PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

My eggshell cracked on the edge of the pan

after being handed from the car door

to the floor that seemed to be retreating

and rapidly receding, only to

appear again, only closer this time.

Where I expected sizzle I had rain

that pooled in the recesses made for grease.

There I proposed a treatise to myself:

never settle for breakfast when promised

a safe ride from the drop-off point to home;

at least not before the bacon arrives.

The night falls upon face of the earth

Like a blunt slap devouring the mirth

Startled, bereaved, moaning in groups

Deprived of their home and hearth

Constant exodus and constant misery

Ceaseless penury of mindless fury

As if the elements of entire universe

Coming together to promote the curse

Thoughts are numb

Words are absurd

Only vultures in the name of bird

In sight...  a terribly perishing herd

Skewed justification

Political configuration

Systematic human extermination

End of reason, end of salvation

It is just so difficult

To express in words

The hapless cries for help

One learns to ignore

When routinely

Murders occur

When insanely

Children suffer

Women are raped

Minds are shaped

To accept the grotesque

As standard

Red rose reminds of blood

The crescent of murderous weapon

Every other is now the foe

To kill has become a mission

Held in thy vigil coven,
woven by cold hands;
you hang your putrid colors.
You concoct your errant miseries
with those fools you've fooled to pit.
Spells and petty tricks of mind
in tandem with your hellish brews,
make bed the best of man with
hell to gain and land to lose.
Wives made dowry through exchange
into hives carved in blue mound
are rarely seen nor heard again,
until the newest coven's found.
Bound by thy tongue and smite,
burnt of soul and presence;
the women fall to sword,
just as you will, in due time.

None had ever bested us.
We, who were beyond rebuttal
were manufactured and
mesmerized by commoners
and set in one direction with
one purpose at a time.
From beneath we'd bury back
by blazing every mote of air,
every free and able space;
each man, each woman
who wore the colors we opposed.

Suddenly, they tucked us in,
and from our cracks beneath their feet
we poured like urchin toward the heights
as soles of boots did burn and scold
against the poured embankment.

While the blanket spread its death
and warmth, we fought our panic
and our foes did find us soon.
Collected, we then forced apart
all things, all people and
all constructs and their strata.
We do as we were made to do:
gorging on the dirty air as
we channeled hatred from
this distant place we had dreamt of.

But the many were just more than we,
who'd sunder they so ceaselessly;
informed by ours against their mantra,
chanted as they did seek our end.
The tidal wave of mortar, magma
and steel and stone emergent from
their mouths and beds that house the whole
of worth that they had gathered then.
Its weight was pressed upon our heads
and it was too much for rending thrice.
In hours we were widdled down
to matchstick men in drizzled ponds;
granted mercy in exchange
for our imminent departure.

Against ourselves, against our own;
we were perceived as threats and holy
smotes that left a pillared smoke
in wake of all we couldn't take.
Those who'd come, divided, took
a sampling of all our ranks -
like gluttons at a feast bones,
adorned by corpses, rotting, parceled.
And taken toward the other lands,
where paltry men once sought our guts,
we're flung aboard a soldier's hut
and told to be just as we were.

We would be deployed again
with a novel sense that we'd done wrong
in name of right or something close,
while we destroy our remaining brethren.

Kilagin "Kiljoy" Gullivus Frack -
not lacking humor but absent of tact -
twirled all his gears on route between posts,
doting on debts while sharing new jokes.
Man made of boulders with head settled small:
Kilagin Frack, with big Eastern drawl;
seen both as a portent and beloved delight,
affirming the change while pleading their plights.

The folding months had come quickly this year, with air so crisp and biting and the ground beneath growing harder as the temperature descends. Though the sun as it rises is near-blinding, its light has not the power to chase away the cold that comes with the change of seasons. With each passing moment, the day grows brighter, and the dreary veil of dust and shadow is lifted and cast away by the first strong breeze of the fold morning.

The Ellis Farmlands stood out as the sole beacon of civilized and occupied land amidst the endless rolling plains that surrounded it. For many stepps in every direction, there is almost nothing besides few beaten dirt roadways, small and wiry patches of brush and thimble bushes and the occasional ruin of an abandoned shelter or farm house. Dillans can be seen wandering in tight packs and nipping at the ground, their coarse fur growing thicker in preparation for the cold that is well on its way. Jacob "Jericho" Ellis stood atop the warped and creaking floorboards of his farmhouse patio, gazing out at his few meager plots of cultivated land. The closest plot, the one just left of the old hazel-coated barn, was giving him his only decent yield of the season. Mottled turnips were his personal favorite, but they never sold particularly well, and he often ended up keeping a majority of them to eat and cook in stews.

He ran his hand through his thinning blonde hair and breathed a heavy sigh. He knew that the folding months would be simple and easy; they always were. Lichenwit grows tall and bountiful in the folding months and will usually sell quickly to the right trading posts, and there will be opportunities to trade for livestock to make Polla a little simpler. But Polla itself would be quite the burden this year. The old Ellis farmhouse was getting draftier and Jericho knew that he would not be able to afford any repairs until the following year. On top of that, Oliver, his sole remaining farmhand still under his employment, was requesting fewer and fewer days of labor. Though still quite capable for a man in his fourth sweep, Jericho could feel his age weighing upon him, and the thought of manning his crops alone worried him a bit. But perseverance was a farmer's most valued trait; Jericho knew this well and he knew himself well. He would survive, as would his business and his farm.

He lifted his arms over his head and stretched, groaning loudly and closing his eyes. He could feel the morning's stiffness draining from his body as he readied himself for another day of hard work. After a moment of stillness, he placed one foot on the matted dirt and made way for the barn. Today he would attempt to salvage his largest, furthest plot of land, as it had been completely overrun by stray stones and clumps of chunked mud after the previous week's windstorm. It would be a tough and grueling task, but if it wasn't done with soon, he may not be able to plant a new thatch of seeds in time for the fold yield. As he rested his hand on the old barn door, he felt a slight tremor through his boots. He stopped abruptly and waited for another. It came, stronger this time, with enough force to rattle the many tools hanging on the inner wall of the barn. Jericho stood like statue, his blue eyes widening, unsure of what the cause could be. Land quakes weren't unheard of in the Flatlands, but they were not common, nor were they usually noticeable. He turned from the barn and surveyed his surroundings. Could there be a caravan nearby? Maybe one of those steam-powered vehicles he had seen here or there around Galloway?

He scanned the horizon, watchful for any moving clouds of dust that signified the passage of a transport. He saw nothing, not even the slightest hint of movement. Again, he felt the odd and alien rippling of motion beneath him, and again it felt stronger. Jericho was frightened now, fearful for his property, unsure whether or not this strange force would grow immense enough to do serious damage to his home. He began to walk briskly from the barn towards the nearest of his three plots and surveyed the mottled turnips growing there. They seemed undisturbed by the tremors and were growing quite healthily, serenely ignoring all things besides the sun and the ground below. The land's quivering was becoming less idle and more frequent now, and the turnips' few small leaves shook briskly with every quake. With a cold sweat running from his forearms to his palms, Jericho turned from the plot and intended to sprint into his home in order to brace it and himself for what may be the worst land quake the Flatlands has seen in many years.

But before he could take a single step, a queer sight caught his eye. Above his farmhouse, high in the air, a stirring cloud of dust was twisting and writhing, obscuring the blue of the morning and becoming more violent in its motions by the second. More and more dust was kicking into the sky, and with a sudden start, Jericho realized that the dust was not at all far from his property. In fact, it seemed to be directly above his largest plot of land, the one he had intended to clear this very day. Despite his fear, Jericho gathered himself and quickly sprinted around the side of his farmhouse. He stared into the distance as he ran, looking for any movements, any signs, any significant thing that may explain what is causing this to happen to his land. His thoughts were loud and incoherent, falling over top of one-another. He heard the voice of his late wife; her firm yet loving tone easing his strain as he swept by the tall weeds near the outhouse, the broken barrow that he hadn't found time to repair and the many stones that he gathered from his fields at the start of every season.

"Calm yourself, love. Be sure that there is nothing to be afraid of just beyond our home. There must be an explanation for these tremors, and you will find it, won't you?"

As he approached, the air grew thick with stray dirt. He found it difficult to breathe, but continued to push through, eyes closed against the sting of the airborne flecks. The ground was shaking violently now; Jericho could hear pots and plates toppling in his kitchen from the open window. The agonized squeal that resonated from beneath his home terrified him - the very foundation itself seemed to be giving way. He turned the corner around the farmhouse and laid eyes upon his shoddy, near-useless plot in the distance. Blanketed almost completely by shifting dirt and sprays of loose gravel, Jericho was at first unable to see what could cause such commotion. Squinting, daring not to approach just yet, he peered into the swirling earthly vortex and could faintly make out a large shape, moving restlessly up and down, disappearing and reappearing over and over. He held his breath and waited. He could not keep his body from shaking, and his mind reeled with possibilities of what exactly was tearing his land apart. Nothing that made any sense came to him, and he felt helplessness. Suddenly, all at once, the ground's shaking ceased, and the disturbing figure beneath the dusty curtain ahead of Jericho suddenly sunk out of sight. Slowly and steadily, the air began to clear.

Though the quaking had let off, Jericho could still feel a strange vibration in the soles of his feet. The ground seemed to swell and pulse lightly. Jericho squatted down on to his hunches and waited; for what, he wasn't entirely sure. He watched with fierce concentration as the cloud of dust finally settled and dispersed, looking for any faint signs of movement. He saw nothing, and slowly rose to his feet once more. Though hesitant, Jericho felt something drawing him towards the plot; an otherworldly compulsion that demanded he investigate and find out just what caused such a ruckus on his own land. Stepping lightly and struggling to be as quiet as possible, he began to move forward. He could feel his fevered heartbeat and was unable to calm himself down as he approached, his entire body now coated in a thin layer of sweat. As he came closer to the plot, he noticed a strange warmth permeating from the ground below him, as if there had been a fire upon the land just moments earlier. Just ahead, Jericho could see the sorry state of his field plot, now in even worse condition than it had been in before. There were gaping holes littered throughout, and the ground itself looked as if it had been clawed and chewed by some colossal beast. It barely even resembled a farmer's plot anymore, and Jericho felt disheartened at the sight of it. He continued his gentle approach, hands at his sides, eyes affixed firmly upon the ground in front of him. At last, he stopped a short distance away from what once was the southern edge of his field plot, and waited. He sniffed the air there and beyond the stale scent of shaken dirt, there was a faint aroma that he couldn't quite make out. It was a sweet, mild smell with a touch of spice to it. The warmth below him was more noticeable than before at the edge of his plot, but just as he had grown still, the small, puny vibrations in the ground had quietly ceased.

Jericho stood there, beneath the rising sun of this folding morn, and mourned the loss of his plot. His worry over the cause of the destruction was trumped by his worry for his farm. How would he be able to salvage this land now? There was nothing left here to be used; no solid dirt to plow, nowhere to lay seeds. He trudged forward and slumped to his knees at the very edge of his field, taking two handfuls of dirt in his hands and staring at them with eyes now swimming with angry tears. He let the ruined earth slide between his fingers, and placed both of his hands on his heart, saying a quick prayer. The wind licked at his ears and dried the tears now falling from his eyes to the ground below, some landing on his knees. He watched as his tears stained his maderals, turning the faded-blue fabric to a deeper, darker blue. He retreated into his thoughts. Patiently, he awaited the voice of his wife, with a comforting word or an anecdote. She never came.

From the ruined land which Jericho mourned, a violent shiver suddenly issued forth, rippling in every direction. Jericho woke from his trance and sprang backward, crawling away from the plot while dragging his bottom along the ground. The heavy vibrations then centered and became focused directly in the center of the old field, and the ground there bubbled as if water set to boil. Jericho watched in awe, mouth agape, as he paid witness to the sight of a monstrous, long-snout creature rapidly rising from the dirt. It ascended towards the sky, its gigantic body coated in scales of brilliant greens and golds. It had no limbs that Jericho could see, but he could just barely make out two crooked and ancient-looking horns atop the beast's head. Its snout was elongated and thin, with long, red tendrils hanging off each side. They strangely held semblance to cat whiskers. Sunlight beamed from of the creature's body, reflected off of its beautiful scales. With one fluent, incredibly graceful movement, the creature's rising ceased, and it allowed itself to plummet downward, suddenly arching and diving snout-first into one of the many holes that it had created in Jericho's land. Jericho remained poised on the ground, lost in shock, unable to move any part of his body, least of all his eyes. He watched as the beast fell into the earth, and waited for its inevitable tail to appear. He had to know the size of it - had to know just how far the creature spanned. But the tail never came into daylight. Its strange, long face abruptly rose above the ground just behind its steadily sinking girth, rising towards the heavens once more and then disappearing into the ground just as quickly.

The shaking beneath him came to a gradual stop, and the heat that rose with it began to taper off, becoming a soft, almost comforting glow that Jericho could only barely feel. Lazily, the creature rose up and down, diving into and out of the ground, as if a simple-minded fish swimming in a child's jar. As it came into view once again, Jericho was able to see the shape of its eyes: like strange and crooked tears, completely blue without any iris. They seemed to look at nothing and everything at the same time, as if watching a whole different world that Jericho could never see. It ignored Jericho's presence, serene in its passage through the field, constricting through every layer of dirt and turning the land into a completely loosened, sunken pool of soil. It swam, oblivious to all around it, its movements lilting and smooth despite its incredible size. At last, Jericho rose to his feet, with little caution or stealth. His hands limp by his pockets, his gaze firmly locked on to the new denizen of his land; he licked his lips, and took a deep, shaking breath.

"A farm serpent." Jericho said, his voice just barely a whisper.

There stood Monolith,
just past Erie's Backbone and beyond;
its grip tightened upon the farmland and
drew from it curiosities and profit.
Freedom withstood
in the Flatlands at large and on,
but it was a clear threat perceived and
worried over at nearly every post.

There in high towers
made of white iron and colored glass,
a good doctor had stood and heard words
spoken by wise men with a wealth of strange ideas.
They said he was needed
in order to understand the mind of a boy,
eligible and elected for a kind of experiment;
its purpose at large left muddled to him.
Doctor Montion Maynard,
among colleagues and friends who
had recommended he, the faithful shrink,
buckled to the needs of such an endeavor.

Little time was taken
to truly get to know the captive boy,
as we all suspected he was temporary.
Such ambition often leads to unintentional harm.
But as he was devoured by the light,
we all sought to steal a glance from another,
hoping to find blame to cast or reassurance
from anyone beyond the crazed voice in our minds.
All machines then lived,
and then fell silent after belching smoke or flame.
The dripping echoed voice had ceased,
and we felt our stable grip return to us.

The room was emptied,
burned and sealed behind wide metal doors.
Smells of scorching plastics rose through halls
and forced us to evacuate entirely.
Distant, flickering cries
could be heard for many days afterwards,
and the feeling of static was always abundant
when near the place where Daniel had gone.

They spoke of the Theorized Space;
had claimed it able to be sought and found
and probed as if a place on Earth,
but with no rules and no limitations.
Most suspected Daniel dead,
but some insist on claiming grand success,
"Of course he's gone to the other side!
There wasn't a trace of him left to discover!"

The good doctor wept,
and now slumps to the floor often,
unsure of noise that wakes him in the evening;
it often drips as if submerged in the sea.

We gathered our intelligence and ran
with suggestion upon suggestion, turning
to the darkest depths of our collective
imagination, hoping to come upon
some other-worldly presence that
would prove beyond the shadow of doubt
the worth of us and our capabilities.

We composed a house of broad equation
that delved into sightless and soundless waves
of possibility, intangibles that become tangible,
and lucid prescience in the face of the blind.
Our experiments grew wilder with each
exhausted resource that left our disposal.
We refused the climbing unease within
that left us desperate for a result and
an answer with which to ease our pained
curiosity and our standards to which we're held.
Suddenly, as if by accident or fate itself,
we had come upon the Theorized Space,
and sought immediate access to its answers.

Within the Space we couldn't probe -
beyond man's eye the static dark
would flex and bend and wield itself
as a force of unaware allegiance
to the possible and the unknown.
And so we stood and silence fell on
every man and woman present as
the only clear course of action
became apparent to we who dreamt.

With the stature of a morgue's man carried,
we did what those of insight must:
we spread and searched and came upon
a lonesome wretch whom none would miss.
And strapped him in we did well fit
to a machine that we'd hope could stand between
the worlds of which we knew and uncovered,
ignoring his stammered cries and pleas.
His words were choked by flying volts
that found a home beneath his skin and cells,
scrambling him, his very being to
something beyond what we'd suspected.
Light devoured the room we had taken
and became something of a tomb for this
boy and his humanity, for as the bright
subsided, he had gone from us here,
and had become something far beyond
what we were able to comprehend,
or even control in the slightest sense.

We struggle to observe this young man,
this Daniel that moves between phases
and submits to nothing and no one that
could utter a word towards his understanding.
And as he prevails against reality's norms,
we'll fight to deny our hands in the matter of
such delicacy and such implications;
with which while had, could cease our endeavors
for the rest our lives.

A step ahead of his drunken hoard,
with toting guns and carry-ons;
a walking slab of swatted meat,
all scars and snuff and alcohol.
There is no time for the walking man,
with a loud and bellowed chain of command,
to sit at ease for a length of time
which could be used to raze a hollow.
A favored sound, the clink of coin
and the fragrant boom of lichen powder;
he finds his center upon the field
where many lay - where blood may harden.
His soul is chained and tethered to
a link upon his neck. Whereas he
had sold it off, he draws it back
and sees that his profit is entirely his own.
For all the women of the land,
he sees no reason for a pause,
and for every weak and fragile man,
he sees a boot atop their skulls.
An independent contractor -
a deviant through sin and shrapnel -
a man named Batter Mansley,
who will come calling, for a price.