Poetry
by Dan Beams
Tiny
Fractures
creeping across the frozen glaze
miscalculation mostly mine
amidst the foggy frigid haze
seems I missed the fatal sign
tny fractures in delicate form
belied emergent breach
familiar calm before the storm
safety safely out of reach
fate would find me far from shore
when icy jaws bared jagged teeth
opening up the frozen door
revealing dismal depths beneath
piercing shrieks give to silent moans
dribbling from my frozen lips
replaced by creaking brittle bones
as she tightens her icy grip
traveling through my slowing mind
a single thought wound its way
considering all I'd leave behind
missing most the warmth of summer's day
top
She
Was
She's a message in a bottle,
that's never reached my shore.
She's fully open throttle
on the sports car I adore.
She's a needed drop of rain
that quenches all my thirst.
She's never caused me pain,
though meeting is our first.
She's a single ray of hope,
my guiding source of light.
She's fading quickly now,
nearly out of sight.
She was a vision in my mind,
unlikely to return.
She was such a lovely find,
now it's some else's turn.
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Runaway
Trains
sufficiently imbibing addictions of choice;
permitting the delivery of candid voice
inebriated words birthed from distorted cells
garbled communications obscuring their hells
overindulgence released in eruption
painting thirsty walls with repulsive corruption
throbbing reminders of ill-advised consumption
unlikely to prohibit further feasts of dysfunction
patterns repeated; routines thoroughly
rehearsed
filling of prescriptions not easily reversed
preferring to remain passengers on runaway trains
embracing the steel of familiar chains
top
Familiar
Faces
Clocks dutifully mark the passage of time,
this vital purpose explicitly designed.
Some hang on the wall, speak nothing at all,
others when prompted, gleefully chime.
Oddly, we've doled out anatomical parts;
faces and hands, but no features.
Why not a pulse from the beat of a heart
to assist such monotonous creatures.
Repetitive work for such tedious beast,
reiteratively tracking our lives.
Staring at night, when I turn out the light
and steadfastly there when I rise.
Where would we be without dependable ticks
to synchronize all that they do?
I shudder to think, we'd be on the brink
of the last of our orderly days.
top
Dan Beams is a 40-year-old
self-described simple man. He lives in a small town in central
Illinois, with his wife, Beth, and two children, Allie 15, and
Jacob 12. By a strange twist of fate, the loss of his job last
year, led to his love of writing. Although this new passion is
less than a year old Dan has established a great connection to
the intrinsic power of the written word. Writing has again impressed
upon him the fact that the key to a successful life is to possess,
in great abundance, those things not easily measured.
You can read more of Dan's
poetry at http://poeticjustice-dan.blogspot.com/
Send Dan a message either directly or using
the Word Catalyst feedback form. For more from Dan visit the
Word Catalyst archives or his online
home.
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