Penguins From the North

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we share local weather and the same 
bewilderment before the enormity of our
environment, full of man’s preoccupation
towering overhead in dizzying 
arrays of concrete

— 1 week ago
#poetry  #spilled ink 

spots of sunlight fill
tiny drops of morning dew
the meadow flattens in the wind
as if a hand lightly brushed the earth
and you are somewhere underneath
sleeping in a mess of purple tulips
that soften your bed, and colour
your freckled cheeks

— 2 weeks ago with 2 notes
#poetry  #spilled ink 
Trout Fishing

you still keep a line nearby
and know just when to pull it
you must see me coming from 
a distance, my head held low, 
following the flow of water

— 3 weeks ago with 3 notes
#poetry  #spilled ink 

the couple upstairs have started
fighting in morse code, lonely thuds
against the hardwood floor
it shakes the wall next to my bed
I haven’t slept in a week

— 1 month ago with 3 notes
#poetry  #spilled ink 
Gentle Night

  The wheels beneath the chair dragged over the rough shag carpeting as I pushed away from the computer desk, planting myself in front of the only window in the small corner bedroom. I leaned back in the chair, it groaned loudly in protest, and placed my legs up on the wooden windowsill, as some chips of flaking white paint fell away onto the carpet. 
   I kept the lights off in the room, but the walls glowed a cool translucent blue from the idle computer screen. The streets outside were just as dark, and strangely bare, but the night gave them strength, and the black gaps between street lights grew brave and mysterious.
  I reached down to the short coffee table I’d made from broken cupboards, and pulled out my black faux leather journal and one of the many pens I kept close at hand. I first ran a finger along the edge of the book, feeling the worn bent corners, then pressed the pages close together, and guessed at how much space I had left to fill. It didn’t seem like much. 
  I opened up to a blank page near the back, flattened it with the palm of my hand. I uncapped the pen, and drew a line down the left column, judging carefully how well it moved across the page. The ink first ran very thin, then expanded like water on a paper towel, the line losing definition and growing fat on the ink. This pen would do. 
  I then waited, as the point hovered above the page in anticipation, shaking slightly like a hungry man before his meal. It was eager to get the first few lines down, to feel as if we had accomplished something together. But the words didn’t come. 
  I continued to watch the window closely, intently, as if searching the empty expanse for some undefined feature. I noted the way the hills rolled over the valley, still evident in the darkness, dotted with the warm yellow lights of families gathered around a kitchen table or the living room television. I saw them as candles set upon the rooftops, markers for imaginary watchmen waiting over the sleeping streets. I could see the street lights tucked comfortably beneath the ragged winter foliage, florescent fires burning slowly in the neighbor’s yard. I could not see the stars, nor the white virgin moon, only a grey swell of moody clouds that never seemed to set. 
  This was a gentle night. 

— 1 month ago with 3 notes
#poetry  #prose  #spilled ink 

her feet crunch in the melting snow
I am fixed to the street
heavy steps
and the way her body struggles
in the short crossing
she stops half way
astonished by her sudden independence
and the black holes cut out of the lawn

— 3 months ago with 2 notes
#poetry  #spilled ink 
your mother’s house adorned with
red streamers and silk ribbons
the bedroom of white lace
local streets steeped in blue light like still rivers 
yellow sand stuck between your toes
tiny insects buzzing through green brush
america waited as we warmed the northern horizon
— 3 months ago
#poetry  #spilled ink 

we stitch our jeans together
while speaking of plain expectations
that taste stale on the tongue
snowfall settles outside
slumbering between blades of grass
I watch the clock as the
minute hand ticks eleven
inside dusty archives
ignite like fireworks
I quietly rejoice
you turn cold
a blue complexion
express contempt for romantic idealism
brush off our youthful attachment
and years of reverent wishing
as childish games
you wear maturity
like a fashion statement

— 4 months ago with 2 notes
#poetry  #spilled ink 

the sun closes in your
paper fan eyelashes
and if it were never
to rise again
the world would be
warmed by the

— 4 months ago with 4 notes
#poetry  #spilled ink 

weary dejection
hardened features
set into tree bark
sappy pulp welling
behind dark rings
forever counting 
the sleepless nights

movement slows
weight hangs from
listless limps
words fall out
like fall leaves
about the stump

the season is rife
with disappointment

— 5 months ago
#poetry  #spilled ink 

a small glimmer of hope
like bright mornings in your reading glasses
it sparkled endlessly
a million stars receding into one another
over small tidal pools
of speckled green
dreamy waters
I once swam in
and tasted

— 6 months ago with 2 notes
#poetry  #spilled ink 

corner store lighter
combustion in
purple and yellow bubbles
small catastrophes
growing ember
warm lungs
grey clouds
that hang below
short basement ceilings
personal heavens
smile with

— 6 months ago with 3 notes
#poetry  #spilled ink 

They move slow 
string in hand
voluntary bonds
threads woven like telephone lines
leading from schools
and tall office buildings
to plastic siding
green lawns
elaborate gardens
doll houses
They move in circles
cooridanted commutes
charted like constellations
always one step ahead of
the quiet discontent

building like static
in corners and crevices 

— 6 months ago with 1 note
#poetry  #spilled ink 
Harvest Moon

everything aches of you
horrible silhouettes of evergreens
line the same homely streets
that found us
menacing shadows 
throwing quiet insults
from the bank as if it were a balcony seat
everywhere the soft red tint
emergency room
fireworks in 
station stairwells
flicker brilliant
coded messages
cars pass
in mournful 
still night
racing hearts
in short

— 7 months ago with 2 notes
#poetry  #spilled ink 

is it the lack of bedside talk 
that draws you to the local pubs 
I frequent when I’m in town
unsavoury characters
late night bedtime eyes
cheap beer in plastic cups
bad cover bands with
clever slogans
I see you watching over shoulders
as I step a little closer
to the short skirt and polka dots
I hear you sob
in the mumbled chatter
inquires of close bedrooms
or car rides without tolls
appraisals of self-worth
always cheaper than expected
I am moving swiftly across
glossy hardwood floors
someone else clinging tightly
in graceful intoxication
all smiles
oh how she fits here
much better 
than you

— 7 months ago with 4 notes
#poetry  #spilled ink