Short Checkerboard Poems

Try and suck my sunshine,
You crazy black banshee!

You can't wear smiling eyes ,
Your laugh is a pitiful cry ;

Don't think it's easy ,
It's checkerboard confusion ;

Try and take my light ,
The glow cannot be stolen 

It only covers what's real;
All you are is black and broken...

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FROM THE MOUNTAIN TOP – four Haiku

from the mountain top
checkerboard to spreading seas
i standing alone

from the mountain top
what the great winged eagle sees
so solitary

from the mountain top
my every thought soaring
a dizzying height

at last I descend
join the passing parade
know nothing    decided...

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The checkerboard 
is still there
     But it seems 
as if one 
         of 
         the 
        players 
is gone
           If you wanst
  to see a game
played by one person
against a missing
fighter
        By all means continue to 
watch
However , there are holidays 
coming up
     and bright sunshine
is predicted...

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The ex's take the square and
another moment disappears
as the checkerboard plaid host
attempts a sophomoric joke
my eyes dusty from the 70's
painted on glitter spray
yawn as time won't slip away
into dreams of headstands
and pirouettes catapulting
into an air of floating hearts 
released from the jar along with
fireflies under everlasting stars...

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Minds on fire 
bodies racked with pain 
Eyes bleary 
Every day it seems 
that the great checkerboard 
of day and night 
has us in its grip 
Where do we come from?
Where are we going?
These questions fill the air 
It seems that we are on a treadmill 
Like Sisyphus 
we face frustration 
But we can change 
the path we are on 
if we play our cards right...

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A pattern like a checkerboard
Is one that I adore,
On clothing, bedding, even rugs
Or tiles upon a floor.

Though stripes and dots and plaid are nice,
I’m partial to the squares,
Especially in black and white;
Not one design compares.

Those little boxes neatly wrought 
To me are unsurpassed,
Except, of course, for someone
Who must hide a checkered past....

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Tonight, my skin is a checkerboard
across which your fingers trod.
My eyes are the ransacked cities;
my arms the passageway to escape. 
Your hands claim my ribs, my neck.
Your hands rest on my cheeks
sprouting full-formed wheat stalks.
I am the sea, formless and uneasy.
You are the ploughed land, stable and course.
Your calloused hands are tendrils of smoke
hovering in this watchful darkness....

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Blinking lights,
Grey faces
         worn down by
   an endless chain
of encounters with machines
     Social life becomes 
a checkerboard 
     of electrical impulses
and responses
     Happiness has always 
                 been elusive
But do we really think 
         that we can 
cause it to turn on and 
        off like qa lightbulb
   Poe talked of science 
    stealing his "summer dream"
We know his point
        "In Spades"...

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