Death of a Pen (2013)

My pen is running out of ink, and will soon die.  Teeth mark craters on the cap are proof of its valiant service.  My pen will soon die, and I cannot help but to have a heavy heart.  I know that I will eventually have to get a new pen, or else never write again.  How long will I mourn this loss, until I decide to pick up another and touch it to paper?  How long will my widowed hand deny the feel of its suitors?
My hand will meet another pen.  It will hold a new pen, and they will give birth to shapes and symbols.  It will replace the one within my grasp.  Does that make my hand a whore?  Does that make my hand callous, while being calloused?  I hope not, for my hand will in fact meet another pen.  It will have memories of its own, with the scars as proof of the not so tender love.  Then someday it too will die, leaving my hand to form a bond with another.
It is strange to think of death in this way.  Thinking of death, as if it were not exclusive to the living.  How can objects that never lived actually die?  The same way we do -- our bodies quit working.  It is curious to think that pens and people have a lot in common.  We are both once new and are taken from our packaging.  We both work and have purpose, creating memories along the way.  Then without any warning our ink well will dry up, and we die soon thereafter.  Open a new package of pens, and repeat.  Though it does make me wonder, pens can be recycled giving them purpose once again.  What happens to us?

Shifting Sands (2013)

I am stuck --
Sinking in these shifting sands.
Something so simple, somehow sinful,
The oozing death swallowing my feet -- legs, my being, my
Sense of self.

I am stuck --
Sinking in this quicksand.
Wishing it were quick, but
Slowly I am being submerged, waiting -- pausing,
The fly stuck on a sticky strip.

I am stuck --
The ground lied to me,
It looked solid, stable, seemingly static.
I stopped to watch nature -- watch the world turn, but
Now a new prisoner stuck -- sinking slowly.

I am stuck --
What seemed as slight downward pressure, has
Surely become an anvil upon my shoulders.
There are helping hands -- branches and vines, will they lie too?
If I look and reach up, can I pull myself out?

Green to Blue (2013)

The ocean is a rippling blanket,
Hiding another world from my eyes.
From green to blue and shallow to deep,
The ocean resembles a patch-work quilt.

The shore has the quilt in its grasp.
A blanket pulled up to keep warm, to stay hidden,
Gaia's underneath and is restless.

It's strange that
Something so tranquil;
The rhythmic splash of water on sand; is
Something so violent.
Each splash is evidence of the
Abuse on the granular geometry.

Waves of the patch-work fabric crash onto Earth.
Lint from Gaia's quilt sprays a passerby, with a
Mist of cool salty droplets.

Here there are two plains of existence,
Overlapping but not quite mixing.
A world shrouded, hidden behind green and blue, while
Another basks in plain sight.