Away With Words

In the midst of euphoria’s trite couplings,
I lost my way with words.

Whether subconscious streams of 
phrases drowned out my thoughts,

or rather, pebbles of cold syllables
were scoured away by the sharp liquid rush…

The fact remains to be proven,
and yet stands proud and defiant;

I slipped through the cracks.
Whether in part, or as a whole…

My knowledge was scrambled by instinct,
greed, or was it something akin to love?

Taking a thought over a penny any day,
I’ve welcomed intention instead of articulation.

And find myself now neatly wedged between two walls,
stacked with people, and not a hand-hold in sight.

Jennifer Burnside

The Show

The way the evening progresses

is much like a play rewound.

The curtains are drawn after

the last line is spoken,

and the story back-tracks

like an ancient curse.

Nothing quite goes as expected.

Interruptions reproduce

like tadpoles in the spring.

And while swarms of thoughts

linger thick like a cloud,

the locusts are timid and shy.

At prime moments, words plant

their tiny barbed fangs into

soft spineless bodies of remorse.

Playing the part of predator,

sly syllable flips over its prey

like a crocodile’s death-roll.

After the broken phrases,

acidic downpour drowns sound,

and silence pools like blood.

There is nothing left to say,

but the need won’t go away,

so the orchestra packs up.

at the end of the show.

Jennifer Burnside

Possible Diagnosis

Beneath the inflamed flesh of your tender pulp

swells an angry cyst, filling and spreading with time.

There is no head for release, no channels for detour.

Rather, lethargy bears down steady, thick and heavy.

This is an abnormal chain of events, which have been

unraveling and subsequently tangling for the past several days.

Spiraled into an infuriating state of implosion,

your movements are loose and frequent.

Runny and flecked with blood, your mind seeps

through its own cracks, proving that eternity is inevitable.

Despite the fresh samples your heart provides,

the crafty little parasites go undetected.

Invisible energy-suckers ride on your wings

as your feathers deteriorate like antique doilies.

You arrive five minutes late and leave in the nick of time.

For the diagnosis was a risk but merely a possibility.

Jennifer Burnside

The Stage and the Illusion

The stage is set;

chestnut door, banister, and staircase

crescent window lined with lime

black metallic contraption

stacks of brown mesh sacks

cupboards adorned with technology

a flattened globe of mist and water

gray barrel on roller-skates

a drum set, of all things

(for added rhythm or

to keep the monster on track)

silver handle and small latch latched

blue jeans and a ponytail.

The illusion hovers;

wide white archway like a bony crutch

shiny green plant glossing the pages

a neglected stack of borrowed books

white painted pipes and seven sets of eyes

(on the ceiling gazing downward)

festive art hung, colorful yet transparent

bricks built on nothing leading nowhere

an empty room full of shadows.

We were here,

and for the time being

remain so.

But how did we miss the door

that leads to the outside?

Jennifer Burnside

Deceptive Sunday

Beyond the minty spider wall

tightly wound men compete

with enthusiastic sincerity.

Past the fluttering fairy wasps

and straining metallic criss-crosses

move scarlet twin birds

grinning and dusty.

The hills observe with dry approval

as drones of biplanes

scrutinize the game plan

wailing in subtle accompaniment.

Light brown puffs chalk the air

and to top it all off,

is an upside down bowl

of clear and uninterrupted

Blue sky

cool in color

but damn that’s hot.

Jennifer Burnside

Within becomes Without

The earth misplaced her lid today

the sky has released his sheep.

Your heart might lurch with sharp dismay

you’ll cry from lack of sleep.

The trees will shed their bark today

for want of cooling down.

You’ll rise from where you sleepless lay

as dream’s charred embers calmly drown.

Last night cruel beasts raged in your mind

pursuing hope with fears.

When terror chews down to the rind

your soul will shift its gears.

You’ll see beyond imaginings

of all that used to be.

Dark truths will unfold crusty wings

to bare the present’s golden key.

The ground is sponge beneath our feet

sparse grass a patchwork drought.

Dry shells of time bake in the heat

as within becomes without.

Jennifer Burnside

Canopy of Stars

After mastering the role of hero at dawn,

the memory of your existence awakens to fame.

While you have crashed into eternal slumber,

scattered remnants of your life garnish the roadside.

Your mysterious end chokes the day with tears

and your blood stains many pairs of penitent hands,

sticky with sweet love and sour remorse.

You were a child caught between force and obstruction.

You rode the angry bull with a boyish grin,

waving your cowboy hat to the rhythm of the ride.

Shy with the ladies but ever so kind, you jammed

on the dance floor with your eyes on the stage.

Conjunto Rio Grande serenaded your merry-making.

Surfing waves of melody, chasing the day and

passing the time, deep intrigues bloomed and settled

within the dark hollows of your secret mind.

Much of your life was lived beneath the stars.

From behind the wheel, you greeted countless sunrises

and sadly breathed your final breath.

Though you tried to be, you were never alone.

Thoughts and prayers paved your life path

no matter how far you wandered off.

The love of your family lit your heart with

a hope that bravely flickered through the storm.

Now you will soar across the border in a cold

cargo hold, to open arms weary from waiting.

You were often a driver and at times a passenger,

but you will always remain a beloved son.

Jennifer Burnside