Revised Narrative Poem

Extracurriculars

In the middle of the room we sat on dented

Suitcases, under the light of a single swinging bulb,

Hanging from the smoke-stained ceiling.

A glinting gun, with a trigger never

Before squeezed, was placed on a torn

Card table, stolen from the local bar.

It was his game, so he grabbed

The cold metal first.  He handled it between his

Sweaty hands as if it was a familiar tool.

We looked on in a haze that matched the heat of

The afternoon as our senior spun the metal cylinder until

It settled on a single chamber with a final click.

Maybe we pleaded as the barrel pressed itself

Into his pale temple, but the unexpected look in his bloodshot

Eyes held us at a distance with their sudden brightness.

Pieces of him were scattered on his oily, dark leather jacket,

And he dropped to the floor at our feet in muffled silence

Amidst the thunderclap and ringing in our ears.

A scene which the newspaper declared “he lost.”

Occasional Poem Draft 1

Calling Hours

We stand in awkward silence,

Wearing our Sunday best. 

Each person sees the family

Fidgeting in front of the closed casket,

And the daughter-less father,

Flanked by his brave wife and now only-child.

There are new creases,

Which fracture his sun-tanned cheeks.

His lips tremble ceaselessly.

His eyes,

Tinged with the redness of sleepless nights,

Frantically flit between the eyes of each hand he grasps.

What are they searching for?    

Not even he knows.

An uninhibited burst of laughter springs

From old acquaintances in the corner. 

We go rigid and examine the father,

Mixtures of emotions swirling around in our own heads,

But his gaze slowly falls to a spot on the tan carpet,

Staring past the individual fibers crushed by hundreds of feet. 

What will I say when the father,

Crumbling where he stands,

Grabs my hand for support?

Villanelle Draft 1

Untitled

Glide past the birds, the clouds, the solemn sky,

Away from bombs, from men, from fears of pain.

You fought for love amidst the dreadful lie.

The dirt conceals the dull look in your eye,

Below the jagged land of which they reign.

Glide past the birds, the clouds, the solemn sky.  

You saw the films of flowing flags on high,

You signed your life, that mark would be your bane.

You fought for love amidst the dreadful lie.

Dear friends run past the tomb and wonder why

The shard resented them with great disdain. 

Glide past the birds, the clouds, the solemn sky.

A post will come and cause your mum to cry.

Your heart, fair maidens never will obtain.

You fought for love amidst the dreadful lie.

You died for land, but this they do deny,

And not for children starving in the rain.

Glide past the birds, the clouds, the solemn sky.

You fought for love amidst the dreadful lie.

Easter Dinner

As the five of them join hands around the small table,

The table feels a little larger than in years’ past.

They slowly chew on honey-glazed ham and laugh at

The little mistakes in each other’s lives,

But each of them steal glances at the dark green folding chair against the wall. 

They see the cold metal frame covered with small indents,

They see the seat cushion threadbare from use,

But they do not retreat into their hearts lined with grief. 

They remember the fruit juice and bread of the morning,

The mutilated corpse brought down from Golgotha,

The words of both god and man rising past the clouds above.

Now they can enjoy their transitory dinner. 

Stained Draft 2

On this ordinary back road, no car is coming or going,
There is only a woman standing on the uneven shoulder of the road. 

She can only imagine the sound of the impact, metal sending him

Through the darkness like an ornate ceramic vase in the hands of a child.

As he stood and fell, walked and crawled away from the twisted remnants of his bike,

What was foremost on the blood-filled and boozed-filled mind?

As his blurry fingers began to squeeze the well-oiled trigger, did he challenge the powers above, 

Or did he justify himself to those who would hear a phone ringing in the silence of the night.

She will never know, but kneels down and runs her fingers across the dark red stain;
Her sobs fading into the depths of the still night

Revised Sonnet Draft 4

Ambrym

Hundreds of feet below its smoke-stained rim,

Lies the shifting magma; a lake of fire.

A lava-filled isle devoid of its peak;

Active long before the Nazarene’s birth.

Everything melts that touches the liquid,

And the edges form densely packed barriers

Bright red and orange claw the pitch black walls

During new, green dawns and foggy, grey dusks.

Yet inhabitants go about their lives.

They watch their children swim in island pools,

And carve five foot faces of their old kin

Out of many rough-barked coconut trees.

Knowing any moment might call for flight

From smoke, from flame, from destruction itself.

Fatherhood

I watched as my son leapt up in the air,

Arms skilfully following the oil-weathered basketball

As it coasted in an arch just over my extended reach

Into the slightly misshapen, flaking hoop.

Game.

His bright hazel eyes looked up at me (but no so far as before)

Through his thick brown mop of young hair.

An uninhibited smile stretched full, revealing his boyish dimples,

But a man’s voice, cracked with elation, reaches my ears. 

I won Dad.

Could this possibly be true, so soon after he was just an idea in our heads?

My wooden joints and sweat-soaked hair seemed to agree.

A smile (maybe as genuine as his) rose to my lips from the depths of my heart

At this man with my eyes, standing on his own for the first time.

Yes, you really did.

American Sonnet Draft 2

Ambrym

A lava-filled isle devoid of its peak;

Active long before the Nazarene’s birth.

Hundreds of feet below its smoke-stained rim,

Lies the shifting magma; a lake of fire.

Everything melts that touches the liquid,

And the edges form densely packed barriers

Bright red and orange claw the pitch black walls

During new, green dawns and foggy, grey dusks.

Yet inhabitants go about their lives.

They watch their children swim in island pools,

And craft archaic artwork on their beds;

Knowing any moment might call for flight

From smoke, from flame, from destruction itself.

More Imagistic Poems

A Dying fly

A fly spins like a child’s top on its thin wings,

Lacking strength to lift an inch off the colorless tile floor.

An Icicle

An icicle drips high above

A running car;

Three feet of pointed glass

Dripping on it.

Old Christmas Lights

Old Christmas lights uncurl, revealing

The rusted metal railing underneath

Their bulbs of blinking white.

An Old Sock

A once sky blue, but

Now grayed, ankle sock lies;

Half-uncovered in the receding snow.

Narrative Poem Assignment

An Accidental Death

In the middle of the room we sat on dented

Suitcases, under the light of a single swinging bulb,

Hanging from the smoke-stained ceiling

A glinting gun, with a trigger never

Before squeezed, was placed on a torn

Card table stolen from the local bar.

It was his game, so he grabbed

The cold metal first.  He handled it between his

Sweaty hands as if it was a familiar tool.

We looked on in a haze that matched the heat of

The afternoon as our senior spun the metal cylinder until

It settled on a single chamber with a final click.

Maybe we pleaded as the barrel pressed itself

Into his pale temple, but the unexpected look in his bloodshot

Eyes held us at a distance with their sudden brightness.

Pieces of him were scattered all over his possessions,

And he dropped to the floor at our feet with a limp thump.

A scene which the newspaper succinctly declared as“he lost.”