By Jon von Nottingham
Dead tree down
and the cradle
of aether sags;
one more pillar
banished,
one more whisker
plucked from the
brow of earth.
That was yesterday’s poem,
born from January rain,
where it once snowed
from thin clouds,
coughing alabaster glass
into odd yellow twilights.
Today I saw
a bald eagle
disrupt the typical
winter inertia
of a murder of crows.
Her spirit sanctioned
something ancient
beyond the veil;
new life is chalked
on slate,
new love takes root
neath her wingspan.
Monday, November 30, 2009
Cabin Fever Poem
By Jon von Nottingham
Apathy seeps in
like a ghostly flute
suffering her way
through a ballad.
I close my world
and hear a loon
broadcast sadness
from cove to cove.
Geist,
das Machine
It is winter,
there is no loon;
We all struggle
under the icy haze
between solstice
and the strangle
of moons.
What does not kill us,
makes us crazy.
Apathy seeps in
like a ghostly flute
suffering her way
through a ballad.
I close my world
and hear a loon
broadcast sadness
from cove to cove.
Geist,
das Machine
It is winter,
there is no loon;
We all struggle
under the icy haze
between solstice
and the strangle
of moons.
What does not kill us,
makes us crazy.
What stirs inside
By Jon von Nottingham
The Humdrum Pantomime leans
like a granite dam against
the floodwater calamity
that culminates in me.
When the rains came
the repugnancy of death
was borne to my lips again;
Stale soap and salty shit.
Nine months is enough
to hurl life into winter,
but not enough to erase
the taste of Alexa,
euthanized
like a mangled horse.
Six years old,
and stolen from the night,
with foamy bubbles
blistering from her nostrils
because I tried,
God, did I try
to force life back into
my sweet dead child.
The pantomime grows weary,
and what stirs inside
is thirty-three years of
youth swallowed whole by
incessant tempests swirling
into one violent surge
of icy jaws, crazed to the brim
with nothing left on her mind
but the worst kind of revenge.
The Humdrum Pantomime leans
like a granite dam against
the floodwater calamity
that culminates in me.
When the rains came
the repugnancy of death
was borne to my lips again;
Stale soap and salty shit.
Nine months is enough
to hurl life into winter,
but not enough to erase
the taste of Alexa,
euthanized
like a mangled horse.
Six years old,
and stolen from the night,
with foamy bubbles
blistering from her nostrils
because I tried,
God, did I try
to force life back into
my sweet dead child.
The pantomime grows weary,
and what stirs inside
is thirty-three years of
youth swallowed whole by
incessant tempests swirling
into one violent surge
of icy jaws, crazed to the brim
with nothing left on her mind
but the worst kind of revenge.
What I'd look like with a mustache
By Jon von Nottingham
Morning exhumed sanity back into my world. I lay awake in bed wondering what I would look like with a thick mustache; the well groomed thick ones that all of San Fransisco had in the late 60’s, even though there is no proof of that, it just seems self-evident that they were always there, hanging on the faces of the men, the women, the grandmothers, the boat captain, the secretary, but not the man behind the deli counter, no, he had a thin mustache. At the time, it seemed like a rational thought.
I found myself lured into a shower by the scent of running water and Irish Spring. In there, there was a very lathered up naked woman who gave me a surprised smile as I stepped into the tub. It was early and she didn’t expect me to be up so soon. I could have stayed in bed, but this was more interesting than thinking about mustaches. She agreed.
She didn’t stay long, but before she left, she turned the water dial to “fucking freezing” and stood under the spray for a long time. She is a weird child. I had to stand back and watch her skin contract and her nipples harden. It was quite a scene. She apologized and turned it up before getting out and I found myself missing her.
As I rinsed the Dove from my hair, I thought about the dream I just had. I was never a big dreamer, but my brain has a lot to process these days. The one I had today wasn’t as bad as the ones I have been having. In it, my girl was sick with the sniffles. It was winter, and I felt bad for her. I could tell her sinuses were irritated, and there wouldn’t be much relief to come. Cabin fever had set in hard and I could feel the walls kind of closing in all the time, but as I was comforting my daughter with the idea of a hot and steamy shower, it all seemed ok for a minute. There was nothing I would rather be doing than nursing her back into her happy self. I sat on the john and almost lost sight of her dreamy little smile in the mist, so I listened to her clunking away in the tub with her toys and wondered what I would look like with a mustache.
Morning exhumed sanity back into my world. I lay awake in bed wondering what I would look like with a thick mustache; the well groomed thick ones that all of San Fransisco had in the late 60’s, even though there is no proof of that, it just seems self-evident that they were always there, hanging on the faces of the men, the women, the grandmothers, the boat captain, the secretary, but not the man behind the deli counter, no, he had a thin mustache. At the time, it seemed like a rational thought.
I found myself lured into a shower by the scent of running water and Irish Spring. In there, there was a very lathered up naked woman who gave me a surprised smile as I stepped into the tub. It was early and she didn’t expect me to be up so soon. I could have stayed in bed, but this was more interesting than thinking about mustaches. She agreed.
She didn’t stay long, but before she left, she turned the water dial to “fucking freezing” and stood under the spray for a long time. She is a weird child. I had to stand back and watch her skin contract and her nipples harden. It was quite a scene. She apologized and turned it up before getting out and I found myself missing her.
As I rinsed the Dove from my hair, I thought about the dream I just had. I was never a big dreamer, but my brain has a lot to process these days. The one I had today wasn’t as bad as the ones I have been having. In it, my girl was sick with the sniffles. It was winter, and I felt bad for her. I could tell her sinuses were irritated, and there wouldn’t be much relief to come. Cabin fever had set in hard and I could feel the walls kind of closing in all the time, but as I was comforting my daughter with the idea of a hot and steamy shower, it all seemed ok for a minute. There was nothing I would rather be doing than nursing her back into her happy self. I sat on the john and almost lost sight of her dreamy little smile in the mist, so I listened to her clunking away in the tub with her toys and wondered what I would look like with a mustache.
Thursday, November 26, 2009
Hard Cider Woes
By Jon von Nottingham
This equinox onset
of hard cider woes
grows mold on fizzled
memories of relished
summer warmth.
Autumn cuts the nose
with dull serrated
blades of smoke,
bleeds the ears
with the dissonance
of crickets and jays.
Here, I heave ho
into the ghostly
wane of day,
sombered by dreams
lost
to the drowsy
echoes of owl calls.
This equinox onset
of hard cider woes
grows mold on fizzled
memories of relished
summer warmth.
Autumn cuts the nose
with dull serrated
blades of smoke,
bleeds the ears
with the dissonance
of crickets and jays.
Here, I heave ho
into the ghostly
wane of day,
sombered by dreams
lost
to the drowsy
echoes of owl calls.
Inspirlings Inagural Poem
By Jon von Nottingham
Between now and the solstice
the sun seems to die,
and to think that I,
nearly succumed
to the Alcatraz glum
of low serotonin.
Oh crisp morn of October,
you pulled me through door
and here we are are, instead;
these insipid Inspirlings,
left to gnosh
upon one anothers
creative flesh.
October, you dazzle me so.
Between now and the solstice
the sun seems to die,
and to think that I,
nearly succumed
to the Alcatraz glum
of low serotonin.
Oh crisp morn of October,
you pulled me through door
and here we are are, instead;
these insipid Inspirlings,
left to gnosh
upon one anothers
creative flesh.
October, you dazzle me so.
Tuesday, November 24, 2009
Core- Inspired by Scout's Shell
By Jon von Nottingham
I grieve
in pixelated
teardrops of time.
Her words fade from me
until laughter remains;
squelched and buzzing
at the core of water,
Life is shrieking,
unheard from RNA.
It is raining again.
I grieve
in pixelated
teardrops of time.
Her words fade from me
until laughter remains;
squelched and buzzing
at the core of water,
Life is shrieking,
unheard from RNA.
It is raining again.
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