And I thought about organized religion
And I thought about government control
And I thought about the power of money,
And all of these thoughts concerned me.
Why they did, I do not know.
Why they did, I do not know.
Midwestern Poetry, By Terry Scott Niebeling
Motion reflected between where you are and where you will be;
Void for a shadow where you were, ever lying in wait to reconvene.
Barefooted feet sounded aloud the carpeted hallway,
Where people passed in sunlight of a side window view;
Forms drew on, each bearing a different meaning—each,
New reason passed by, as all parts came meshed true.
Sour leather bands synched
in a veiled humidity,
swam this Midwestern oven,
doggy paddle for fluid strokes.
Rolled windows on St. Anthony
caught a trash truck soup
of faintly fanned aroma sweet
under parted clouds;
cloy cutting, putrid, pungent,
unforgettably at the tip of your tongue,
in the holes of your nose.
Fumes came from plastic bags ripped
and cardboard boxes smashed
telling of domestic unimagineables,
making way to the forefront,
and not leaving soon.
pushing through the city;
parts of me, parts of you—
the powers of summer heat sparked
a sickening knotted perfume,
lingering in the air,
in these communities tight knit.
Slowing my advance
the smell of fresh dew
on bending grass,
deeply rich, as pubic loin,
coming up into me.
Passing chance is a pedestrian
at another drink,
to sup, to taste—to figure:
Beyond what affords
the wires and cords,
the libations of vibrations—in pocket and lapel;
consorts of sorts:
eyes to see to tell,
caught in a room, in a shell.
Here it is running between sharp teeth,
between punch in and punch out,
the texture expands on the tip of tense tongue,
to drown the drain
in the welcome back of a dry desert throat,
where we once spoke.
Yesterday’s sun had taken all proof
of what there was to own:
the house, the car, the student loans, the mobile phone.
Every drop of hydration
was taken from placement.
And then that orb went away
with the dying day,
to blackest night,
to come back and drop what it lacked,
to give what it had taken away.
these droplets of life,
here on fine grass, stay,
for all to gleam as they pass.
Seeing yard for a blade.
Seeing hours for a wait.
Bearing witness to its presence,
to this small existence, to little menace.
Taken its smell,
dew on these forms,
forms on this ball,
lit up by yellow orb,
spinning, rolling, coming down,
into finite points,
magnified and reflected,
encapsulating each particle universal,
directly into you.
A most minute sense,
it was almost unbearable
to enter that building
on this day.
If adjectives were people
would we misuse them so freely?
Would we tarnish or compromise
their meaning, because we feel it so fit?
A day seldom goes by without hearing “amazing”
or “awesome” or some other elaborate word
that no one truly understands,
because we want to sound smart,
because impressive is good.
I imagine a day when adjectives are personified, incarnate,
they will come back irate,
pissed off at us for our word choices,
and they will take what is theirs.
Without pause or hesitation
they will call us all illiterates and fools,
imbeciles and morons,
they will promptly walk away,
with all ways to accurately describe.
We will then think on how we had it so well,
with no way to say exactly what we have to tell…
And then, inevitably, someone will say, “incredible”.
In the cistern of my mind
live water’s beckon thought;
is it the past or a dream—
the difference, I can’t tell.