Posted in My Poetry with tags , , , on May 24, 2018 by Plathinson

When you dig too deep
you cannot feel your tongue
getting all the dirt onto your lips
like some trumpet,
you know a good puke.

Tell me,
just how many others
are holding their chin up
while licking his shallow footprints

© Gheeneil



Posted in My Poetry with tags , , , on April 21, 2018 by Plathinson

Had you not heard
the pounding of footfalls on pebbles?
Didn’t wind get the word to you?

I was not the loudest among cacophonies
and I brought nothing but monochrome years
in a birth suit, would you ever notice my bronze?

My feet said hello to the same grains that welcomed
everyone else’s foot soles; my toes, the most excited
for nature’s primitive greeting.

’twas such a grueling walk from Sahara
and that ebbing tide— your classic tale—
paled before a lifetime’s worth of footprints.

I never resented the moon
because you were not meant to stay immobile
nor was I destined to play logs along your shoreline.

© Gheeneil


Posted in Favorites with tags , , on April 16, 2018 by Plathinson

This is another favorite of mine. Jennifer Denrow’s piece of poetry from the collection California.

You were the white field when you handed me a blank
sheet of paper and said you’d worked so hard
all day and this was the best field you could manage.
And when I didn’t understand, you turned it over
and showed me how the field had bled through,
and then you took out your notebook and said how each
time you attempted to make something else, it turned out
to be the same field. You worried that everyone
you knew was becoming the field and you couldn’t help
them because you were the one making them into fields
in the first place. It’s not what you meant to happen.
You handed me a box of notebooks and left. I hung the field
all over the house. Now, when people come over, they think
they’re lost and when I tell them they’re not, they say they’re
beginning to feel like the field and it’s hard because they know
they shouldn’t but they do and then they start to grow whiter
and whiter and then they disappear. With everyone turning
into fields, it’s hard to know anything. With everyone turning
into fields, it’s hard to be abstract. And since I’m mostly alone,
I just keep running my hand over the field, waiting.

Source: https://www.poets.org/poetsorg/poem/how-mind-works-still-be-sure


Posted in My Poetry with tags , , , on April 13, 2018 by Plathinson

You and I: a couple
of straight lines—
too close to a point
from a distance.

© Gheeneil


Posted in My Poetry with tags , , , on April 5, 2018 by Plathinson

A winter kiss
is not worth
a little bit
of bare skin.

The harder
your wind blows,
the stronger
the arms cling
around the body,
keeping a straitjacket
closest to the bone.

It is never ever
made to leave
and this hour is
just the coldest.

© Gheeneil


Posted in My Poetry with tags , , , on March 22, 2018 by Plathinson

The number of times
she stepped into this place
was near infinite:
clumsy footprints built
roads and routes.
Who would dare claim
a square inch?
This should’ve been
named after her—
this landscape she made
that messed up
the map.

© Gheeneil


Posted in My Poetry with tags , , , on March 12, 2018 by Plathinson

They used to be
just whispers—
flies in his stale
scrambled eggs,
hardly served
on the table
every morning
at breakfast.

Tales were stories
only told when
he retired
for the night.
Whoever would
want a corpse
for an audience?

Ah, such was
an invitation
only Phobetor
could not turn
his back on…

What seemed like
mere silence
turned up so loud,
transforming a vibration
into different frequencies
anyone could listen to

© Gheeneil