Poetry in Motion Cubed

The Word

The word is movement,
the flow evident.
It spills across pages,
ink into words
that s-t-r-e-t-c-h into phrases
that fit together,
jenga block style,
to form a teetering sentence.
And that sentence,
when combined with another
and another
and another
becomes a paragraph
a stanza
an essay
a poem
a living/breathing piece of art.

Waiting for the Train

The words are like passengers
fighting to fit into the last train
that will carry them
from this mind
to the paper or screen
and into yours.
Some Yell (Fuck, Goddamnit)
Some Scream (Activisim, Social Injustice)
Some Stroll quietly (Poetry, Art)
Some Squeeze in (The, A, And)
to fill the spaces between
the biggies (Enlightenment, Anthropomorphism).
They are all hoping
for a one way trip
from me to you,
but not all will make the doors
before they swing close
before the train begins to huff
and puff
blowing away their hopes
of lighting your mind.

The Brain Station

This brain is a station
filled with trains
some wrecks,
some fine-polished,
some steadfast.

The wrecks loiter in the background,
once proud and strong,
they pulled their weight
and others' too.

The fine-polished gleam in the lightbulb's light.
They shine like stars
in a country night sky.
Some destined to exploded
others to years of work.

The steadfast are dirty, soot-covered, but powerful.
They pull in and out,
conductors pulling the whistle chain
while long lines of cars follow behind.

This brain is a station,
where trains go in and out.