BACON AND TROLLS
a haiku
bacon is so good,
trolls on the internet playing
bacon is still good
- Michael Ian Sattler
(featured in the poetry forum 04.03.12)
editor's note: Crispy or chewy, not even trolls can beat bacon. - mh
THE MAD HATTER
How
is a Raven
like a Writing Desk?
The riddle was posed
to a man,
once a soldier,
now a hatter,
sitting
down on his luck beside the closed
down factory behind him.
I honestly
have no idea. He replied
looking up
towards the woman in white
in front of him.
This woman was merely called
The Queen,
the owner of many hat shops across the land
who had taken pity
on the distraught man.
Perfect!
She responded with glee
and offered dainty
white fingers towards him.
What if I said,
in exchange for your sanity,
and your sword
I could make you immortal?
Never dying,
never needing sleep,
never requiring food...
Without a second
thought
he took the woman's hand
and
gave a nod of agreement,
before his mind
fell into madness.
The clock
struck 6
and a cat
walked by,
smiling broadly to him,
a hare came up
as well, and a mouse
scurried up his leg....
We're all mad here!
This was the beginning
of the story to a man
who is no longer a man,
far gone from the boundaries
of society
to the point
that he can simply be called Mad.
The story isn't all this,
no,
far from it.
The man now called
The Mad Hatter
opened up a wee
shop at the edge of the city,
The Hatter's Hat Emporium
it was called
filled with hats for all
shapes and sizes...
But alas
his mind was gone
taking the friendship from
a March Hare,
a Doormouse,
and
a Cheshire Cat
with him into the dark
that was his own head,
or as he called it,
Underland.
Would you care for some
tea?
- Michael Ian Sattler
(featured in the poetry forum 12.28.11)
editor's note: A spot of tea for the Mad Ones, fresh from a party perpetually in progress. Under wonder! - mh
ZIDANE'S DREAM, Part One
in his home town
people often disappeared
scared
but they led their nor-
mal lives unable to stop
on his 18th birthday
Zidane was looking forward
a party had been thrown
a piece of news popped up
on the radio
he wore a surgeon's mask
had a pump in hand
outside he pushed the window
he heard a man yell
people began to run
it was too late
the virus
he tried to move
wings now hung under either arm
in a state of shock
the words “Dark Children”
Zidane began to cry
“Be calm …”
a nurse had walked in
claws replaced his fingernails
a voice on the other side of the curtain
the only thing that remained was a face
“We are brethren now...”
- Michael Ian Sattler
(featured in the poetry forum 09.11.11)
editor's note: The ultimate horror story. These days, only the richest of the rich can afford wings to fly and Brethren to greet them. Think I might like this virus. Can't wait for the sequel. - mh
ZIDANE'S DREAM, Part Two
paintings of decadent food to music that would melt
people often disappeared
experimented on to see the results
many lead their normal lives
unable to stop the inevitable
an hour before the exhibition was going to begin
the “scare” started
a piece of news popped on the radio
he wore a surgeon's mask
and had a pump in his hand
he heard a man yell
people began to run
but it was too late…
he pushed out the back door
and collapsed on the ground
he woke in a hospital bed
blurred in his eyes
he tried to move his arms
wings
a state of shock
survived the chemical spray
“Dark Children”
half bat
the tubes pulling out
a voice from behind the curtains
calm
a nurse had walked in
bursting out in tears again
more beast than human
many times in the mirror
a violinist who one day wanted to see the world
but would never play again
wouldn’t eat
wanted to die…
telling him to seek out a “free city”
called Midian and The Pack
fate uncertain…
- Michael Ian Sattler
(featured in the poetry forum 10.30.11)
editor's note: Can't play the violin? That's tragic. But, now you can fly? Beat wings, find your safe city. - mh
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