Classic Fantasy Humor Literary Fiction Science Fiction Romance poetry

Poetry: Mixed Bag

By Anatoly Belilovsky
May 3, 2020 · 229 words · 1 minute

Colors are an imagination
of our humans brains —
I don´t care says the plant.

Photo by Simon Berger via Unsplash.

Cyan is the sky
Oak is bare
Crying, mourning, my
Late beloved.

The bond, unbreakable.

Aural cues of bird calls
Turning south, fluttering leaves
Mnemonic of parting.

Your attraction to me

Is a Schroedinger's cat

I'll have to feed if alive

And bury if dead.


I'll just put that box away

With the others in the attic

And ignore the wails

Not at all frantic.

House on chicken

legs crosses the road, crying.

Tough to be homeless.

We

Build

Pyramidal

Burial chambers

For the mummified remains

Of loves once living, now extinct.

Pretty scarabs roll oblate spheroids of dung,

And you really don't want to look inside canopic jars.

I stay with Ogden Nash in

A house on chicken legs, leaning drunken fashion,

Rolling off the bed at night

Because the left chicken leg is shorter than the right.

It is a good thing I don't go camping often

With Ogden.

House on chicken

legs crosses the road, crying.

Tough to be homeless.

Experimental poetry

created in time of

mental anguish...


Data?1519827879
Anatoly Belilovsky

Nasty, brutish and short. And that's just the fiction.