Poetry

Commute

They line up at the cliff edge, eyes on the storm clouds ahead,

nervously opening the umbrellas they’ve just been handed by the young assistant

about to direct them.

He asks a few questions, answers of which are stolen away by the wind

as it crawls through their mouths and hair.

Then he takes out a combined watch, compass and barometer, counts down

and gives a short pip of his silver whistle.

As one, the first group steps off the cliff

and catches the draft down to the city below,

floating serenely as their suitcases dangle by their knees,

carrying everything they need for arrival.

Another pip sounds behind them, and

briefly they wonder

how many the assistant has to guide today.

 

Uncategorized

The River Guards

A gathering of columns,

decorated with bright, orange blooms

that cascade their scent

on the decayed air,

stand bold against the grey river.

To them,

Satan is just a song

that drifts down on the wind,

but for those who sail,

unwillingly,

beyond the columns’ reach,

the song is more

a delighted warning of what awaits,

hellishly reminiscent

of the jaw-jarring scraping

of human fingernails on a blackboard,

drawn so fiercely across

that the nails are ripped away

from the cuticles.

The song instills anxiety into every

body.

What kind of creature

could possibly make such

a sound?