The Sandbox Sestina – Trying Fixed Form Poetry

When winter’s fierce cold subsided,

We Baker boys came out to play.

Spring made the world feel new,

It made the park feel like mine.

And we Baker Boys went to our corner

Our favourite place: the old sandbox.

 

But past our place in the sandbox

Our joy in the old things subsided

For there, in the opposite corner:

A huge box of sand hailed our play.

We ran together shouting, MINE!

Excitement for something new.

 

We’d make it, we’d relish the new

But others were there in our sandbox.

Their shovels did not look like mine.

Closing in, their talking subsided.

But one boy invited us to play.

We timidly stuck to one corner.

 

Another boy shared his lunch in the corner

The food that he carried looked new.

And they showed us how they play

We built large castles in the sandbox.

And strangeness, for a moment, subsided;

For this new place felt like mine.

 

And I wanted it all to be mine,

So we flooded out of our corner

Our visitor status subsided.

I don’t want them here, they’re new,

I need them out of my sandbox,

I need more room to play.

 

I’m annoyed, they invaded our play.

They tried to claim what is mine.

So we drew a line in the sandbox,

And gave them the smallest corner

After all, we outnumbered the new.

And soon their resistance subsided.

 

I’d let them in my sandbox if they promise to stay in the corner.

But they must play like I play, speaking words like mine.

I’ll decide what’s new. Their ways will be subsided.

The Bridegroom Cometh

If only she had planned ahead

If only she had known

Trapped now, lifeless, breathing deeply                                                                                          

In a pale blue borrowed gown     

                                                                                                       

The bride is screaming, ever anguished

Strangers watch her dream

Feeling nothing, ever feeling

Nothing to redeem

 

Words are spoken, often uttered

Oblivious of the bride

Words foretelling every torture

Waiting to be tried

 

In the deep still calm of twilight

When the room had emptied out

The bride cried for her lover

But faith faltered in the doubt

 

Could he find her here? She wondered

Would he see her free?

Would he defy the men who held her

In silent captivity?

 

The bride called for her saviour

The bride called for her Lord

The cries were heard in Heaven

Though, she uttered not one word

 

Her bridegroom came, he came, he came

He lay with her, he came

He whispered to her, reaffirming

My love, My love, I came

 

Silent screaming faded,

The bride relinquished breath

Alarm bells screamed and fought to hold

As the bride succumbed to death

 

                                             /\/\/\/\/\/\_________

The doctors billed the system

The nurses cleaned the room

The Jane Doe’s charts were finished

No one ever saw the groom.

At The Mercy of My Iphone

I used to believe robots would one day attempt to overthrow humanity.

Terminators would try to save the Sarahs and Johns among us,
But most would fall to the creepy melting cop.

My Iphone tells me when to wake
when to leave
and how many calories I eat.

It buys my stocks.
It books my flights.
It has access to my bank account.

And it knows where I live.

It tracks the movements of my friends.
It talks to my family,
it renders my voice redundant. Qwerty’d.

It stores the soundtrack for my life and
tells me when I spend too much.

It steals my free time with
tweets
and pokes.
It has stolen my ability to memorize ten digit numbers.

My Iphone has already killed my calculator, my camera, my flashlight,
and a pilot I used to know named Palm.

It knows where to bury a dead body.

It speaks.

It’s after the children.

No one

can escape

the future

is

now

O Come All Ye Faithful

Plastic

needles smell

unsweetly,

dank, musty old.

Six feet tall without

The star, a yellow pointed mass.

A stand without a reservoir, green plastic

Trunk

Each light shines Pink,

not red.   Pink. Built right into

the plastic  branches, entwined and unchangeable.

Plastic balls of mimesis cling to their unrighteous branches

with wire. She cries

Out for the smell of spruce, of sap, of pinecones

She longs for the antique golden angel, the shedding needles

Glass spheres shining hung fresh each year, reflecting joy. She looks for the tangled

Strings of lights, white, red, green, blue, yellow, each needing attention, beautiful. beautiful.

She searches for holy water, the

stain  on  the  hard  wood  floor,

the remains of tinsel clinging to

the   cloth   angels,   stars,   and

reindeer ornaments she made as gifts as a child, alas, finding nothing, she plugs in a pine scented air freshener,

settles in with a mug of instant cider and watches the 1994 version of Miracle on 34th Street.       Happy Xmas.