Poetry: Antennae Lips; A Useless Disguise

Well, I figured I might as well post something other than a "here I am" entry. Hm...well, this needs to be quick - I need to change and go find my friends. It's Superbowl time after all!

Anyone who knows me has learned by now I'm an English writing major. Believe it or not, though, I have managed to have a couple tiny things released into the published world, via anthology contests. They aren't huge things to brag about, but they exist. So I think it's safe to share them, as it is known when checking that these are my work (so seriously: don't steal anything).

One was an essay on politics that I am not too fond of. I don't think I even have a hard file anymore, so that will not be posted.

The others are poems, written in 2008.

Antennae Lips

Kneel before me on our picnic spread
so that your eyes of midnight
meet mine.
And sit with me as the local insects
almost noiselessly flutter
by this old, withering apple tree.
When ears strain, I can hear
frustrated wing beats
as they are playfully tossed
by summer's winds.
They long to suckle on a drop
of golden nectar hidden
in the scattered gardens,
but never quite exert enough
strength to reach their Eden -
just like us, two fluttering youngsters,
always hoping to feel petal-soft lips
brush ours, as two butterflies in greeting
might lightly glance a pair of velvet antennae
over the other's.

A Useless Disguise

Beautiful blue lakes shimmered, and sunlight played
By peeking its corners out from behind leaves,

Flashing on hooves that clattered on cobblestones
As they traveled towards their locked doors.

Old Iron whistled from the mountains by day
Breaking silence up and down the forests –

And by starlight the lamps were blown out, violently,
Becoming shards of flying wax, as the villages hid.

But this morning, the men share embraces by dawn’s cloak
And lover’s eyes glitter as their blue lake once could

And the children run off with strips of tattered clothing –
The now useless disguise of poor folk apathetic during war

So that the men can trade hoods for a red uniform, darkened
With unforgiving, never forgetting stains

And the wearers can do nothing but hike up Old Iron’s
Mountains, wishing they could hop onto a ride back down.

---

Go Steelers!