Latest Stories
Most recently published stories in Poets.
From the Tundra...
From the Tundra, comes forth the Phraust. Pernicious and tenaciously clinging to the notion the ocean knows notions of potions for peace. This isn't the vision revision decision for incisions in rotations for insatiable palatable creations to consume...I'll never ever forever sever the reaming dreams of creaming seams on the dotted rotting lines confined to the mind. No, I'm not knowing the growing of gnomes in Nome; why how could you? These are the frothy lichen drenched stones caught in the endless sea of sun dried red and orange mixing an infinite rage of earth on bones. I'm the loving result of two warring ideologies droning on opposed in rows like it's the civil war America never left. This isn't the best of the test but a mind at rest; incensed, we sense, the Tundra howls for more galore. As the berries carry life amidst the strife rife with variation, let the water flow.
By PhrAustie Huse8 years ago in Poets
Nature of the Restless
I feel it. Stirring from its dark depths of nowhere seeking revenge from our ignorantly blissful dream of rest. A beast as slippery as Night herself, nocturnal in nature, creeping, waiting for its prey to forgo its guard until she pounces yet again. “Yesss, what a tasty morsel we have here,” the incontinent beast uttered, “ripened dreams now forgone.”
By Mario Castelli8 years ago in Poets
A Brief Thought
I can think.At least,I think I can.I mean,I do something.What that is,I do not know.Some say,some say "nothing."I say I'm lively,I do live an active life.But most say I'm lazy,that it's all in my head.They say that I'm dead,dead to the needsof the world around me.They say this too;That I'm losing hold,losing my grip on realityand responsibility.That I need to grow up.But they don't really knowthat what they say is true...It IS in my head, in factIT IS MY HEAD.Or rather, my brain."Try harder" is not somethingthat I can easily "train" myself to do.I wish I could."Do something" brings nothingI haven't tried to mind."Focus" MEANS nothing to me.Nothing but the empty and idlethoughts, and ideas,plans, and goals,that I have written on a stackof far-from-blank papers.I'll do 'this and that'without shape or form as soon as itcomes to the forefront of a brainwhich is a brainoutside your 'norm.'Did you see that "squirrel?"Trust me, I noticed it too.And twenty-three other thingsthat you didn't see.You see?I'm living in a fogof a world not built for me.one that is dead TO ME.My thoughts, this haze...It can take me daysto sort them enough to get started,started on "a simple task"that you would take hours to complete.But it's for me they ask,and in this world,that you've built,I feel like I can't truly compete.I've tried.I've been hired.And for that "simple task,"I've been fired.Or worse, I quit.Because of you, the "world,"who expects me to sit;sit and hold my "self" togetherwhile the beautiful details of MY worldthat are around melay claim on the individual strandsof all my thought-filled reality.It tears me,breaks me,makes me crumbleinto a restless boredom...and forget who,no.Where I am.What's that you said?"No sir, I didn't hear you." You see,the textures of my deskwere more interesting thanthe textures of your voice..."Oh, you want me to'pay attention?'"Sure, I can do that.I can try...I have a choice...I wonder if there is someonenamed 'Attention?' and;if there is, would they pay me...to be me?Me, who got "okay grades" formy high intelligence but barely graduatedbecause I hated my English teacher in high school.Me, who rarely missed a deadline,but never found the 'time' to study or work whenmy interests didn't align with the material...Me, who just scrapes by becausethis world views what I am as a"deficit" of attention and a "disorder"...Not a fact of life,Not even a different ora purposeful way of Being."Yes sir,I will havethat done byThursday morning,"... by working lateon Wednesday.Yes, I "do" quite a lot.Even if the "world" doesn't know.I do something;I mean,I think I can.At leastI can think.
By Qelvin Kirkham8 years ago in Poets
