Tag: existence

Poems · poetry

“Scratch Roulette”

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“Scratch Roulette”

A dry scratchy itch,

Transcends skeletal etiquette.

Just, can’t, get…

It!

I think it’s like one of those situations when someone mentions something,

And then your imagination goes full tilt.

Like school emails sent home indicating a confirmed case of lice at school.

It starts small at first, but then you get the skeevy shivers, and scratch all over.

Even though you don’t have lice.

Or bedbugs, or fleas.

Just a phantom menace.

Irascible,

And only dispatched by the satisfaction of fingernails breaking skin.

Poems · Poemvember 2018 · poetry · Uncategorized

POEMVEMBER 2018-DAY 13: “Wet Leaves Stop The Traffic”

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“Wet Leaves Stop The Traffic” ©️C.P. Hickey 2018

“Wet Leaves Stop The Traffic”

A friend texted that her morning train was delayed due to wet leaves on the tracks.

I’ve heard most if not all the excuses the transit authority uses for poor service, but I agree with my friend: this is a first.

It would seem slippery Leaves would lubricate the movement of wheels on a track, but maybe that is not what is needed.

Still, it seems like a pretty bullshit reason.

Yet, the boxcars full of commuting cattle was delayed indefinitely.

I mean, eventually it moved, but not before thousands of texts, and emails, and false promises were made.

Hell, if I was on that train, I would have been inclined to call in sick.

And just for fun, I’d tell them that I can’t come in because there are wet leaves on my bedroom floor, and in the hall, and in the bathroom, and down the stairs out the door, and all the way to the train.

I wouldn’t want to slip.

Poems · Poemvember 2018 · poetry

POEMVEMBER 2018-DAY 12: “Day In Day Out”

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“Day In Day Out” ©️ C.P. Hickey 2018

“Day In Day Out”

If I paddled upstream,

I would remain in place.

Everlasting lines at the grocery,

Folks fighting tooth and nail over clipped coupons.

The is no clear cut winner in that scenario despite whomever wins.

Facebook comments are often misleading and misinformed.

Ranting and raving is rewarded with a higher blood pressure.

Some salad bars are filthy.

The sneeze guard is filthiest.

That is of course, until you pick up tongs that may or may not have fell on the floor.

Day in day out, disappointment looms large.

I remain impressed by how bad it can get, and how quickly that can happen.

And then, somehow, I remember everything I forgot

Poems · poetry

“Presiding”

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“Presiding” ©️C.P. Hickey 2018

“Presiding”

There are sounds in graveyards.

Earthen sounds of sorrow and surrender.

Sonic suppositions and wailing gypsies.

Contemplative gorge.

Terror of impermanence.

An impasse, but not passive.

Hang around long enough and you train your ears to listen.

On the fringe of life, abutting, and right up against it.

A city of ruins, leading paths to a suburban eternity.

Invited patience sublimates itself to the alpha regret.

Sinister doubts press courage from beating hearts.

The busy silence teases out the denied emotions of Faustian bargains.

Legions of lifeless bones, marked by dust and stone.

A marathon sprint to stillness.

Perpetual motion, dispatched to be oblivion.

Authoritative immense silence speaking volumes to those not willing to look.

A distant buzz of lawn-grooming engines, drones on.

A lulling drone; consistent.

Cars passing by on the periphery, allowing measurable distance to be heard.

Rushing toward a graver situation.

Whistling past the graveyard.

Tenants without complaints, barely registering.

Rotting remains, animate the six-feet deep dioramas of death beneath our feet.

Worms, et al, explore yawning canvases.

A subterranean bacchanalia.

Mourner’s tears ant farm tunnels in the shoveled earth.

This offends the dead, but no one understands why?

Perhaps grief humors the living, despite the noise of the dead.

Poems · poetry

“Falling Angel”

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“Upper Deck” ©️C.P. Hickey 2018

“Falling Angel”

Sometimes I have a fear of great heights.

Or, more accurately, a fear of falling from great heights.

Or, more accurately, a fear of dying from falling from great heights.

Sometimes.

Dizzying vertigo, upward and further go,

Into the clouds.

Breathing breeds sobriety,

Side effects include anxiety.

Descending the birth canal,

Into a endless free fall.

Death is just another landing point.

Poems · poetry

“Mushroom Trip Serendipity”

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“Paving The Way” C.P. Hickey 2018

“Mushroom Trip Serendipity”

Mushroom trip serendipity.

Can feel the maze closing in on me.

Each limb slips and further imprisons me.

I can’t breathe.

Closing elevator doors,

Gas pump meter rolling on.

Ran the stairs,

And missed the top step.

Catapulted into another day.

Rage rage rage trebuchet,

Conducting malignant doubts,

Into projected projectiles.

Piling casualties.

Assaulting victims.

Who am I?

But, that which aids to infamy.

Despondent,

Resplendent caution.

Affirming my exhaustion,

For living and those living.

Poems · poetry · video

“Windermere Plantigos”

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“Windermere Plantigos”

Abutting a frenzy of dancing air,

Petals and leaves propel themselves still.

Potted points of oxygen emissions.

Nature dovetails with man made structures.

Breaking left and right,

Aboveish and belowish.

Invisible force,

Much like gravity,

But not as omnipresent.

A delicious chill leaks down my back and puckers my cheeks.

The time of seasonal consistency approaches its end.

Onward to the new death,

And dying things.

That somehow make it their business to appear at a later time.

Poems · poetry

“Deactivation”

Christopher Hickey4 Comments
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“Deactivation”

I achieved a mild milestone:

When I deactivated my Facebook account.

Saving face,

More space for wonder.

Thoughts replace reactions,

And newer sincerity brews cautiously in my percolator.

Eventually, the contents of my vessel will be infused with renewed hope.

If not, I’ll just add sugar and cream.

Stir it up.

I’m sure I’ll fall into a library and get lost among the stacks.

I’ll look for a reference book on methods of discourse and logic; likely the Greeks.

Embracing the choice of unlearning bad habits.

Then, putting that book the fuck down,

And speaking with a fellow human.

Engagement.

Not virtual, but real reality.

The art of conversation has been lost,

And we can’t wait for lingual archaeologists to explain the WAS of it.

It’s needed now, most especially.

Poems · poetry

“Raindrops and Tubesocks”

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“Raindrops and Tubesocks”

When I was a kid,

I enjoyed being outside in the rain.

Not directly, of course,

But, huddled in a doorway, or a shed.

Breathing dampy.

Listening to the regal pitter-pat of raindrops drumming on corrugated roofs, or the splintered plywood of makeshift forts.

Raw earth and drinking greenery would tickle my nostrils,

And car contrails of mist would space the distance according to the traffic tempo.

If you listened carefully, you would hear man-sized Tonka Trucks, pile-drivers, and the whistling sound of landing planes on final approach.

The safety of a semi-dry place during all of this,

Made me feel the good alone.

Defying nature, until it was time to return home.

When I peeled off my soiled Chuck Taylors from puddle stomping missteps.

My white socks would be ink black.

Poems · poetry

“I Would Rather Be A Mystic”

Christopher Hickey2 Comments
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“I Would Rather Be A Mystic”

In a world of vanity,

I would rather be a mystic.

Deranged politicians espouse morality while acting immorally.

Intellectuals are derided for pursuing knowledge,

And uneducated citizens take exception to discourse.

The asylum is being run by the inmates,

And apathy grows prominent by the minute.

Human blight, cheering on the failure of progress.

Twisted hearts hate for hate’s sake.

The truth is right there at the end of our noses,

But the comfort provided by cowardice Trumps reason.

Grow up!

If you keep going left and right,

You will be traveling in a circle.

Immobilized.