Two guys by a bus stop, and they have nowhere to go.
They begin merging plucks and ribbits into a melting comfort.
Their destination is the Earth, and sedans honk at them.
Red stop sign becomes a resting place for a fellow cellist.
Fair lime crickets play along to the weeds, if just for this one moment.
And the taste of copper and paper is thrown at them in antipathy.
They are not homeless if the meadow’s honey is their home.
Yellow plaid is unlikely to grow here, it is foreign, says the guttle.
Different hues of blue in their familiar magical background.
No mortal whistle in the gale ought to be uttered during the tree’s ballet.
One hurricane lantern is shared between deities, or humans, or leaves,
And you can barely make out the vicars of string and bloodline.
Powder white porcelain glares at the back of their senseless heads,
Resting on a moss bed wearing a dress fly-fish dip in and a bear died for.
With a face made of zig-zags, one of them eats their mom’s snack,
The other swims with a black dog in gin bottles and stolen mint.
What a paradox, cried the wolves; they soon bellowed along.
Categories:
guttle, aubade, home, life, miracle,
Form: Free verse
Writing Gallery
Inspired by “Writing is really a form of addiction, really”
another superb Cyndi MacMillan line
Fill me poets with a
lawful rush to
every cell of existence.
Hooked like sharks
to wounds, guttle
each new drop, each word,
without which we painfully
pass away in need of substance,
a heart, a soul, any heart, any soul.
Kathryn McLoughlin Collins
Categories:
guttle, together,
Form: I do not know?