fresh salad

little trees

 

Rose in rows un-masking,
the fragrance of the lucid-dream
chamomile infested—
coffins made of willow trees

persuaded disenchantment
on rivers of stagnation
claustrophobic, polished eyes
broken in-cant-a-tion.

Progress fueled by empathy,
or—tanks of nicotine.
What does it mean
to climb with ropes of stone?

Find me love, or find me strength
For it is waving, and not drowning.

does this qualify as a prayer to god? 

the poem that was found  into something that is found. 

i was walking along on the street, minding my own god-damned business and came across this piece of paper. it was a volunteer sheet for some church event. like the do’s and don’ts, basic role descriptions. I’m p particularly fond of the third to last line.

Found in an old bakcpakc

I found an old parking ticket, im pretty sure that ive paid it. but it got me thinking about how many people probably see this persons initial. I mean, this person might easily write hundreds of tickets a month. something about that feels really eerie.

what is your purpose piece of paper?

I walked by some crumpled up pieces of paper in someone’s lawn this morning. I was going to pick them but I didn’t. I found two other pieces of litter a block away. I picked those up and brought them home. I haven’t unfolded them yet, they’re just sitting on my kitchen table. I don’t know what I’m afraid of finding. I’ll open them tomorrow I’m sure. yeah, tomorrow.

My name is Ruby, and this blog is here to showcase poetry in places that you wouldn’t expect to find poetry. The emphasis is on finding words, wherever they might occur and then finding security in the artifacts people leave behind.