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Columns > John Zinkand - Improvise

Published: 2006/01/15
by John Zinkand

Yes, Even More Poetry

Now Were Cookin
Fresher and zestier.
Abundance of ingredients,
Tasty spices,
A sweet, tangy dressing.
Greens dance with reds,
Harmonious in their differences.
Slops and sloshes around,
Flows into the cup.
Gravy and sauces
Slathered all over,
Dripping down the side,
And on to the table.
Grows bigger and golden brown,
Flakier and more wonderful.
Crispy on the outside,
Warm and chewy inside-
Smells like childhood,
No worries at all.
Old Man
Wind rakes and smoothes the sand,
Patterns emerge like rabbits from a magicians hat-
A flutter of motion emerges from the darkness,
And time marches on.
Warmth, like moist breath, rises from below
As leaves on the trees shudder and fall.
Inside his head, the old man is laughing,
He knows more than the birds and fishes.
Chaos sputters and confusion is defunct,
Greens and blues spiral in a joyous dance-
The old man smiles and leans back,
And waits for more cosmic debris.
Elusive Rest
Plan to try and get it,
Make it all just right.
Dark room, soft bed-
Very tired, plenty of time,
No worries…
Well, some worries-
Awaken in the night,
Rolling and thrashing,
Start in a-thinking,
But it’s so precious
And I must get back-
Now there’s pressure,
And the thinking, thinking, thinking-
Is that the first hint of light?
What time is it anyway?
Stop thinking, no more blinking!
And now the guilt kicks in,
This shouldn’t be happening,
How can I restore my energy?
Be fresh and productive?
Stop thinking,
Start dreaming.
You need it.
We all do.
Stop thinking,
Stop thinking,
Stop thinking,
Start dreaming…
Well, let me think about it…
Walking gingerly,
As if on gingerbread,
Crumbs fall off,
Should I collect them?
Do I flick them away?
And is the cookie even sweet?
No answer is ever easy,
Especially when you feel queasy,
And the mottled brown fur
Collects on your tongue,
When you try to ask the question.
If the answer is what you hope for,
There should be no need to ask,
Let things happen.
Let it fall into place.
Let the will of life
Make things flow,
Right back to you.
Peculiar and New
Stilted growth, but still growing.
Moving like a wounded serpent-
The walls of the mind quaking.
The smells of indecision rising-
Rancid and grayish brown,
It forces me to hack and cough.
Soothing and peaceful blue,
It lulls me to sleep.
Languishing about, not knowing-
Questioning the darkness of infinity,
Wondering if it will ever stop-
Toiling with my thumb nails.
Up and down and left and right,
No way better than the other-
Looking around my eyeballs spin,
Until they fall on someone…
And stay there.

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