Poetry: Dragonflies; Ceramic Dolls

So here’s more poetry of mine that I forgot is already considered “published” (that is, it’s available on the Internet) by my high school’s literary magazine website (Pulse) or by the e-zine I write for titled RKYV. They might have been revised since, but that’s OK. I will hopefully keep writing and have more opportunities to submit other things in the future.

Enjoy.
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Dragonflies

This is the genre of life meant to be despised.
It’s the kind that should be denied existence,
just as friends can deny us in moments
of true need, or sorrow, or celebration.

This is the evening that carries the worst of news –
the taking over of disease, cancer-like –
unconfirmed, invasive, unwelcome, terrifying.

As the family goes to tears, only adding to misery,
I long to be drunk – not on alcohol. This family
does not need two livers failing on them this month.

I just long to be drunk on fresh air, by running streams,
both untouched by the pollution of mankind.
In the fields that I long to feel under my feet,
I could run off as fast as a bullet, and like one, I

Could fly on looking for a target…
Looking for a stop to unload my baggage
without overburdening the friends
who denied me on this hated night.

As I run through my wishing-fantasy,
I am distracted by the dragonflies zipping about
over the soft corners of the streams in the field,
looking for their lovers, to share their night,

And having better luck than I did.
How sad, when even in my imagination,
the reflection of my unspoken wishes,
the insects can obtain more luck than I.
*

Ceramic Dolls

The staring contest among the super powers continues,
Always behind a thick door sealed from its inside.
Each country’s delegate sits, alone and determined.

Behind the door, lamps flicker, dim, bright, dim - flash.
The light waves behind to blind and charge harder
And faster than the Earth’s sun ever could.

And the intensity of the moment disintegrates
Any thought process once in possession
Until the pairs of seated eyes forget to stare,
Forget to be the winner in their political struggle.

They stumble, trip over their pant legs as fabric stretches,
And feel their suits rip and slacken. It slowly seems that
The garments have lost their coloring and identities,
As the people lost their faces over time, and hidden debate.

The beams from the lamps come still and seem to melt bones,
And the crumbling shapes cry out their confusion
To deaf ears around them. The shouts tumble over bodies,
Into walls - it’s insignificant where the noise lands. No one hears.

And the lamps begin to dim, in inches of light. Old splintered men stand
Where young ceramic dolls once marched,
Proclaiming their kingship to the world;
And the old men see only folly; just much too late to save their reflections,
Still staring through the glass of the dimming, disappearing lamp light.