Decipher this Message
Forever looking for a meaning.
Glittering gold hotel
Contrasted by the inky blackness of night
A man in sunglasses and a blue coat taps his fingers
Anxiously on the front desk.
No concierge in sight
Despite the immaculately polished granite counter
And fresh white flowers in tall bronze vases
That loom over us all.
Blue coat’s companions
Three men dressed in purple costumes
Cannot heed his request they stay discreet
For even a few moments
As one begins to sob.
The other two comfort him
Turning the lobby into a makeshift therapist’s office
His drunken gibberish echoing off the glass walls.
When I wake in my own room
Glittering gold, same as the rest of the hotel
Dozens of sheets of paper appear from under the door
Scribbled on
Scratched out
Nonsense words in black ink
But I think someone
Was trying to tell me something important.
#
Fields of golden grass
Waving in the wind
Along the summertime hillsides
A shaggy buffalo running
Running so fast
He’s a blur.
A blur
And then he shifts
Into a fox.
Still running so fast
Still a blur.
There is no entry
In a book of dream interpretations
That is headlined “Buffalo Runs and Turns into Fox”
But I think someone
Was trying to tell me something important.
#
Birds on outstretched wings
Gliding beneath the thunderheads
Stark white
Raven black
Contrasted
With the blue and the gray
Swirling
Into madness.
Flocks of a different kind converge
Overlapping
Spinning
Swarming
Until forty dozen birds
Become one handful.
Screeching and chirping
Disappears
Into stillness.
There is only a breeze
Whistling in my ears.
They say birds are messengers
Heaven sent
Divinely guided
On warm winds.
Perhaps this cacophony
Sent on turbulent squalls
Was more than one someone
Trying to tell me
Something important.
About the Creator
S. C. Almanzar
I am a graduate student studying anthropology and have been writing creatively for almost 20 years. I love new takes on alternative history, especially when there are fantasy or supernatural elements included.
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His Haibun
He does not like poetry; I write it anyway and do not tell him. It's true his face is not a poet's face. It is round and open, youthful; too apt to be compared to the sun. His nose is neat. It is impossible to imagine him smoking a cigarette, terse, full of cheekbones and tension. His warmth burns my fingertips. I am here for his fascinating body, the haphazard freckles I touch one by one; he is here for my eyes, just my eyes. A sunbeam sneaks through the curtains and pierces us both, sizzling the spices of his skin. I inhale and wrap myself in him. He kisses my eyes.
By TheSpinstress7 days ago in Poets
Confessions of an Empath
The birds are chirping, and the sun is shining in a cloudless July sky. The vibrancy promises a beautiful day, but the cooing of the Mourning Dove perched on the powerlines seems to be more fitting than the lively songs of the robin flitting through the trees. The melancholic calls of the dove cloak the world in a sadness that hangs like tattered drapes.
By Alyssa Nicole5 days ago in Confessions
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