travu2
The Fly
I spent my energy siphoning that city
from my amber lens of contracting light
into a point on an expanding circle,
until it could be mistaken for a sail
caught there on one of the rocky outcroppings,
until it sank into the alluvial plain.
As I turn my head, I can feel the breeze
sculpting my wake ? miles of rolling shadows,
a caravan disappearing, doldrums descending.
They quietly overwhelm the mountainside.
The canyon floor is filled with the tools
of robot surgery, rusty clouds that hang
in the dark trough of a standing wave.
The foothills are dotted with the shells
of white houses, satellite dishes, and pools.
Trilobites are wandering through backyards,
and beside a swing set I can see
drag marks in the darkness leading
to a dim porch light, where the corpse
of a little boy is gently scraping the door.
Frantically crawling among the rocks behind it,
avoiding the shadows, not even daring
to think ?you will see me.? But a few
inches above the ground, it flees out onto
the silent plain, a clumsy cinnamon shadow
dodging through low bushes.
I run out in the same direction, and then stop
to search through individual plants.
Each one is like an ancient cabinet
filled with cobwebs and salt crystals.
I go from bush to bush, parting the branches,
until I am no longer in the shadow
of the mountain,
until I am standing over a cabinet,
staring down into fragile black eyes
floating in white jelly
left over from a shallow sea.
I carefully crawl inside,
where I can be nothing and be warm
behind a small opening in the leaves,
wishing I could hug the mass of cells
in the darkness beside me.
I lose all sound and color as I watch
a growing amoeba detach itself from the mountain,
sending cold cilia into pockets of shadow.
I let my organs do the dying
as the yellow ants carry them out
into that changing landscape.
----
This was originally going to be a poem about the monsoons for a fellow interferencer. It slowly but surely turned into something else, and seemed like it would make a fitting last poem to post here, although I think it has a lot of room for improvement. Most of the poems I have posted here have similar themes and images, and this one is no exception, but that is not all I write about! It's true!
I have really enjoyed sharing my feelings in this place. I will continue to visit this forum to read all of the wonderful poems/stories, but I won't be posting anymore. Thank you everyone for making me feel so welcome during the time that I was active here.
I also just want to thank you again, Scatteroflight. Your alarmingly kind remarks have given me a big boost of self esteem.
The fact that something in my poetry connected with you strongly enough to cause you to say some of the nice things that you did is very important to me.
------------------
"Grace finds beauty in everything."
[This message has been edited by travu2 (edited 11-25-2001).]
from my amber lens of contracting light
into a point on an expanding circle,
until it could be mistaken for a sail
caught there on one of the rocky outcroppings,
until it sank into the alluvial plain.
As I turn my head, I can feel the breeze
sculpting my wake ? miles of rolling shadows,
a caravan disappearing, doldrums descending.
They quietly overwhelm the mountainside.
The canyon floor is filled with the tools
of robot surgery, rusty clouds that hang
in the dark trough of a standing wave.
The foothills are dotted with the shells
of white houses, satellite dishes, and pools.
Trilobites are wandering through backyards,
and beside a swing set I can see
drag marks in the darkness leading
to a dim porch light, where the corpse
of a little boy is gently scraping the door.
Frantically crawling among the rocks behind it,
avoiding the shadows, not even daring
to think ?you will see me.? But a few
inches above the ground, it flees out onto
the silent plain, a clumsy cinnamon shadow
dodging through low bushes.
I run out in the same direction, and then stop
to search through individual plants.
Each one is like an ancient cabinet
filled with cobwebs and salt crystals.
I go from bush to bush, parting the branches,
until I am no longer in the shadow
of the mountain,
until I am standing over a cabinet,
staring down into fragile black eyes
floating in white jelly
left over from a shallow sea.
I carefully crawl inside,
where I can be nothing and be warm
behind a small opening in the leaves,
wishing I could hug the mass of cells
in the darkness beside me.
I lose all sound and color as I watch
a growing amoeba detach itself from the mountain,
sending cold cilia into pockets of shadow.
I let my organs do the dying
as the yellow ants carry them out
into that changing landscape.
----
This was originally going to be a poem about the monsoons for a fellow interferencer. It slowly but surely turned into something else, and seemed like it would make a fitting last poem to post here, although I think it has a lot of room for improvement. Most of the poems I have posted here have similar themes and images, and this one is no exception, but that is not all I write about! It's true!
I have really enjoyed sharing my feelings in this place. I will continue to visit this forum to read all of the wonderful poems/stories, but I won't be posting anymore. Thank you everyone for making me feel so welcome during the time that I was active here.
I also just want to thank you again, Scatteroflight. Your alarmingly kind remarks have given me a big boost of self esteem.
------------------
"Grace finds beauty in everything."
[This message has been edited by travu2 (edited 11-25-2001).]
