5 Poems

By Simon Christiansen. Published on March 7, 2023.

Muskelids

A ferret swims through yellow grass,
hunting the wolverine.
Mustelids dueling with muskets.
Gunsmoke drifts above the field.

Up close,
sharp teeth would penetrate the ferret,
like a blade passing through fog.
The wolverine victorious in bloody mist.

At a distance,
bullets fly through dense grass.
No blood slakes the soil.
Neither animal an experienced marksman,
knowing only tooth and claw.

The ferret,
grateful for the impasse,
enjoys the kick of the gunpowder,
inhales the smoke,
caressed by blades of grass.

Milk, Eggs, and Sugar; So True, So Sweet

The world is everything that hits my face.
A custard pie of contingencies,
Stinging my eyes,
Staining my skin,
Tickling my lips.
Milk moist in my ears.

I wipe but more follow.
My legs fight against
The viscosity of whipped cream.
The light ahead
Refracted by eggs and sugar into
The sweet rainbow of bewilderment.

Tenebrous Pilgrimage

Riding the shadow past Einstein,
outrunning the light of realization,
reason, knowledge, and pain.
Attain the moon from the Earth
in a single moment of elation.

The Earth, a glittering globe above.
The light of humanity mere pinpricks
on inky continents.
The shadow pours
into the craters, revealing
silvern regolith.

Textile Foundation

Ancient caverns burrowing
Beneath the carpet.
Snakes between forests of fibers
Feel the echo of the caves,
As they slither above.

Will something awaken,
Drawn by the movement,
To devour the softness supporting our feet?
Will we fall, then?

Into endless, repeating tunnels.
Looking for a route
Leading somewhere, anywhere,
Across cold, solidified sediment.

Tableaux

As the Philosopher says:
"Phenomena are but tableaux
by the actors of the mind".
Each image a star or starlet
demonstrating the world.
Silent they pose in
thought and memory,
interpreting the truth but
blocking the view.

I push through them across
the stage, hands grasping at
my clothes,
brushing my arms.
Warm skin against skin.
I am lost in the crowd.
I can no longer move.
Each path blocked by
a pitiless visage.
A black-and-white hand
grasps mine.

Pulls me through.

"Come," says the ancient actor
in suit and fedora.
The crowd thins, moves aside, dissipates.
We are alone in a quiet spotlight
on a dark stage.
Smoke drifts from the edge of his mouth,
glittering.
"This is where it ends."
"Is it enough?"

I walk past him beyond
the edge of the stage.
Falling, hoping to land
on solid ground.

Simon Christiansen is a writer, poet, and indie game designer living in Denmark. His poetry has been published in Neologism Poetry Journal, Bluepepper and Compass Rose Literary Journal. He has also written several award-winning works of interactive fiction. More information can be found at www.sichris.com.