Short Microwaved Poems

downing leftovers
zingless pasta microwaved
haphazardly 

8/26/2018...

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a question of definition

camping?
luxuries au wilderness
juxtaposition
air conditioned lassitude
with untouched raw nature
three piece baths
next to outhouses
wheels rolling through trees
electric lights break
the pristine dark
camp-fire-crackle ambiance
food microwaved
hot running water, lakeside
even the chipmunks shun
mere bread  
for more sumptuous fare....

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What do I see when I look into the persistence of memories?
Does it carry the same effect if my eyes were microwaved?
Would the clocks be suddenly corrected
Or shall they be straighter than the vision of Dali's
Melting in the feelings of the sunlight should they be saved?
Mine are are mine, though no matter how they're erected
Give it your best shot; to understand if their just follies...

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Eating my microwaved Salisbury steak 
Pretending winter is gone
Saving pennies to move our trash from A to B
Humming a sad little song
Writing memos and signing them well
What would happen if I actually fell?
Arguing religion with a guy from Maine 
Taking my mind off the constant pain
Stepping out in the cold to smoke
Laughing life off like a joke
Tomorrow is the same as today
So I guess I might as well stay...

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Men came with their ship.
Armstrong on the moon.
Dust stirred in a sigh.
Rising it covered
the false skin of man.

Sharp, angular
cold dust abrades
charged and clinging
like gunpowder

deal killer
magnetic
lunar dust

hazard
warning

moon

Dust

asset
wonder

arrival
man on moon
colonies

life expanding
a gateway orb
platform to stars
microwaved glass

Moon dust the dream ash
a hydrogen source
an oxygen source
the remnants of stars
histories first scent...

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Witchy, with a big fat wart
so horrid not a man would court.

She could have shed it with a spell,
so handsome men would ring her bell.

But Witchy's not the sharpest tool.
In conjuring, she was the fool.

A spell to be craved and adored.
She giggled as her magic poured.

Now she sits upon a log.
Just a big old slimy frog.

Toads adore her big fat wart.
Droves of them hop by to court.

Handsome men, her legs do crave;
fried in a pan or microwaved!...

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Tepid water from the bathroom tap
Washes my face with a flanneled slap
The water trickles between my fingers
My reflection in the mirror now lingers
Whilst I study the dampened brow
My face portrays the years unbowed

The morning’s call a morning news show
Tells me a lot more than I want to know
Microwaved wheat- bix and milk spooned
As I ponder the morning’s gloom
No anticipation of the coming day
Just a routine hum-drum not delayed.

© Paul Warren Poetry...

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