Full Circle

When someone tosses a note in a bottle down a stream,
They'll never know where it will end up.
Maybe some African tribe in a dense jungle will get a glimpse of Western writing.
Likewise, a modernistic Parisian may find the bottle,
Floating down an illuminated Seine,
Bobbing near the reflection of the Eiffel Tower.
It could very well end up on some flooding moor,
Growing grass next to it for generations to come,
Never to see human eyes again,
But instead decompose and rot into the loamy soil.
And if none of those things happen,
Then maybe it'll end up where it started,
In a forest,
Being pushed to the bark of a tree,
By swooshing stream pulses,
Sleeping to the crickets' chirping,
Hearing trite echoes,
And waiting to be read. 

A Poetic Light on Snow

Crunchy crystals of sparkling perfection,
Melting into a velvety slurry on the tip of the tongue.
As white as freshly sugared marshmallows,
And just as sweet:
It's just a different sort of sweetness.

The hands turning the page,
To the next chapter,
Of a book called "Time."
Confetti sent from the heavens,
To shower the land in a sensational sprinkle of ice.

Call it imaginary, flavorless, calorie-free ice cream,
A subzero fluffy pillow,
Or the chilliest medium for art.
It can't be everything,
But it can be something. 

Rabbits- The Seasonal Animal

(The opinions expressed here aren't necessarily mine. Or are they?.........)

-What's your favorite thing about each season?
- I love seeing the fluffy bunnies have babies in the spring, the fluffy bunnies stuffing their fluffy faces in the summer, the fluffy bunnies being thrown to their death by fluffy hawks in the fall, and the fluffy bunnies being run over by SUV's and what not in the winter!!!

Prowling

It would not leave her be. Everywhere she went, it followed, like a moth follows a flame-she was that flame, and slowly, she was dying. As time passed, and as its visits became more frequent, she grew weaker, tenser, and more paranoid. Gradually, the paranoia drew its claws into her heart, and soon, into her soul.
When she walked from school, there it was, peering from the confines of a bushy tree, with its one, glaring eye. An eye that seemed to pulsate fear- fear that needed no road map to find its target. Even when she was in the safety of a group, she could still feel the focus of the eye beaming intently upon her very being, as her fibers were slowly being weaved apart.
And even at night, she had no chance of recuperating and acquiring a new aura of energy, for there it was- peering from her window, with that demonic eye, as it raked its ghastly claws back and forth over the glass.
Each scratch was a slash directly to her person; each glare, a bullet into the soul, a bullet so entrenched that nothing could ever get it out.
And one night, with one final scratch, and a final glance, her soul and body said their farewells, for good, and finally she was at peace. She was free.

Random Comments

In relation to the stubby hands poem:

"Closer Closer. Closer. Woah, woah, woah! Space!
"{{Slide}} How are you? {{Slide away}}.
"With these stubby hands, I will take over the world!"
"Look at my fangs and tremble in utter fear! {{Show fangs.}} Oh, wait. That's a molar......
"I WILL EAT YOU! WITH A SPOON!" (which will be hard to use with these stubby hands)
"It's not that my arms are stubby-it's that the rest of me is overly-proportioned."

A Melody Of Doom: The Trickle Of A Water Faucet (Not All That Musical)

Silence.
Except for the trickle of the water faucet
Plink, plunck, plinck, plunck,
A very repetitive cycle.

Again,
Plink, plunck, plinck, plunck.
The sound of plummeting water drops,
Hitting the metallic sink is the only sound.

Plink, plunck, plinck, plunck.
It never stops.
MAKE IT STOP!
It's gotten very mundane and tedious.

On the brink of insanity, or a complete breakdown.
Plink, plunck, plinck, plunck.
It's oblivious to others but itself.
Plink, plunck, plinck, plunck.

Silence?!?!?!

Plunck, plink, plink, ker-plunk.

(Well, at least there's some variation now.)
(Hey! What about an album full of water faucet noises! Huh, right? Never mind, awful idea.....)

Arrival

The white fluff,
That has covered the ground for
Months,
Since time began,
Has returned.
Death is upon us.
Cold,
Bitter,
Relentless temperatures.
Life will not last long.
Nonetheless,
The young tulip bulb has sprouted.
And even though it is the end of the growing season,
It still tries to grow.
Winter defeats it,
But come spring,
It comes back for a win.