I set fire to your memories,
releasing any passing thought.
Inside this net nothing is caught,
I’m done with that rerun series.
Please don’t utilize theories,
you amplified all I was taught.
I set fire to your memories,
releasing any passing thought.
Making riddles out of queries
any answer was all for naught.
Did you surmise I was distraught?
With a flick my lighter hurries,
I set fire to your memories.
Thunder speaks in riddles
I was never meant to solve.
Maybe silence
is the only language
I was trusted with.
Birds circle overhead
with jeweled arrogance,
their laughter sharp enough
to cut the sky.
I can’t tell if they mock me
or mourn me,
but their wings sound
like pages turning—
as if my story
is already written
and they’re skimming
the last chapter.
I’ve run the race from all my haste
with lungs full of gravel,
asked forgiveness
from shadows that never answered,
left pieces of myself
in places no one visits.
And still the world
refuses to shift,
refuses to notice
the quiet collapse
behind my ribs.
This body—
five feet ten inches
of locked doors
and flickering lights—
feels less like a home
and more like a cave
I was sentenced to inhabit.
Yet the wind keeps pushing.
The birds keep laughing.
The grass keeps falling
at my feet.
Somewhere in all that darkness
is a truth I haven’t touched yet—
a shape moving just beyond
what I’m willing to see.
Uppercut, Towel, Rent
Hanging out after his first lesson
He needs to get a life
Wash the bruise
Love Irish
A puzzle’s like a riddle
You hope to be surprised
But to solve a real-good riddle
I often close my eyes
What is seldom heard but never believed?
What is constantly heard and always believed?
What is not real but is everywhere you look?
What is not there but felt by many?
What cannot be held but many can possess?
What is created in the darkness but hides in the light?
What is born of shadow and fire but rebirth freedom?
What is invisible but is part of you?
What is a single flame in endless darkness?
Rip currents of ridiculous riddles
wet the chops of ink and parchment;
A poet enjoys tea and berry jam-tarts,
her pen tremors ‘We’re all mad here.’
Wet the chops of ink and parchment,
visit the tempestuous Queen of Hearts;
Feed your mind, milk her rose garden;
A poet enjoys tea and berry jam-tarts
drifting off into a golden afternoon;
Teaspoons paddle a sea of nonsense;
Her pen tremors ‘We’re all mad here.
Stop the infected pocket watch!
To write you must live in the moment.’
Do you tremble,
as the monstrous cadence,
of the rhinoceros' stride reverberates,
like the buffalo's onslaught?
Vipers at the water's edge,
darting hither and thither,
not above but beneath the surface,
their sinuous silhouettes fabric of nightmares, tearing sinew from skeleton,
swifter than their colossal marine brethren.
It carries weight,
this significance,
but how burdensome,
must it be to crane necks heavenward,
rather than cast them into the chasm,
of their looming oblivion,
demanding their torment,
for the paltry cost of enlightenment,
of suffering,
of metamorphosis.
This panacea,
I must admit,
with a hint of consternation,
a scrap of straw,
is all your bovine critter consumes.
Inked in raw matter,
the abyss loses its essence,
so what lexicon must I now spin,
to shatter your self absorption's daydream?
The shock resides not in the descent,
but in the startling velocity,
at which the earth surges to greet you.
Riddles
Riddle me this Batman:
what is the middle of a fat man?
Is there anything clean
about a garbage can?
If two can dance
can Toucan Sam?
Is beige the same as ecru or tan?
Why
-does it come between ex and zee?
Is the alphabet
a good bet,
or is beta better?
Are you meant to sweat
when you wear a sweater?
Or for that matter
pant in pants?
Or ambulate in
an ambulance?
forever entangled in your word riddles
cross-checking the depth of it all
meaning to leave it behind
for I know when it revealed your cards
things are spiral
hinting the inside insanity
far along the gameplay
your prayers and charms failing through
on my way making it past you
to unveil the love I deserve
and painting butterflies wherever
found my thoughts oppressed
longing for you
riddles
in your head
hold like saddles
reins as you move ahead
puzzles
Fellow travelers, an itch I'd like to scratch with you:
'His corpse was riddled with bullets' is a real head-scratcher.
Does it imply that either the corpse or the bullets were body-snatchers?
I know. I know. I'm supposed to picture lots of bullet holes in his corpse.
But why 'riddled?' What's the puzzle here?
I don't get it. Maybe you do. If so, please leave me a note, my dear.
Wasted
on intellect,
ripples of riddles break
on the analytical mind
dreaming.
in the desolate
solitary hours
when fear trickles down my spine
time is my jailor
closing me behind its doors
isolating my heartbeats
distant from yours
drips following a storm
ping a pattern of rubies
upon my flesh
heat carved runes
tell of lovers set aside
long ago
riddles on the wind
answers unfound
my present twists
into a knotted conflagration
higher
hotter than before
voices from the past rise
and resonate:
‘your heart-pain
bleeds from your words
that love is the umbrella
under which these wounds fester
is that much worse
untangle your heart-threads
from their prison bars
the landscape of your life
must evolve
immerse yourself
and know freedom’
my quest begins now
a riddle in verse
What is the number of years
Israel roamed the wilderness
if we divide it by ten?
What is the number of ears
on a frog duo warbling so loudly
your head is starting to spin?
What is the number of gears
on an average-size semitruck
minus half of a dozen?
What is the number of beers
found in a guzzler’s six pack
if two of them are missin’?
Riddled number whether in Rome or right here
tells us how often we celebrate Leap Year.
The Gregorian calendar makes it quite clear.
Pope Gregory XIII made ten days disappear.
February 10, 2020
Juliet Ligon's contest: What's in a Number?
minimalist
jagged
open-
white
space
all
around,
enigma
in
flux-
meaning
shaped
by lines-
ever
changing
never
the
same
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