Short Pock Poems

#Pie

Up down turn around pick a pan a bowl or two
              turn            a pock
              turn            a plum
              spin            baked in
Swirl the spoon, mix  a pie batter to make a treat for you...

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Lots of rocks in the black
      pock-marked yonder-
            in the star quarry,
lots.
Dead moonlight in my hand
                cools and shrinks.
Unseen,
                mind-dust kindles
in the charred sky fields.

A pebble needs throwing....

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The former MVP pawned his very last ring
    like the others, it had begun to sting
  Bittersweet memories of his storied swing
    that for a decade had made him King

  He'd hit home runs in every park
    high-arcing 'rainbows' his pet trademark
  Now resting quietly in a subway dark
    he rattles his cup, his rags pock-marked...

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His mind was full of bonfires
his chest full of mustard gas
as he coughed all day
If only I could die
he would have thought
if he could have thought.

She sat beside him holding  his hand,
her face pock-marked and yellow
from the munitions factory
No one knew   
what the chemical ration could do 
but she sat crooning her song....

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Post mark officials bleed into me
Redundant spell of auction burning
The microillusion out the back of skull
Near emerald waters with midnight pearl

Shining their mystery in the morning
Bereft of goals, spinning seagulls
Rewind ripples out of origin

To be among men and books
Lightning strikes frozen lips
Thawing histories of the past
As curtains draw on a closing era...

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Berlin
Bearlin
Berlin
How you've captured me
in your claws
your red sky
Has welcomed me
pock-marked arms
Or am I just a poor orphan
to your many lost 
children?
What must I do
to fall
into your line of grace?
Tongues wagging
I fell into you
wandering through
on a happy May day
changing views
of the same station
ever changing worlds
seemed all the same
'til I came to you
you promised
a new dawn
or was I mistaken?...

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Along the lost lanes of my life
Where pain and hope Blemish and blend
The child I was, and I, Traverse
An Enterprise of pock-marked maps
Whose stone doors Dampen splintered eyes
Flicked by fortune's Pernicious tongue

And with the forged Visage of thunder's sword
Her Sentry slays monsters of gray
Freeing Astral blooms to spark and blaze
Across the brief November sky.

11/07/20

8 Word Challenge 11 contest
Sponsor: John Hamilton...

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Long before the culture wars
  Life was calmer on these shores
Instead of magnifying 'racism'
  We telescoped 'outer-spacism'

Back then we knew the world wasn't perfect
   So many pock-marks of abject neglect
Troubling tendencies oft left unchecked
   Defects that we had to correct

Yet it sure seems toxic to label folks 'racist'
   Just makes things worse; not to our benefice
So why don't we think like incrementalists
   ~ Call our affliction 'racial prejudice'...

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