we have become

How lonely the world is

Filled with heads down

Eyes shy or worse scared

The feed keeps them going

Scrolling across the screen

It is always better on the other page

Google their beliefs

Package their thoughts

Digital trinkets and bells

Where are mothers like mine?

Where are we now?

 

Lost without family.

 

Holy Host

Going to build a fire today

And let it burn until the moon goes up

Until the smores melt on my chin

The wind blows the cold of winter away

 

Going to watch the TV as the kids fade into another day of school

As midnight comes around and all the sounds trickle

Into the melting Ice of Sunday libations, peace

The partaking of the blood of Christ

The holy host

The holy shit he is a loaded host

Sweets at the end of the night

 

 

 

 

The Tree

Thanks Rochelle for hosting and thank you Scott for the picture.  All links can be found here.

Every neighborhood has a spot to hang out.  A generic name for a specific spot, the tree, the pit, the dock….

From Scott Vanatter with permission-Copyrigh-  Indira

I see a Dodge Dart, teeth collapsing in

Girls dancing to Southern Rock, someone standing on the hood

Overalls and hand me downs, a fist full of loving

The kind of hands that would collapse a man

Make him weep and see god, apologize

And realize

That he stood

On the wrong rod.

I see me

All In The Family

And you

The Tart Cart

The Earth shoe

A strange LSD hue

The coming of greed

Better weed

I see the tree,

The pit, the dock

Thom Mcan

Playing kick the can

On the block

Country rocks

Japs and jocks

 

the tree“The Tree”

 

 

 

 

 

Bamboo Bends

Walk with me

Where the wind touches our hair

Bamboo bends

The moon hangs low waiting for darkness

A silver disc on a black mountain

Dark thoughts in the silver light

Tickle me, tickle me

And I’ll laugh it all away

The wind screams

Leaves fall

Raindrops on the green lawn

Let me cool my feet

With cold water from the garden hose.

Sunday Stares (Revisited)

Coming in at 342 words this week..Let’s see that is 100 words for last week, 100 for this week and……. 142 words for the hell of it.  I wrote this a while back when my wife left me but I felt it fit with the photo prompt.

 

Thanks to the lovely Rochelle for hosting.  All stories can be found here.

copyright - Jennifer Pendergast

The coffee brews as my smoke burns. The silence that fills the house broken by my music turned down low. The steady climb of sound on Sunday.

Turn on the Blues and light a Jay first thing. I wait for the noon before I crack a beet but a joint’s just fine as the grinds grip and swirl in their filter paper.

Searching for rolling paper and coffee filters I get lost. Lost in dreams, I sift through blogs and files of any kind.

Text book winter mind afraid to feel too much guides me under gray skies on autopilot to the seven eleven. Not enough french vanilla in the house and after one cup without it I decide its time to make the trip to seven eleven and the homeless guy by the trashcan.

Sunday mornings are cold on the side of Route 25

Sunday mornings are cold when your wife is gone and she has the kids too. I wait to call. The coffee waits to be consumed. It’s Sunday and everything is slower. It’s Sunday and church is open. God is watching. Football is on.

The smoke and the fog slowly roll, covers me and the music continues to play.  The sadness of Sunday drips down through coffee grinds.

I turn up the music realizing I am not waking anyone. The house is empty.

Next door they wake up whole when at once time they were fractured. Broken I walk by to leave the little bit of trash by the curb, in the can, in the bin, I built out of wood.

So much is broken and as hard as I try with monsters hands I crush what is fragile to me.

With a crack the tag connected to the tight plastic seal on the french vanilla snaps and the counter-top is sticky on Sunday

I wait to call, I wait on noon and that cold beer, I wait for my mind to set with the sun on Sundays.

The silence a steady hard climb

A Gentle Dance

You come across people who have no concern for their fellow man

Would love to beat you down

Step all over your dreams

With soft words and back stabs

A gentle dance on your heart

The most bad ass ballerinas you ever saw

They know answers to questions you would never be able to pull out

Of your mind

Maybe recognize but never recall

But they’ll never understand

How brutal and ugly they are

A skeleton of rattling bones

A Broadway beat down

“An epic novel man” of commercialized vacant originality

As they tip toe across the truth

Leap over your health to jump into your wounds

A black swan startling you from sleep

We all trip and fall

Come down from our flight

And when you land I will be there

Not to guide you or make your landing soft

I will be there in place waiting

As your bones turn to dust and the dance ends.

Watching a coward in a tutu

Now dance motherfucker

Dance