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White

White snow dissolves graves
Like time decays the fawn
Outside of the back gate
That never did seem to fit right:
Never melted like the leaves—
All the green dripping,
The wiry grey standing bold.

I rest my chin
On the cold metal
While white bones
Chill on ice,
And deer undress.

I think of
Snow angels.

- Ryan Kendall

(featured in the poetry forum 03.02.13)

editor's note: If there is black beyond that frozen gate, better to go through snowblind; white like angels. Yes! - mh

Ocean Poem

Another ocean poem: Danger! Danger!
   The danger of people being water
Built up in oceans--A blue collection of hands,

Feet, and shark fins mimicking the Atlantic.
   How much better they look out there at
A comfortable distance from a rocking

Chair on a beach house porch. They’re
   Magnificent at such a separation
With their color exposed, a startling blue,

But how terribly sad they look in a single
   Paper cup of tap water from the faucet;
Such a pale shade of blue they can’t even

Be called a shade at all. They’re clear,
   And you start to see the emptiness
They try so hard to disguise with blue

Densities; compact nothings practicing
   Friendly waves that seem to say,
“Come swim. There are no sharks here.”

- Ryan Kendall

(featured in the poetry forum 12.07.12)

editor's note: Careful where you tread water in this ocean; fins are foe. - mh

Persian Rugs

Laid out sacrificial not-saint
On meditative Persian rugs,
You are less.

Thread spins hair knots
Of not-saints deep into
Not-saint rugs of meditation,
And you are less.

8:00 PM coffee
Soaks Persian tendrils,
Matting down mats
Of even less.

Maybe
If your eyes bulged,
There would be more than
Old genie lamps filled with espresso,
And carpets that can’t fly due to
Not-saint dead weights.

- Ryan Kendall

(featured in the poetry forum 10.17.12)

editor's note: To unweave the weft of your meditative duress, quaff your caffeine on carpet, not Persian, but Afghan - no less. - mh

“Find what you love and let it kill you” – C.B.

16 year old
Fell mushy gushy love drops
Over a sentence sucking synapses
Into bitch-in-heat orgasms.

Aphrodisiac syllables
Boiled over spaghetti sauce insides
Like sonic speed time lapse rose bloom.
That furnace fired hot
In heart valve,
Stomach lining,
And pelvic bone,
Really sent her shivering
Like walking tightropes of
Inverted equator.

Came enough times
To document jawlines
Wasting mouths
Wasting tongue
Because they don’t taste.

Enough to
Wash out roaches
With feelers brushed back
In some 90’s haircut.

Enough for storytellers
To etch her deep
In the walls of
California coffee shops.

Never had to make the call,
“The juicer’s jammed!”
Because there will always be pages,
Always self-servicing saucy stanzas,
Always dead poets reading
Under her showerhead.

Say she does jam,
Say molten masturbation
Molds into fly guts,
Then, it must mean
Success.

All dried up
Means she felt
It all.

- Ryan Kendall

(featured in the poetry forum 08.17.12)

editor's note: Novice nubile diversions in verse do not dabble; they drain to the drop of compulsion and angst driven obsession. True love, indeed! - mh

A bit about Ryan: "I am twenty years old and an English Major at the University of North Texas. I've been writing poetry for about four years now. More of my work can be viewed at Reducto Asburdum."