The Good Dream

On Colombia

One of the joys of living
Must be
To crack things that are whole
And to push over
The tall things we have built,
Watching them
Break
Shatter
Into the smallness of themselves.
Do we feel stronger
In chaos?
Perhaps it is the false purpose,
The lightning licked
Sense of self
That we seek
When we give in to our
Death drive
And end things we’ve begun.

But then,
There is also
Some quiet motif
That there are those who
Stubbornly
Hold fast to the light,
And to the creation
Of beautiful things.

Shaking hands in white shirts,
Their
Obstinate fingers lacing quietly
Over the mouth of history,
Bidding it be silent
A moment,
Men promised a nation
Half punch drunk from too much
War and solitude
A morning of peace.
And perhaps it is merely
Shadows performing their macabre dance
Like peace usually is–
Perhaps it is a dream.
But in its unobtrusive hope
Let it be;
It is a good dream.

© K Paige Medina 9/27/2016

The Breach

I fell asleep in no-man’s-land,
With flower petals in my hand.
Above my head an orange sky
Blows angels’ flight paths all awry.
We fell in love like dreamers do,
with sound and fury and ado.
We pinned ourselves to each other’s breast
And let the world do the rest.
We held our hands with spiky smiles—
Secrets, intrigue, lovers’ wiles—
Our paths were bound to wander down
Into each wasted bitter town,
And crest again those wanton shores,
And leave us always wanting more.
Alone I sleep, till some long hour
When I’ll restore this broken flower
Once more to that dear breach I sought
To lose once more the battles fought.

© K Paige Medina 9/5/2016

The Clock Breaks

Clocks are very lonesome things, as
their tireless ticking shows;
what other thing holds time itself
in regimented rows?
Its hands are stiff and even,
its face is round yet sallow,
its purpose simple yet mundane,
its love broken and fallow.
And yet it keeps on ticking,
marching out to dust the time
in metrical perfection–
its sisyphean rhyme.

A clock does not ask questions
nor ponder why it moves
time from life to seconds,
as its ceaseless slicing proves.
A clock could never face
the senselessness of time
were it alive and breathing

imperfectly.