Planet Freedom

[RabbitSnore]

One of my less emotionally-charged poems, and one of my longest, if not my longest.

Most of my verse is damn short. I'll post more on this thread, depending on the results of posting this one.

But whatever.

Here:
“Disappearance”

I sit at the kitchen table,
playing chess with myself –
I’m winning.
There are two pies in the oven,
one for me
and one for whoever comes around
and wants a piece.
I picked the apples myself,
sliced them with a long chef’s knife,
then laid then in a fractal pattern
in the bosom of the crust.
I get up to check the pies
after putting myself in checkmate.
Opening the door,
with a mitt guarding my hand,
I look in
and see no pies.
Won’t somebody tell me:
who stole my pies?

Now very puzzled,
I stand up straight as a fencepost,
musing over the open oven.
Where could my pies have gone?
I take off my oven mitt
and place it on the stove top.
Then I turn around,
after shutting the oven door,
and see all my chess pieces
are gone from the board
except one white knight,
who is wounded
and lying prostrate
in the middle of the battlefield.
He was taken by a bishop
on the third turn.
I go over to him
and lay him in my palm.
I stand him upright
then proceed to interrogate him.
“Where are the other pieces?”
I stab an index finger
at his ivory face.
He doesn’t flinch.
He doesn’t say a word,
even under the hot kitchen light.
He just looks at me
with that same solemn gaze
he gave me when I sent him
into no man’s land
to be cut down by the enemy.
“I’m sorry I yelled at you,”
I apologize
to the wounded veteran knight.
“You deserve a purple heart,
not an inquisition.”
I set him down back in his place,
so that he’s ready to fight again.
Then I leave the kitchen
to go searching for the pies
and the missing chessmen.

I rummage through the whole house,
looking everywhere:
under the bathroom sink,
in my clothes-filled closet,
in my fishbowl,
in my cupboard,
behind the curtains,
in my pockets.
I can’t find them anywhere;
they’ve completely disappeared,
just like that Johnny Cash album
that I dropped down the storm drain
out in the street
the other day.

Finally,
at a quarter to midnight,
I climb the ladder to my attic.
I push away the ancient cobwebs
using both my hands
like machetes carving a jungle path.
I find several little circle voids
in the dust down on the floor,
each no more than half an inch.
They made a faint trail
from attic hatch
to around a pile of boxes
filled with archaic snips of paper,
all of them covered in poems.
I follow the trail
like a hunter stalking deer
to find my chessmen all lined up
at the old jammed attic window,
the rooks trying to get it open
while the others hold my pies
upon their heads.
They wait for the rooks to open it
to escape with the apple pies,
but noticing me there,
they drop the pies and turn,
giving me blank innocent stares,
as if to say,
“Hey, what are these pies
doing here?”
I know better than to believe them.
This is the third time they’ve run away.
I gather them up
and put them in their box,
this time duct taping it closed.
So now just one mystery remains,
as I look down upon the pies:
I baked two pies,
put two in the oven;
I expected to find two,
so someone tell me please,
if you will:
who made this third pie?

[theHappyFungus]

pretty good if i do say so myself.
but like most poetry, i need to ponder it before i find the big picture.

[Crash2991]

THE PIE WAS ALREADY THERE!

[RabbitSnore]

pretty good if i do say so myself.
but like most poetry, i need to ponder it before i find the big picture.

There is no big picture, really. There is really no symbolism or profundity to be found in this poem.

It's intent is solely to be silly and surreal.

[Crash2991]

pretty good if i do say so myself.
but like most poetry, i need to ponder it before i find the big picture.

There is no big picture, really. There is really no symbolism or profundity to be found in this poem.

It's intent is solely to be silly and surreal.

This may be silly: I though it was about loss of memory, or "I thought I put it here, but I guess I didn't."

[NS2]

That was really good. Nuthead would love this.

[RabbitSnore]

pretty good if i do say so myself.
but like most poetry, i need to ponder it before i find the big picture.

There is no big picture, really. There is really no symbolism or profundity to be found in this poem.

It's intent is solely to be silly and surreal.

This may be silly: I though it was about loss of memory, or "I thought I put it here, but I guess I didn't."

Whatever it is, the speaker is in a strange world.


Shall I post more....?

[Crash2991]

pretty good if i do say so myself.
but like most poetry, i need to ponder it before i find the big picture.

There is no big picture, really. There is really no symbolism or profundity to be found in this poem.

It's intent is solely to be silly and surreal.

This may be silly: I though it was about loss of memory, or "I thought I put it here, but I guess I didn't."

Whatever it is, the speaker is in a strange world.


Shall I post more....?

Yes.

[Nuthead]

DID SOMEBODY SAY PIE?



Sorry, it was just too juicy to resist. I really enjoyed it though. I thought it was pretty silly, and really quite the amusing read.

[RabbitSnore]

A short one in my usual spurt-like style.

“Four Diamonds and a Heart”

Dealt a six high –
yeah, I know it sucks –
but there’s no sense not going all in
when you’re playing just one hand.







And one with sexual imagery for you perverts.

“Tongue”

I’m never happy just reading words –
I need to feel them,
rubbing on my skin like hands beneath my clothes,
calloused and silken,
icy and freshly baked.
When I feel those words,
those bottle neck and candy cane fingers,
I am naked and unashamed,
I am drunken and euphoric
as though at a Bacchanal,
as though in a dazed orgy –
briny sweat and sweet saliva on my tongue –
words.







This stuff was all published in a small journal, and it's probably the reason for what I was talking about on the "Women" thread.

[NS2]

That was actually sexy there.

[RabbitSnore]

That was actually sexy there.

Well, yes...

[theHappyFungus]

A short one in my usual spurt-like style.

“Four Diamonds and a Heart”

Dealt a six high –
yeah, I know it sucks –
but there’s no sense not going all in
when you’re playing just one hand.







And one with sexual imagery for you perverts.

“Tongue”

I’m never happy just reading words –
I need to feel them,
rubbing on my skin like hands beneath my clothes,
calloused and silken,
icy and freshly baked.
When I feel those words,
those bottle neck and candy cane fingers,
I am naked and unashamed,
I am drunken and euphoric
as though at a Bacchanal,
as though in a dazed orgy –
briny sweat and sweet saliva on my tongue –
words.







This stuff was all published in a small journal, and it's probably the reason for what I was talking about on the "Women" thread.

learn french and you will be set for life.

[Thereisnospoon]

That was actually sexy there.

Well, yes...

[RabbitSnore]

A short one in my usual spurt-like style.

“Four Diamonds and a Heart”

Dealt a six high –
yeah, I know it sucks –
but there’s no sense not going all in
when you’re playing just one hand.







And one with sexual imagery for you perverts.

“Tongue”

I’m never happy just reading words –
I need to feel them,
rubbing on my skin like hands beneath my clothes,
calloused and silken,
icy and freshly baked.
When I feel those words,
those bottle neck and candy cane fingers,
I am naked and unashamed,
I am drunken and euphoric
as though at a Bacchanal,
as though in a dazed orgy –
briny sweat and sweet saliva on my tongue –
words.







This stuff was all published in a small journal, and it's probably the reason for what I was talking about on the "Women" thread.

learn french and you will be set for life.

German ain't good enough, eh?