Tuesday, May 27, 2014

The dish and the spoon

I want to grab your hand
as we jump off the moon
and then travel through space
in a clockwork balloon.

As we say our good-bye
to all the wars of Mars
and navigate our craft
away from nearby stars.

We're faster now than light
as we pass Jupiter
Neptune and then Pluto,
who's been passed once before.

We pummel through the Oort
then out into deep space
We're not sure where we'll go
but we will land someplace.

Then with my arms around you
into stasis we'll immerse
I'll hold you near-forever,
until the next universe.

© 2014 Mach B

Monday, April 21, 2014


After destroying Tokyo
with your electric breath
you stomped the ground defiantly
and claimed to be Godzilla.
Most everyone ran away 
out of sync with their screams
but I stood my ground
stared you down through
your rept-alien eyes
and inside... Inside I saw
a soft furry kitten that purrs
when scratched behind its ear.

All I wanted was to cuddle you
and protect you from harm. 
It was then I saw your clawed foot
coming down from above.

© 2014 Mach B

Saturday, April 19, 2014

Lay out the words

Lay out the band
and play a song
on the other hand
it would be wrong

to lay out words
when you're not true
as I've observed
it makes you blue

lay out the man
once he's untold
no longer can
he fight the cold

lay out his soul
to find his light
As you've been told
gonna be all right.

As you've been told
gonna be all right.

© 2014 Mach B

Saturday, November 30, 2013


In the future time boils,
yellow-orange, red-hot,
magma, bubbling toward the present
like sand grains at the
brink of their destiny
before their fall.

Time rises, unseen before
it breaks the surface
of our consciousness and rides
our expectations like a molten
river rushing down a mountain side
to the sea...

And hits that moment,
that steamy moment when it freezes
and becomes now, then it's lost
under the waves, eroding until
even the fact it's forgotten
is in the past.

**From a completed Weekly Poetry Challenge in 2013. The topic: Time.
© 2013 Mach B

Saturday, June 30, 2012

A poem’s life

But seriously a poem has a life
like a man through his span
there's a start, some verse, then an end.

But it is born from a seed, not an egg
and a sperm, watch it squirm
from its start, it breaks its casing.

Interlacing words that arise like vines
sometimes quick into sticks
sometimes stones when the poet's mad.

And then an innocent child might play
like it knows where it goes,
instead it becomes an adult.

That is when it tries to find its meaning
which may hide, closed inside,
or is displayed proudly each line.

Then later in its life, when it gets old
it may tire, no more fire
in its belly, but not its soul.

At the end, it's more than ready to go
it lays down on some noun,
a last word that leaves it in peace.

**From a completed poetry challenge in 2012. The topic is...


© 2012 Mach B


Will you see the same thing I do
when the angels dance themselves free?
Gone are the chains that hold them when
we agree not to disagree.

And what would the poets write if
we decide to think one the same
and you all agree with my view,
no matter whose view we might blame?

You will see the same thing I do
when the demons escape to hell,
fleeing the glaring peace on earth
like some thieves from an alarm bell.

We'll sing a song in harmony
but the chords will sound very wrong
because we're singing monotone
after all we sing the same song.

You will sing the same note I do
and we'll live in a blissful peace
with no need for different humans,
trapped in sameness, without release.

So next time that you might argue
do so with your biggest smile
while peace on earth is a great cause,
conflict's what makes living worthwhile.

**From a completed poetry challenge in 2012. The topic is Rorschach tests.
© 2012 Mach B

Dark Magenta

The world stops like a film frame
when I look in your dark magenta eyes
in the sky at night, all its purple
stolen from the stars by seagulls
who make the wind do their bidding
I look deep into your eyes so dark
where colours dance on flames of light
in the sky at night where stolen purple
rises from the sea to fill the gaps
between the clouds that could be used
as jewels by native Americans
before they knew they were indigenous
when they  loved the land that
rises from the sea to mountains made
of snow white snow or are they clouds
before they're tooled by trickster seagulls
who bid the wind to take them up
to summits unreachable as naked men
then again, in your dark magenta eyes
anything is possible.

**From a completed poetry challenge in 2012. The topic is colours.

© 2012 Mach B