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ADELAIDE Independent Monthly Literary Magazine / Revista Literária Independente Mensal, New York / Lisboa, Online Edition  

 

 

 

 

 

THE TROP

by David Somerset  

 

 

 

The Trop          

The game drones on.
The Trop is a “pinball game”  baseball field, named after orange juice.
A hit ball striking one catwalk is a double.
If it hits another, then its a home run or a dead ball or a ball in play.
I float outside my shadow, into layers of screen image.
Reality flickers into the dreamtime.
Now the stanchions are stars above the flowing catwalks.
The rafters are a painted shadow sky, overarching horizons.
The universe reveals itself vast, complex and intricate.
Our world is exposed as mere scenery of the infinite.
All of our hard earned knowledge throughout our history
is exposed as just a trivial facade, simplistic and arcane.
There are worm holes and phantom connections
where souls and angels traverse our notions of  time and space.
There is a profound intricacy, suggesting a maker or makers.
Intelligence outside of our evolution, and understanding.
The machinery is very old, but is amazing and beautiful,
but now it seems fallow, unattended and neglected.
Just another discarded toy that has lost its entertainment value.
There is no longer any sign of a presence to be seen.
No guidance or direction for our tiny self-centered micro-dot.
Meanwhile, the world is taking a beating.
We are taking a beating.
There is only an old fashioned phone on a old desk.
I pick up the receiver I and hear:
“your call is important to us, leave a message.”

 

 

 

When Best Friends Break Each Other’s Hearts    

though there was a loud snap and breaking sound
no one looked up to acknowledge and look around

he takes a step forward as he always has
she takes a step back as she always did

he finally takes a step back
she thinks of taking a step forward

but she does not want
to give him the wrong idea

so she steps back again
then so does he

as does she
and again does  he

in their distance they are a mirror
until they can hardly see each other

he pretends not love her …. anymore
so she will not have to pretend that she still does (love him)

then that life you had
…. comes apart

you lose your home your lover
and your heart

sense  the grim loss of
a husband and  a wife

and while you miss those days
and long for that life

you were you never
as good as lovers

as you were friends
until it stops and then it ends

then you hold back the hurt as much as you can
and wait for time…. and again

to find kindness and  resolution
….sufficient to stop the pain

and bring back your best friend
and restore you back to life again

and save your life
save your worthless life

 

 

 

Time Management      

         
Our whole lives misspent dreaming
Swimming in envy and scheming
Just killing ourselves for
What we believe in
Thinking it was just
What we needed,
But never filling that hole
That our soul left behind
But, there is no way around it
We can’t stop obsessing about it
The way that daylight dances
to recreate that scene:
When we first met
In each other’s dreams
But now, if you’re not in love
You’re still alive
Even when we’re not sure
We want to survive
Nothing is left of yesterday
We’re all alone and in the way, and
While it may not be obvious or even profound
When there is joy, it has to be found
There is a river running though us
It brings everything to us, and
It takes it away

 

 

 

Winter 2017

Cold today
Air is painful
News old and icy
Winning streaks long gone away
Days darken, sun recedes
Friends gone quiet and distant
Fires go out and are hard to relight
In families, nations, cities
Of the heart
Understanding becomes brittle then breaks
Our hurt pushing up through cracked ice
Feelings frozen, fall silent
No warmth can be found from each other
Hope and dreams surrender to survival
Cold’s grip deepens our indifference
Can’t move or connect
We can only
Dream of forgiveness
Dream of spring

 

 

 

 

Zombies in Love                               

When Zombies fall in love
It really is forever
It’s for eternity
Zombie love is
Always true, bacteria
And worms have already
Removed all of the
Distractions of the flesh
What is left is pure
Not illusion, not
Mere physical attraction
It is all real,
Zombie love

 

 

About the Author:

David Somerset lives in Salem, MA with his wonderful  wife and a small disagreeable dog.  He writes and performs  poetry, stories  and music at local open mics and features. He is a member of the Salem Writers Group and the Tin Box Poets.  Dave’s work has been published in the Merrimac Mic Anthology, The Whisper and the Roar, Oddball magazine, Ugly Writers, and the Lily Poetry Review.  Dave has also published a Chap Book: Among Poets Tonight.

 

 

 

 

 

     
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