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Columns > John Zinkand - Improvise

Published: 2007/10/21
by John Zinkand

Five More Poems

Friday Revisited
There’s a bias,
An unfair bias,
Because it’s just a state of mind.
If it’s not time yet,
Don’t ask why,
Because everything will be fine.
Lights and music,
Of weekend nights,
Kicking it off with the F word.
A sacred day,
A delicious day,
Sacrilegiously drinking whiskey.
Monday, Tuesday,
Wednesday, Thursday,
Why isn’t it Saturday today?

Driven
In the heated mind of an older man,
Stewing in a small, warm log cabin,
Isolated among the prairies and pines,
A snow storm howling outside
The gremlin lives and thrives and smiles,
Knowing how to get it done,
Driving him to get it done.
The dog lies softly weeping,
Immobile with pain and fear,
His head on the rug
Of the cabin floor.
Wishing he could get it done.
The man opens the door
And the driving winds rush in,
Blowing snow and cold and filth,
Into the cabin, onto the rug and dog,
A clever but sinister wind,
Knowing how to get it done.
The imp takes control of the ship,
Steering towards a cold white bed,
A pinch of sadness in his eye,
Sandy grains of delusion,
And he pulls the covers up and over,
A log and some leaves,
Sleep is coming,
Sleep is coming,
And the work is done.
The Penguin
Muscles twitching,
Angular motion,
Revolving penguin
Sees through it all.
He’s black and white,
Evolving penguin,
Instinct driven,
Waddles through it all.
Patiently protecting,
With sacrificial immobility,
Tag team partners,
Involving penguins.
Smoothly working,
Cooperative and blissful,
Through the worst,
A happy penguin.
Bad Dream

Chewing at my stomach,
Needles in my flesh,
Computerized electronics,
Embedded in my wrist.
Eyes of melted liquid,
Oozing pools upon the floor.
Twisted chards of glass,
Gouging out my soul.
Breathe in dusty rubble,
Kick a downed old man,
Garbage from the trash heap,
Tossed in the frying pan.
Lost inside a tunnel,
No light from either end.
Killing death of darkness,
Gets snagged upon the fence.
Boiling breath of bunnies,
Stewed inside a skull.
Burning down a fruit stand,
Nothing left but bitter cold.
Pain quakes inside a memory,
Shivering fish upon the ground,
Looking for a melody,
Finding only something drowned.

Tall, Cool Glass of Water
>Round, cool, and smooth,
Moist to the touch,
Sweating goodness-
Life in a glass.
Ice cubes float,
As if to say
‘I belong here!’
Melting, they assimilate.
Where’s your individuality,
Mr. Separate Entity?
Identity washed away
And poured today.
Then its coolness
Greets dry lips,
Refreshing down to fingertips.
And cleanses the soul.
Here today, gone tomorrow,
Weeping tears and voicing fears.
The salt evaporates,
Leaving only a tall, cool, glass of water.

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