both of my angels,
while playing with those monsters
in the adjacent green.
crazily, I entered neighboring homes -
for my own,
followed the echos
of children playing in the distance
- little voices
My bloodline severed,
nowhere to be found,
I broke, tears ripped from my eyes
and I sang the tune that anguish cries
Later to be nipped
in my rump
to the spin of the ceiling fan above
and the adjacent ringing of the alarm clocks rescue,
ending nights painful phantom pictures.
The train stopped in its tracks – literally.
The lights went out.
It was silent except for the musky smell of the old seat fabric. (As if a smell could make sound.)
Passengers began whispering and curiously looking around in wonder.
Under their breaths, panic lurked.
An intercom message riddled in a haunting static buzz broke the murmuring mix.
In Japanese, a train official announced, “The train has stopped due to violent weather conditions.”
Damn! …and here we left our hotel early just to avoid this very thing from happening,
yet, here we are, stuck somewhere between Miyazaki, Tokyo, and five frail foreign passports.
After three attempts, buses were finally dispatched to pick us up.
Two hours passed, no buses, no light, no sound, we began to feel we were forgotten in this ancient dark.
Another hour later, the buses arrived, but were parked on the other side of the rail crossing,
a crossing that was about to prove to be a challenging trek.
Neck to neck, we piled out into the typhoons treacherous temperament.
Up the stairs with the tempest at our backs, we were pulverized, over baptized, pelted by the storms wet fury.
Worry turned to woe upon reaching the other side, where the stairs leaded back down.
As the rain beat their faces in, little Japanese children yelled “Itai , itai!” (It hurts, it hurts! – in Japanese)
I tried to stand in front of them, shield them, lead them down, but I did not speak the native tongue, and could not communicate my efforts.
Eventually, all made it to the buses, wet, throbbing, and in shock.
It was another two hour bus ride to the hotel,
and given the circumstances it was no surprise when my one year old niece-in-law spewed mid trip on my “better half”
filling the bus in the scent of vomit.
Then she to, already wet and now also layered in puke, became nauseous.
Rocking, bumping, swaying along the road for another hour, she fought it out.
It was an adventure to say the least, all are good now, and we have this story to take with us.
Master of the Universe
Mr. know it all
Jack of all trades
A solution to every call
An answer for every question
Aren’t you the professing pro
Don’t you just know everything,
except for what you don’t know
You can fool the green
Throwing tricks off your shelf
You can play the ignorant
while betraying your own self
Trapped in endless tales
Just touching truths surface
Relentless king of cons
Prevaricator without a purpose
I appreciate your imagination
Your stories are quite diverse
But who could expect less from
the Master of the Universe
every month they went out
threatening the days,
and often laughing,
for having deprived us of the moon.
This poem is an Erasure. Erasure is a process by which you can take any text and from it, create a poem. You do so by erasing words from the existing text, and the words that remain creates your poem. This poem in its raw format is here.
More of my Erasures.
You can try your hand at Erasures here.
After a brief “remove plastic and stir” intermission,
I pressed which apparently was the microwave “LAUNCH” button,
for in the following moments, the microwave door sprung open,
launching my Country Style Chicken TV dinner through the air.
Peas ricocheted off the ceiling and cabinet doors,
and torpedoed the feline water dish below.
Gravy drenched potatoes splattered the kitchens lime green walls
and then slowly dripped down onto the linoleum floor
forming into miniaturized sludge volcanoes.
with my index finger still extended, I stood motionless
as if I just witnessed an unannounced nuclear attack on my homeland