More fiction poetry...

There is a collection of tile art in the SFASU courtyard along the side of some steps near the Liberal Arts building; the mural is made up of many different images, each on tiles about 10in square. They were all created by different people so the styles vary, but one of them caught my eye; it appears to be a nondescript figure hunched in a small boat in the middle of a pond. This is his story, enjoy.

Reflections

Light seeps through the thick fog of morn leaving
streaks as it falls down to earth. The mirror
reflects a rippled image of the
world much clearer. Upon the water rests
a tiny barque, gently moving without
any disturbance to mark its passing.
The only passenger is and old man
hunched about his tackle, another day
alone on the clear water to ponder
memories of old times when moving was
easier. Thoughts of past mornings, perhaps
less foggy but still and serene, they cheer
for a younger man to come back again.
Peering into the looking glass he sees
wrinkles that the dark water erases; hair
that was long gone comes back, no longer gray.
Hands he knew as his own are steady
as he readies his line for casting, threading
the tiny string, agile and confident.
The only passenger is a young man,
hunched about his tackle, another day,
another day…

By: T.J. Seale
Copyright 2008 Thomas Taylor

Fiction Poetry

I created this piece during our last big hurricane. The lights were out and the storm was blowing outside; It put me in a very vulnerable mood and I used that to write this creepy poem. Originally I conceived it as being a part of a mystery/thriller novel that I have been thinking about the concept for lately. I was thinking that a major part of the discovery would come through journal entry poems found by the main characters. The problem is that I don't write genre fiction, so until I find a deeper theme among my ideas it's not getting written. SO... here stands this dark little poem with no greater work to be a part of, yet.

August 12, 1827: I awake from horrible dreams

What spirits
and specters spy
on me from the dark
corners of this place? Hark,
no angel hath the gall to guard
a soul so stretched and stripped.

Madness…! Quiet?
What is it then that
causes my mind to madden?
Silence still enough that echoes
of the past and future sound as sirens

in my poor
drums. Weary yet
from worry and soon regret,
but no, I cannot become as wrecked
as the wonton wretch who fills my head

with murder.
Horrible horror: thoughts
meant for devils dreams, the brains
of imps and denizens of the deep dark
shall be my feast… For I have none left

with which to fight,
and my will diminishes
with the twilight grey. I fear
oh God that neither I nor they will last
until the blessed day redeems us in its copper tones.

By: T.J. Seale
Copyright 2008 Thomas Taylor