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Camping
Campfires aren’t allowed here So I’m huddled beside a tiny stove A single blue flame for warmth, a headlamp for light, And the black wall of a wild forest Like a wave waiting to crash over me.
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Mutant
Treetops reach up out of scattered poisons on the forest floor Refuse and rejects left behind from a picnic in foreign sunlight Lying unclaimed on earth that cannot bear its weight
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Little One
Little one at the edge of Moon Lake Eyes cast upon the surface Hand grasping at wisps of fog That roll translucent out of the dark waters
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Death Throes of a Universe
How heavy the empty space lies over heaving ocean And stars spark together who know nothing of constellations
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Beginning
I’m supposed to write a poem about beginnings, and I can’t think of how to start it. Irony is not dead.
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In Your Hands
I know you shape the world between your fingers Leaving behind beauty encased in sweetwater
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Taste of Freedom
Sunrise on the Sea of Cortez A beach beginning to wake Beside an ocean that never slept
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Imagine
I don’t think my eyes are working quite rightThere’s something at the edge of my visionCreeping slowly into sight but vanishing when I turn to lookShadows seem suddenly less emptyEven now, I see it thereBeyond the doorway in the dark hallWatching me? My ears aren’t working right, eitherNoises that are not there, voices that do…
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Way Down
Remember what you said to me when the sky fell Screaming streaks of color that painted us invisible
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Sawdust
Living behind glass, or etched into its surface Clouds heavy with rain roll across a sky streaked with pink
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Storms Ahead
It is the mist-filled vision behind eyes older than time Laughter echoing off walls too high to scale
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Mitchel David Ring 