#bizarrepoetry

Sunday’s rainstorm fed the marsh with box elder flowers and papery samaras; the whirlybirds and pollen float like a verdant oil slick across the shallow water.

We stroll past, hoping to spot a foal along the wooded embankment. Hearing a quickfire rustle -- like tavern matches clumsily struck

on their paper book -- we stop In the shade to look. We crane our necks over wild raspberry bushes, their thorns clawing at the loose threads in our polyester shorts.

Standing under the oak, its heavy leaves point at the pavement, hanging over our heads like a thousand serrated knives.

We see nothing but the burst sheath of a cattail: downy seeds trembling in the wind, gripping the bending reed.

I said, you can say that again. But this time not under your breath. You spoke about what happens when - I said, you can say that again. Don't think about dying, cause then you might manifest your own death. I said, you can say that again. But this time not under your breath.

“It must be gorgeous to be inside his mind. All chaos and beauty and fire burning inside.”

Rain -- stacatto-like Rapid from overhead someplace Falling upon the concrete Running to somewhere else Unseen

In the detuned television distance Unseen cars may as well be Formed from the rain -- These things are ephemeral --

And all the birds seem dead All life is mechanical tonight And as I look up to see Even the sky is absent.

Were like the devil’s

Flames igniting 

From within

Her eyes

Were like embers; 

Fire dying 

As clock ticked by 

Their eyes met; 

He gave fire to her 

In the shadows I see so much.

Hidden to view of mortal eyes all that lingers in the night.

Only we can see, those with the sight.

It is a world of marvels but also of horrors that try to escape.

We keep them there, hidden from mortal view,

great power only born to serve,

so is our fate

A people of great valor and faith,

Those who keep the night contained