Poetry

By

Mark Nenadov

 

 

Headache

 

 

Crisp corners of an untested five dollar bill

knotting, dancing in the playdough

which seals my ear

with snappy coroners              floundering octaves

on the vein of my arrested development.

 

Arresting thought        in my hair

arriving with graves, glances, wincing, sleeping

tombstones rattling

between garbanzo beans that can hear.

 

Sifting marbles, shifting and squishing

high motion energy

iron toe in the new year with curling irons

snapping up     codfish which

dine on            a dish

of fried catfish bones

                        drenched

in hot sauce and white fish.

 

Comedy hour up the creek

lost train brain-freeze

melting of thought

with or without a paddle        or a clue

 

Simmering without knowing what to do

but doing anything with stretching

sloshing in many directions

but never snapping

into place.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Lost Tuesdays

 

 

Sun stretch beaming bomb

shouldering over

a lonely SUV.

 

Bright sun smoking brisket dragged out over hot coals

stomachs smoldering like

they haven’t since

2010 was a good year

as hungry hearts dove into the sinews

forgetting lost Tuesdays

 

Forsaken moldings

misplacing and forgetting

the message in the bottle

lost on the ocean

without a cue or a clue.

 

Without a paddle or any

help

me if you please

please

help me please.

 

The messenger

is the message

that can help us

find the way again.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Mark Nenadov

Mark Nenadov is a writer from Essex, Ontario, a town in the deep south of Canada. He lives with his lovely wife and their three young children. Mark’s poems have appeared in several anthologies as well as journals in the United States, Canada, Pakistan, India, Australia, England and Ireland.

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