Andrew Baron
macbaron4@hotmail.com Bio (auto) | My name is Andrew Baron I live in Sugar Land, Texas I’m an autobiographical minimalist. | | |
The following work is Copyright © 2009, and owned by Andrew Baron and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.
That Night I cannot remember that night: January, cold,
beautiful, bland? But I imagine
it was just the same: all itch and ache Well, maybe your eyes, fireflies
when I get it right, did not shut down
with our bodies Perhaps that crushed green
held a steady glow beneath your eyelids
and we panted, our hearts thump thumping
back to pace Yes, I whispered something
uncommon: Lovely River, Moon Tear, Blood
Blossom, Sweet Fire, Perfection I love you No, nothing like that Only that night,
something else: an accidental flicker
fastened An ember, unending
I remember that night: January, freezing
so disturbingly still You swung the front door,
a bitter slam against the cold So, we kissed
My chapped lips burnt on your prickly
mustache; two lightning bugs pulsing, and then
it was over You muttered: How was it?
Alright? Okay? I love you I love you,
and your hand smoothed over my belly I cannot remember what else: if the lashes
of your eyes fell before mine, if you zapped
the T.V on, if my dreams bled from child
to woman to mother, or if I awoke any different
.a human being But on that night, something else:
a lucky speck, buried and spreading The tiniest wildfire, ignited Yes It will consume us, slowly, forever. |
M.K Harikumar
mkhkumar@gmail.com Bio (auto) The following work is Copyright © 2009, and owned by M.K Harikumar and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author. Dusk is not poetic anymore Dusk declined to be poetic anymore
And it laboured hard instead
for a new poetic genre Though it did succeed
In framing some patterns of red,
It gave it up unsatisfied That some strong patterns came up,
As though they were instances
Of some mysterious riots let loose
By someone, was just an experiment And the dusk now remains tired
of trying out many colours It was unsuccessful for it to conclude
that the most trying of challenges
was to live without any poetic shades Life is like the dusk It’s a constant effort
to be as much less poetic as it could But before thinking in this line,
someone else had set a canon
on the dusk’s declining to be poetic This is yet another reason for the dusk
to be deviating from the poetic fold |
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