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ADELAIDE Independent Bimonthly Literary Magazine / Revista Literária Independente Bimensal, New York / Lisboa, Online Edition  

 




 

 



 

 

 

 

 

MORE
By Christopher Fields

 

 

 

 

 

 

More                                                                                                             

Why seek anything more
than a life that slips frictionlessly by?
I want more.  I want a life that lashes;
I want a life that grinds and scrapes,
that prunes away weak pieces
exposing lurid truths beneath.
I want road rash-mottled arms
proclaiming how closely I knew my way.
When I go, I want my body to be a map, every worn inch a symbol.
My skin, my scars, my story.

 

 

 

 

 

Verge                                                                                                           

the
.......office
..............is
...................my hell
though
.............................................strangely
................I leave home
the cloven hooves
.......that       fill
......my    fancy  
.........................shoes
when
..........I
.....am
.........sleeping

 

 

 

 

 

Prosocial                                                                                                               

Perspiration percolates
when I think how coffee-dates
and meetings play along
the fringes of my life.

Elocution calculated
might construct a reputation,
electrify some peers and win
their love and adoration--

but I'll never say a word,
and while I daydream, little talks
in streets and bars and coffeeshops
stock friendly wealth by penny-drops.

Just as lonely people
never seem to find each other
like they're content
to let living lie,

and wonder
later, middle-aged,
in the graveyard of their friendships
how it is they came to die.

 

 

 

 

Amplification                                                                                                      

 

Trade your future in for a past,
the heaviest one you can find or make.
The ones who don't know better
let the lightness of their burdens
assure them
the future is theirs
and brighter, eyes always
on the light at the end of the tunnel
but nobody told them that a ray of light is massless
that even though some people
will burn right through you,
just by the force of what sparked them,
the rest just hit their mark and scatter
leaving no more a trace than dust.

 

 

 

 

About the Author:

Chris Fields

Chris Fields  is a physical therapist residing in western Massachusetts. His poetry nucleates around single resonant words and phrases, usually while driving. He advises pulling over if like inspiration strikes you. His work may be found in Blast Furnace.

 

 




 




 

 

 

     
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