Mr. Jacobs

I’m not the brightest bulb in the box either,

but your arms are like ambulances flashing

and flashing,

warning with sirens.

So loud and calming,

obnoxiously soothing,

inconsistently confusing.

Using your branded words as band-aids,

man-made clichés to coax my restraints,

and a sweet, sweet chokehold of my breath

with the death of yours.

And your death is delightful,

diligent and contagious,

contained within a blissful,

numbing comatose.

Covering and pulling below

like an undercurrent

beneath a sly surface.

Asphyxiating to sleep,

I weaken, and try to wake

asking sudden questions about the time,

knowing that your face is cold and fake

and so, so embedded in mine.

And you burn bright oblivion, baby, burn bright oblivion. 

Shovels

Life enjoys throwing a surprise at me, catching me off guard.

I turn right on reds with a glove to catch the sky smiling,

changing faces for different seasons.

Never backing down,

reasoning that defeat is depleting.

I stepped in a puddle of paradise today.

The frowns and sad skies removed their disguises

to show freedom in a mirror’s reflection.

The green explodes out of gray light, brightening

as the night draws in steady hands.

Small corners expand inside the mind

to free the spirits encaged by pride.

I cherish the sound of wind through the trees

and imagine what the negative looks like.

Black and white never suited me,

too tight in the waist and made my indiscretions

visible for split seconds of half-ingested moments.

I wonder why the sound of night is dark

when it brightens more than my mind hinting

profound conclusions

in sacred spaces of time.

Yesterday the ground broke from beneath my feet

and a canyon stretched out before me,

as vast as the sky.

I grabbed my magic carpet and flew over

to the other side.

© Casey Ryle

Bio: Casey has studied poetry at St. Mary's College of CA as well as Sacramento City College and has been writing for several years.