Caught In The Stream

Close-knitting snug yarns

2009-11-27T11:11:00.000-06:00

Close-knitting snug yarns
to be wrapped in soft comforts
she falls away from the world
its caring seasons
that roll and spin past

A gray lingering

2009-11-26T23:11:00.001-06:00

A gray lingering
till sated with earthy sighs
he rains affection

Fitted with this mask

2009-11-26T23:10:00.000-06:00

Fitted with this mask
hard chiseled at harsh angles,
he hides the impulse
to be costumed in a veil
of subtly rounded feeling

Our too-brief goodbye

2009-11-26T11:11:00.001-06:00

Our too-brief goodbye
echoes, expanding to flood
broad-bottomed canyon

Snoopy

2009-11-25T14:02:00.000-06:00

Float away, I would
if I could
be Snoopy,
chewing through
those Broadway bounds

Breathy wisp billows

2009-11-25T11:11:00.000-06:00

Breathy wisp billows
then fades, ghostly life spoken
into crisp, cold air

His vital organs

2009-11-24T23:11:00.000-06:00

His vital organs
still moist, vittles for vultures
swooping down peckish

Small souls wither

2009-11-24T11:11:00.000-06:00

Small
souls
wither.
Docile husks
under-nourished by
his unsubstantiated blood

He runs fingers

2009-11-24T11:10:00.000-06:00

He
runs
fingers
through jaundiced
pages, but can't find
a listing for lifting curses

Thought Experiment

2009-11-23T14:11:00.003-06:00

I may or may not be:
a posited feline absurdity
curled up on comma paws
inside Herr Schrödinger's booby-trapped box.

Its flask of uncertain
whether smashed to poison my mighty mews
and spew a gray-mouthed cloud
that inky clots neither's sharpening pen.

Entangled buts become
stranded as knots of fuzzy pink yarn send
either-or careening
arm and arm down imperfect pictured paths,

where Epimetheus
stands, ready to wed Pandora anew,
and doom-birth our many
worlds with the lifting of my thousand lids.

— Francis Scudellari

Ten toes tipping

2009-11-23T11:11:00.000-06:00

Ten
toes
tipping
the threshold,
unbalanced he leans
back waiting for a strong gust's push

Lids loosed

2009-11-22T23:11:00.001-06:00

Lids
loosed
after
stubborn twists,
release captive breath
to mingle with freshening air

I could let go

2009-11-22T11:11:00.000-06:00

I
could
let go
people, things
to end these plagues, but
God is in it for the torture

Light had its chance

2009-11-21T23:11:00.000-06:00

Light
had
its chance
to woo me.
Darkness seduces
with a kiss of liquid shadow.

Seeing such smooth skin

2009-11-21T11:11:00.000-06:00

Seeing such smooth skin,
two eyes and just four limbs, makes
the spider's hide crawl

Am meal at

2009-11-20T23:12:00.000-06:00

With a worded trap I'm asked
to verify my human
being by typing
A-M-M-E-A-L-A-T.

I misinterpret that
as, "Am meal at."
Putting down the plastic fork
to key it in,

I wonder out loud,
"Who's about to be
eaten, and where?"
It tells me I passed.

— Francis Scudellari

Done. Been. Held by

2009-11-20T23:11:00.001-06:00

Done.
Been.
Held by
the fickle
world, this incessant
turning, I'll flee its gravity

With fork and knife

2009-11-20T11:11:00.000-06:00

With
fork
and knife
he devours
the day, relishing
both its sweet and savory hours

The world makes us

2009-11-19T23:11:00.000-06:00

This
world
makes us
all killers
inspiring with memes
of the cruelest survival

They take small bites

2009-11-19T23:10:00.000-06:00

They
take
small bites
siphoning
bigger drops each night
growing addicted to his soul

Pickled

2009-11-19T00:26:00.005-06:00

Pickled on quixotic tonics
he strives for a polyglot's poise,
balancing plaster peas
at the end of his tippler's tongue.

But the rough-surfaced pearls prickle
his too-ticklish bed of pink,
and gulped down, he administers
only a lessoned indigestion.

Flipping the flop, he prevaricates
himself into the tight-fit corners
of a parallelogram traced
by unsolemn processionals

bedecked in platitudinous finery.
Their porous smirks drip sticky
reminders of a plethora
of previously pernicious exercises

and dampen his fluffy ambition,
prodding procrastinations until
his drunken promise dries out
to become a posthumous wish.

— Francis Scudellari

This poem is written in response to Read Write Prompt #101: p-p-p-poetry at Read Write Poem. There are a total of 13 p-word prompts, and I used all of them (plus a few extras of my own for seasoning).

He waits

2009-11-18T23:11:00.000-06:00

He
waits
at death's
door, transfixed
by ornate knocker

He buys his hats

2009-11-18T23:10:00.000-06:00

He buys his hats
too wide and his books
too heavy hoping
the volume
will expand his mind

Charting the distance

2009-11-18T11:11:00.000-06:00

Charting the distance
of waved travels, he cycles
back upon himself

Straying's Wish

2009-11-17T16:24:00.003-06:00

Disenchanted, this slanted floor
whispers to me
through its tightly clenched slats.
Cranky tales of failed

first steps, I tip-toe past,

unflappable. End tables mock
my walk-by dare,
mouthing weak-coffee moans
from wood-grained circlets. Stains

surface, I sidle on,

as their knots fade. A lean-to shade,
the lamp tilts up
shadows with blunted beaks.
Clipped wings flapping deep-toned

airs, my unsettling makes

falsetto. Vents hiss librettos
to dissuade me
with their combed-over notes.
Forced-upon causes, pause

to caress fleeing ought,

envied. Wood shutters crack mutters
to trick a gaze
from pictured window's bliss.
Vagrant clouds cross crowds

of stars, my straying's wish.

— Francis Scudellari