Here is a very pleasant surprise-
Luke is a poet!
It's the kind of poetry that demands to be sat on. His poems make me cry and laugh and question existence.
One day he just whipped these gems up, like it was absolutely nothing. As though becoming a poet is a perfectly reasonable hobby for anyone to pick up on a Tuesday.
He agreed to let me share them here on our blog, for all four of our wonderful readers. Hi Gran, hi Chica, hi Ben and Christi! We love you!
I’m so excited he is sharing his poetry with us. I hope you enjoy them as much as I do!
AND SO!
Without further ado-
Luke’s poems!!!
Killing a Conch
There are several ways for a mollusc to meet its end.
The shell can be punctured by the incisive hunger of another.
Shattered into pastel fragments.
Or maybe the slippery master could be dragged out quivering,
Straining towards claustrophobic comfort.
In any case, the little potter must finally succumb.
The shimmering, azure eye will not be denied.
For all its fastidious assembly and obsessive smoothing,
Earthen vessels always fracture.
Sludge to sludge.
What jar could hold out the ocean?
Can any stopper put a cork on life?
Better to float free.
Meatballs
My perception shines like a meatball.
Squirming in their sockets,
Casting the world in grizzly hughes.
But Albedo says more about the planet than the star.
There’s a light that even a meatball must reflect, however dimly.
When I can manage to turn from those charnel orbs,
I see it.
Hanging in space.
Still, they sit on the countertop of my mind,
Swimming in a marinade of wasted attention.
Would it really be any different if they were clear cut crystals?
A mirror’s no use if you bruise your nose on it.
What Came First?
Unhappy chickens lay discontented eggs,
The sort that hope to crack,
Impatient, they can’t wait to spill themselves out.
Aghast and jiggling, they fester in the heat,
Blaming the sun for shining.
A forked tongue soon laps at the edges.
The serpent follows the slick until he bites his own tail.
Gulping and swallowing, he strains till his eyes pop and his neck snaps.
Poor desperate yes-man, angling for the discarded core of a guiltridden apple.
I wish emptiness and hunger were the same thing.
The one lacks for nothing and accommodates everything.
While the other’s just a gut swollen with piss and vinegar.
I envy the satiety of the void, but I can’t stop biting dust.
If I could get rid of this stomach, my belly would finally be full.
Why did I break the shell?
Did I grow tired of swimming in gold and drawing in nourishment?
What could be more interesting than watching myself coalesce?
Ah well,
I’ll get’em next time around.
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