The Word Eater

[AtomicCafe1]

I am a novice to poetry, for the measure...


The Word Eater

It sits under my desk
or at least prowls—I cannot see it.
But I hear it and I
smell it:
it’s got a ravenous-muck stench and a
rancid-mush stew
that makes it seem as if it’s been rotting out in the sun for a couple years too long.

What it does,
it steals my words
and my favorite words, too.
Clandestine—
I saw clandestine
last week
and I haven’t seen it since;

it’s obvious who took it.

Also, did I mention
it steals my ambitions, too.
I cannot pick up a pencil anymore,
the words
just do not come:

the other day
I wanted a “medley of mini-crows” with a
drummer boy that “bristled with brittle beats.”
But I looked and no
medley, no
bristle, no
brittle—
the culprit clear.

And its smell is creepy
and its sound, my ears they get vile when I
hear it:
a rusty whirr that has no rhythmic
value and
no natural
sync.

(I would rather have said “it has a monotonous clamor” right there
but it stole those, too.)

So I can bet you it’s chubby by now.
I can bet you it has trouble running for a few seconds without working up a sweat.
Because pigging out on all my words—defunct is another one—
and without a doubt it’s
rather plump.

So now I am a
little afraid.
It’s taking all my words,
and has me feeling empty,
and I can swear
that one day
I will run out
in the middle of a sent—

[AtomicCafe1]

another one!


hallway where the sunlight streams in

I don’t know who he is
as a person
when he’s not there in the
hallway where the sunlight streams in

perhaps he’s a raging, a sobbing, a frightened, a cynical, a struggling
boy

but all I can tell you is that
he’s one hundred percent happy
when he’s there in the
hallway where the sunlight streams in.

It’s purely speculation
on my part
I know that
(maybe he’s not happy in the
hallway where the sunlight streams in)

but when I see him there
his face quickens to glee
and it glows with gaiety
all right there—in the
hallway where the sunlight streams in.

But maybe I’m wrong.

Here, let me tell you:
there is no steady pouring
of light
as you walk through the
hallway where the sunlight streams in

rather, it’s a:

flash

Pause.

flash

Pause.

flash

Pause.

(and then when you think it’s over there’s always one more streak, because the sunlight comes in at an angle, and it always surprises you, and here it is: )

flash

and then the everlasting
Pause.
because you are out
of the
hallway where the sunlight streams in.

And I see the transformation in this boy,
this
raging, sobbing, frightened, cynical, struggling
boy
because I see his face before and it’s the same as after but during
it’s warm—
like the intervals of sunlight that flood your face in the
hallway where the sunlight streams in.

And I really want to capture
this
raging, sobbing, frightened, cynical, struggling
boy
and place him in the
hallway where the sunlight streams in
and block it off
so he’s trapped in bliss
forever

but it’s a cloudy day today
and the sun’s gone down
and there’s just no sunlight streaming
(for him nor me)
in the
hallway where the sunlight streams in.

[ampoule]

Oh, Atomic, I LOVE 'The Word Eater'! How clever. I've got one of those critters hanging around here too! Mine may be fatter than yours.

Now I've got to read the other one.

[AtomicCafe1]

Oh, Atomic, I LOVE 'The Word Eater'! How clever. I've got one of those critters hanging around here too! Mine may be fatter than yours.

Now I've got to read the other one.

Hahaha, ugh, I hate them!! They should just leave people like you and me alone, wouldn't you say??

And I'm so so so glad you read it and liked it! I am very new to this poetry deal, and I always used to hate it as a medium, but I really am taking a liking to it all...

Thanks again!!

[AtomicCafe1]

A Clicking Noise
All of my years I have thought
that life would one day make a shot, sweet “clicking” noise
and that in that short, sweet noise I would realize what life is
and I’d get it
and I’d say
……………………………………….Ohhhh.

But maybe this whole time I’ve been fooled;
maybe there isn’t one defining “click” that comes in grand fashion;
maybe it’s really about:

you pick up a clod of dirt
and crumble it in your hand
and watch as all the tiny specks
flutter to the ground.

maybe it’s really about

a mushroom
and how at that same spot yesterday you didn’t see it there
and maybe it’s really about
telling yourself mushrooms are earth’s hiccups.

maybe it’s really about

passing by schoolchildren
in the morning waiting for the bus,
arms curled around themselves to protect from the coldness,
eyes pure as dreams.

Maybe it’s really about

how when you were a kid
you would always wear a bright red hat
but one day you screamed and your legs moved so fast as if you heard a mousetrap closing
all because a harmless bee mistook the red as flower.

So maybe it’s all just a conjoining, twirling, swaying
mass
and if you put the right spectacles on
--the perfect ones--
you’ll hear it:

“click,” “click,” “click,” “click.”

……………………………………….Ohhhh.

[AtomicCafe1]

hey:
phone the poems
inside of me

I feel them
pounding
wanting to leap out and write a riot
for you.

[AdrianLeverkuhn]

"Write a riot" lol I love it. Count me as a fan of yours. I enjoyed reading all four.

[amanda_isabel]

"Write a riot" lol I love it. Count me as a fan of yours. I enjoyed reading all four.


I agree. I liked "eyes pure as dreams" too.
I liked the poems' tone so much; I could almost hear them being read aloud. :)

[AtomicCafe1]

"Write a riot" lol I love it. Count me as a fan of yours. I enjoyed reading all four.


I agree. I liked "eyes pure as dreams" too.
I liked the poems' tone so much; I could almost hear them being read aloud. :)


Ahh!!! Thank you guys so much!!!

My day just got a whole lot better

:D

[MorpheusSandman]

I really like these; especially Word Eater. I imagine every writer can relate to that.

[blazeofglory]

This is fabulously written.

[AtomicCafe1]

The crowd of chicks
(brown, furry, cuddly little things),
they continued their
step, step
tiny, steps
across the road, all twenty of them, maybe, all twenty.

The car
almost didn’t stop, us riding in it, me and my mother, us riding and screeching to a halt.

Her eyes
I think her eyes looked for a moment like they do on the nights when she stays up late,
waiting for me to return home, thinking of all the gruesome possibilities of what
could have happened to me.

My mother’s eyes
looked this way,
as we screeched to a halt.

my mother’s eyes…
the car…
the chicks…

and somehow I’m involved in all of this.

My mother’s eyes
changed quickly, rapidly, that day when we almost didn’t stop, that day when we almost
ravaged that crowd of chicks with our
car.

for when we stopped, her eyes changed to—do you remember what they looked like
when she stayed up late, waiting for me to return home?—now

Her eyes
looked like the relief of me arriving home in safety
because twenty, maybe, twenty brown, furry, cuddly little things
were walking safely, and

The Car
—our car, was no threat to the crowd of chicks
anymore.

My mother’s eyes
though, changed quickly, rapidly that day.

for all of a sudden, her eyes were

the dread of a knock on the door
at three a.m.
and a policeman’s voice, bringing the worst news possible:
“I’m so sorry—”

And suddenly, through

the car…
the chicks…

I saw the reflection in

My mother’s eyes:

a bouldering, black truck that, oncoming,
didn’t stop,
(not almost stopped, but didn’t)

and a crowd of chicks
suddenly wiped clean of their
chirping

and a crowd of chicks
that suddenly expired with miniature
poofs!
and miniature
puffs!
and miniature
splattersontheroad-s!

And all I could see, through

the car…
the chicks…

but overwhelmingly in

My mother’s eyes

was the dread of a knock on the door
at three a.m.
and a policeman’s voice

[AtomicCafe1]

My thoughts are bumblebees—
lazily loafing by in the breeze
mumbling and bumbling lethargically.

[Between Horizon]

Great work, AtomicCafe1. Keep it up. (:

Return some of the love.. comment on mine.
http://www.online-literature.com/forums/showthread.php?t=45200