She Wonders

At the top of a steeple she gazes
Wearily at barren branches
Where countless clusters
Of a winged type species
Often rested up upon
A single tree

As their precious silhouettes contrasted
In front of the illuminated smog filled sky;
A pale and salmon shaded purple light,
Where blood orange, magenta sun flares
Were dramatized and seizingly acted
As a beacon, just barely blaring urgently
Within the corner of her eye.

“Do you think,
As much as it’s improbable,
It could be possible
They could all drop
A dookie
All at the same time?

Do you think maybe
It could,
Or would, come out smoothly
In piles of chalky lines,
Or linger in free framed existence,
Or maybe the consistency would be
Of the liquefied types that seem to
Always sassily leave traces behind,
Or maybe they would be
Of a harder concentrated form
As it happens to me during those difficult times
Of constipation.

What else..

What else…?”



A weary wanderer gazes
At the scape that marks,
In permanence, the divisions
Of the land, sky, and sea.

The ship tips in sways
While the bow lobs
In varied feats.

Waters swirl and surge,
While the ship jerks
In unsteady tempoed rocks.

He listens to them slop
And swish against the hull.
Placing his right hand
On metals protesting in oscillation,
Turns and tosses
A floatation device.