Submissions by professoryackle
POEMS AND SHORT STORIES
Poet Introduction
Cycling with no lights as a rat runs: gutterwise. Back streets, cartoon-fast.
FICTIONAL PROSE
Published
12th Apr 2015 2:24pm
12th Apr 2015 2:24pm
Thumbs
"If I wanted to create a surveillance society, I would start by creating dossiers on kindergarten children so that the next generation could not comprehend a world without surveillance."
- Andre Bacard, author of 'The Computer Privacy Handbook'
Prints. Lots and lots. Jane and Peter. Peter and Jane. I will tell you this if you keep my face in shadow. Your people will understand when they hear what I have to say.
I knew there would be trouble the day my sister's boy brought the letter home.
I knew there would be an outcry.
I came down...
- Andre Bacard, author of 'The Computer Privacy Handbook'
Prints. Lots and lots. Jane and Peter. Peter and Jane. I will tell you this if you keep my face in shadow. Your people will understand when they hear what I have to say.
I knew there would be trouble the day my sister's boy brought the letter home.
I knew there would be an outcry.
I came down...
743 reads
0 Comments
SPIRITUAL POEM
Published
11th Apr 2015 10:51am
11th Apr 2015 10:51am
The Wish-Granting Tree
Parijatam is singing. As the sun shifts low
she lights her Panjat candles;
each one a promise, a coin, a kiss.
Her perfume is jasmine and frangipan.
"You are everything I wished for," he says,
"And more". He still leaves her though.
As the sun lifts its face from drinking the water,
her children spill from her arms, glorify the ground.
Parijatam - arbor tristis - is not singing.
In the haze of today's yellow morning
A boy walks towards her.
With hands like birds' wings
he sifts every stricken flower
into his saffron...
she lights her Panjat candles;
each one a promise, a coin, a kiss.
Her perfume is jasmine and frangipan.
"You are everything I wished for," he says,
"And more". He still leaves her though.
As the sun lifts its face from drinking the water,
her children spill from her arms, glorify the ground.
Parijatam - arbor tristis - is not singing.
In the haze of today's yellow morning
A boy walks towards her.
With hands like birds' wings
he sifts every stricken flower
into his saffron...
951 reads
17 Comments
OBSERVATIONAL POEM
Published
11th Apr 2015 10:47am
11th Apr 2015 10:47am
New Road
Day of the week: a road is being made
outside my window. Hot black desire is laid
in sheets, where once the farmer rubbed the soil
between fat fingers. That's covered now. Crops spoil,
left out to dry too long in the acid sun.
You can see - just there - his last words, left undone.
A magpie shrugs, heads for the lightning tree,
and mutters to himself of treachery.
© professoryackle (Sara Pitt) All rights reserved
outside my window. Hot black desire is laid
in sheets, where once the farmer rubbed the soil
between fat fingers. That's covered now. Crops spoil,
left out to dry too long in the acid sun.
You can see - just there - his last words, left undone.
A magpie shrugs, heads for the lightning tree,
and mutters to himself of treachery.
© professoryackle (Sara Pitt) All rights reserved
693 reads
2 Comments
MISCELLANEOUS POEM
Published
10th Apr 2015 4:38am
10th Apr 2015 4:38am
Primroses
In an urban room
in a pot beneath a bed:
yellow primroses.
A child of the dark
rests his cheek, plumply, on glass
making connections -
His fingertips, eyes,
the world outside, primroses -
and a pledge is made.
© professoryackle (Sara Pitt) All rights reserved.
in a pot beneath a bed:
yellow primroses.
A child of the dark
rests his cheek, plumply, on glass
making connections -
His fingertips, eyes,
the world outside, primroses -
and a pledge is made.
© professoryackle (Sara Pitt) All rights reserved.
669 reads
2 Comments
LOVE POEM
Published
10th Apr 2015 4:21am
10th Apr 2015 4:21am
Haruki
The moon is on the silver tree.
Orion's dagger glitters.
I sit on the entrance stone and wait
for you, whose dreams are coins in another place.
Climb out of your window,
Gallop here on a beam of light,
Carry nothing.
© professoryackle (Sara Pitt) All Rights Reserved.
Note: this poem was inspired by Haruki Murakami's wonderful novel, 'Kafka on the Shore'.
Orion's dagger glitters.
I sit on the entrance stone and wait
for you, whose dreams are coins in another place.
Climb out of your window,
Gallop here on a beam of light,
Carry nothing.
© professoryackle (Sara Pitt) All Rights Reserved.
Note: this poem was inspired by Haruki Murakami's wonderful novel, 'Kafka on the Shore'.
571 reads
6 Comments
DARK POEM
Published
9th Apr 2015 2:48pm
9th Apr 2015 2:48pm
The Clock (song)
In a room full of dust he touched her hair, he touched her hair.
And her hair was like the cobwebs which covered her there,
which covered her there.
In a room full of evening he touched her skin, he touched her skin.
And her skin was like the parchment of the book she lay in,
of the book she lay in.
In a room full of must he touched her dress, he touched her dress.
And her dress was like the crackled petals,
crackled petals of her breast
In a room full of glass her lips he kissed, her lips he kissed.
And her lips were like the perfume...
And her hair was like the cobwebs which covered her there,
which covered her there.
In a room full of evening he touched her skin, he touched her skin.
And her skin was like the parchment of the book she lay in,
of the book she lay in.
In a room full of must he touched her dress, he touched her dress.
And her dress was like the crackled petals,
crackled petals of her breast
In a room full of glass her lips he kissed, her lips he kissed.
And her lips were like the perfume...
718 reads
4 Comments
SELF POEM
Published
9th Apr 2015 2:01pm
9th Apr 2015 2:01pm
Hypomania
(I have Bipolar. I can be up, down, or in between. This is what hypomania is like for me, condensed down, in poem form.)
I’m egg-yolk yellow, shell cracked wide.
I wanna bash me with a spoon
to smithereens, then climb inside.
I wanna shoot up to the Moon
from my windowsill, in the rain,
there and back in an afternoon.
I’m wrapped up tight in cellophane.
I like the noise. Should phone the shrink,
but I’d rather have a hurricane,
blister-fast, twisted way I think -
can’t chain my brain - it’s plastic,...
I’m egg-yolk yellow, shell cracked wide.
I wanna bash me with a spoon
to smithereens, then climb inside.
I wanna shoot up to the Moon
from my windowsill, in the rain,
there and back in an afternoon.
I’m wrapped up tight in cellophane.
I like the noise. Should phone the shrink,
but I’d rather have a hurricane,
blister-fast, twisted way I think -
can’t chain my brain - it’s plastic,...
756 reads
3 Comments
UPBEAT INSPIRATIONAL POEM
Published
9th Apr 2015 1:17am
9th Apr 2015 1:17am
Secret Sonnet
My eyes are tired. I think they might explode.
My body’s tired as well, but that’s too bad.
This sonnet’s written in a secret code.
I think I may be going slightly mad.
Amrita’s snoring like a baby tractor.
You need to eat this message once you’ve read it.
The key word that you need’s VELOCIRAPTOR.
Don’t worry, darling; I’ve already fed it.
I’m sure, if you are kind, he’ll be no bother.
Make sure, before you feed him, READ THE DOCS.
He has his blanky, knitted by his mother.
If he wants wee-wee, let him use the box.
Reply...
My body’s tired as well, but that’s too bad.
This sonnet’s written in a secret code.
I think I may be going slightly mad.
Amrita’s snoring like a baby tractor.
You need to eat this message once you’ve read it.
The key word that you need’s VELOCIRAPTOR.
Don’t worry, darling; I’ve already fed it.
I’m sure, if you are kind, he’ll be no bother.
Make sure, before you feed him, READ THE DOCS.
He has his blanky, knitted by his mother.
If he wants wee-wee, let him use the box.
Reply...
612 reads
2 Comments
SPIRITUAL POEM
Published
9th Apr 2015 00:57am
9th Apr 2015 00:57am
The Fire Eater
The Fire Eater -
She followed the land’s
curve, rode the black sun bareback,
flame in her mouth and hand.
The Fire Bender -
A blacksmith’s son; turned
the moon in its spark-filled sky,
tamed black beasts by the iron they wore.
© Sara Pitt (professoryackle) - All Rights Reserved
She followed the land’s
curve, rode the black sun bareback,
flame in her mouth and hand.
The Fire Bender -
A blacksmith’s son; turned
the moon in its spark-filled sky,
tamed black beasts by the iron they wore.
© Sara Pitt (professoryackle) - All Rights Reserved
565 reads
4 Comments
DU Poetry : Submissions by professoryackle
