[x]

Robbing the ForgeThe wordsmith

Smashes
red stars into the air

--

I collected the sparks [ow, ow, ow]
And wrote you this poem

Birdie PoemLittle bird bird song
Has fallen in love
With the wooden weather bird.

She even sings in the rain.

Especially for youI wish I had time to catch all the raindrops

One of them might be a pearl

But if it was, somebody might get a sore
pop in the head

And that would be on the news

The little news

So longThe night is over
but we haven't fallen in love

The sun is sprinkling
a little
more ~~magic than usual over the
dripplygrassGoodMorning!
bread, orange juice, kettle's ready

and you're going away
to wherever it is you go

bye! bye.

kthunk.

I'll just be standing in the hall, then

FairiesAt bedtime
Jessie's mother read to her about
the 10,000 year old fairies that
lived secretly
in the hills and the clouds
and lit the way
for all the lost animals

A long time later
Jessie's mother told her that it wasn't real

But she didn't understand
She could still see them outside her window
every night

Fun fun fun in the sun sun sunFruit tree island
is on its way
spring
out of the ocean
sun bubbles for miles
salty splashes like stones
on your nose and your toes

CityscapeThe night is playing the tall buildings
like piano keys
from a sad song.

Poem to a New JournalI would like to tell you of the breeze at my windows,
and the taxis outside with their justshowing lights.
You should know about the chattering girls on my doorstep,
and the barbeque in the garden.
I might even write about the crane in the distance,
flirting with St. Giles' steeple.
Or perhaps my candles spitting hot wax
on their winebottle lovers.

I could describe your starchy pages
and scratched tan exterior.
Or explain the problem with my word leaking pen,
bought for 45p from the corner shop.

I would like to tell you many things,
but I am afraid.
You will spread your pages to too many
if unwatched.

So I shall bind you ti

haiku 2 day 2on your mother's legs
looking at a daisy grow
bare upon the grass

sky is like a deep
bright blue ocean all around:
we hover above

looking at the shapes
of animals in the clouds.
can you see them too?

planets are your eyes
new worlds on which i can't land
innocent planets.

StoriesTell me a story, she said
About here, right here, under the trees and
Between the houses.
Small towns have magic, she said, and cities
Have their legends
And their secrets
Hidden under all those people
But suburbs
Only get to have ghosts

So I told her
About the house on the corner
Where the lost things are.
Its owner
A small sturdy red-faced man
Robbed a bank many years ago
But only we knew it was him.
A fortune in old notes and coins
Lived in the cellar
Lonely
With only its captor for company
So he brought it company
Kites, balls, hurleys
If it disappeared there was no doubt
That it was in the house of lost things
But

There is a momentThere is a moment of unsurpassed peace
that happens only while driving.

This moment happens
on a very hot day,
when the sun is trickling
back over the horizon
and clouds of grey
drift slowly downwards
to alleviate the scorching plastic
of the dashboard.

This moment happens
while coasting downhill, windows agape
as the wind whips through the car
in steamy gusts.
Left arm hanging
from the rubber window ledge
fingers grazing
the metallic stovehot metal
of the car door with every crack and judder.

This moment happens
only while wearing sunglasses
and a short skirt.
When perspiration drops
crowd the temples,
and capture t

Summer is smaller than we allSummer was mild this year.
It wrapped itself around the chubby fingers
of a little girl of only seven,
barely settling in the ridges
of her clammy palm.

To me, she is god.

And The Raven Said

You died and you woke
To bird song
And dawn
To sleep and die
And wake
Again

Because you will find her.

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More from $pachunka

CityscapeThe night is playing the tall buildings
like piano keys
from a sad song.

Haiku about PeopleThe seasons
are melting.

Good Morning

I woke up again today

hungry for you.

Far away
you.

The Book of Whoosh

~~

Magic lenses-
retinally swooshing a consistently different electrapicture
to my mind
whenever I or my wake-up clock want them to.

Magic glass-
simulating outdoor conditions on a 2D plane
on my bedroom wall.
Nifty.

Magic faces-
under the control of nobody in particular,
looking for magic answers magic love.

a

d
n

~~

Lost between the curvatures

I wonder if that's you I hear
    between the winds
        and the waves
        and the rocks
    and the other things.

                    Alas.
Time to go home.

Fin

Perhaps today

the credits will fly

with a
mellow ending song,

and we'll all go back home
to sleep up

a new dream.

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Submitted: July 26, 2007
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Thoughts of a Dying Analyst

by $pachunka, Jul 26, 2007, 6:25:41 PM
Literature / Poetry / Experimental / Other

Low resolution language, high resolution brains.
High resolution bandits, low resolution trains.

New years' resolution coffee, no-resolution stains.
Low dissolution sugarbottom, very high voltage mains.

Thoughts of a Dying Analystby $pachunka

Literature / Poetry / Experimental / Other

Snow on my poems

~~love 0 0~~

joy 1 1

~~wow 0 0~~

~~mad 0 0~~

~~sad 0 0~~

~~fear 0 0~~

~~neutral 0 0~~

~michelesato Nov 17, 2007 Hobbyist Writer

this is absolutely lovely

~SilverHare Aug 27, 2007

A mighty fine pulsing rhythm, should we do a be-bop on it?

~Blanko2 Aug 7, 2007

listening to "running out of days" as i read this and i wonder if its a coincidence.
not likely.
and ur supposed to laugh cuz thats what u do when something is sad.
soz lost my train of thought there. hahaha

~oddlyaromatic Jul 27, 2007 Hobbyist Writer

Bam. TWOFER.

~allergic2everything Jul 27, 2007

cool

*a-random-quigle Jul 27, 2007

This is wonderful... quite unlike what you usually write in many ways. There's so much more to it than meets the eye- a whole host of stories... and ways it can be read... I keep finding more... each time I read it. I can't decide whether I should be smiling, laughing or crying.

There's a typo in the 3rd line btw... a trend it seems.

~Skyrail Jul 27, 2007

Simple, flowing, short and to the point. I like it, I don't often read poetry all the same

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Thoughts of a Dying Analystby $pachunka

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