On The Go- Sides

Here we sit upon this fence,

Waiting for it to all make sense.

Some have since picked a side,

Slipping down that treacherous slide.

Wait will we the chosen free,

For death to choose our lives to be.

-M.E. InkOwl

On the Go- Road Home

Glistening paths winding round melting hillocks of snow.

Dark birches stretch toward the night sky.

Feel a chill as lights sweep into deep places.

Silent prayers utter to the winter air:

“Bring me home safe.”

-M.E. InkOwl



On The Go is a series of poems I’ve written in the short spans of time between school, teaching, working, parenting, and being a husband. Sometimes thoughts come unbidden to mind and I feel the need to write. So I indulge myself for the briefest of moments and write. Enjoy!

Self-Love: A Beginning

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Stupid cowlick-

Do I always walk like that?

Yeah, I just said that.

I’m running late, again.

 Shoot, what’s their name again?

I forgot to get the trash cans off the street.

Did I really just forget that meeting?

Yes, I really just screwed this up.

. . . I guess I can start fresh tomorrow.

-M.E. InkOwl

 

A Growing Storm

Can you feel it? Disturbing the very air we breathe.

It presses upon my mind as a blanket of wet leaves that never seem to stop falling.

A storm is coming.

Whether it comes, I know not save it brings death and destruction.

But all about are the signs of peace and content, not a cloud in the sky.

A storm is coming.

Yet the disquiet calls upon our minds with unease, even as we deny the possibility.

This world has reached far beyond follies end and has touched a swarm of bees.

A storm is coming.

Are you ready, have the signs come true?

For Earth will move and fire will consume, and this world we have worked to exist will end.

Doubt not the goodness of our silent gods, that have laid dormant for a thousand years.

A storm is coming.

-M.E. InkOwl

By The River Running

Don’t you understand honey?” She said, trying to sound helpful. “They’re taking it all down all of it all the trees the river the forest, they’re already bulldozing it down.”

I ran, bushes and leaves slapping against my legs. A bird took flight from its hiding place, calling out with an ugly voice.

Raven.” My mind stated as the black wings disappeared beyond a stand of trees.

Behind me my grandmother’s apartment shrank behind the usual hedges of scrub oak and lilac.

I ran on, heedless of the noise and destruction I was causing. The trail wound it’s way up and over a small hill. For a flash I could see the green tops of trees leading off into the distance, ending in a long line of roofs

My thoughts returned back to what my mother had said, “It doesn’t matter anyway, Michael, Grandma is moving somewhere else, a better place.”

“But what’s better than this place?” I growled between taught jaws. It wasn’t fair. None of it was, especially for grandma. She was different, always had been. But now they were taking her away from this, from her home where it was safe to be different.

I continued on, now slowing my pace, daring someone to catch up with me pull me back inside.

As trees passed me I again heard my parent’s voice. “Now Michael it’s alright, this move will be good for grandma, they’ll take good care of her.”

Ahead of me some vines hung low over the path and I swung out at them, dashing greenery aside.

Why move from here? It’s perfect for Grandma. She doesn’t-” Thoughts suddenly derailedmy steps faultered and I tripped, almost sprawling head first into a bubbling stream.

I stopped for a moment, realizing just how deeply I was breathing, ears burning in my eyes. But the silence was too complete, my ears rang from it.

Something was not right. I stopped and scanned the forest where I stood. Large trees spread wide overhead, while the elevated path I stood on made up the river bank. Everything was normal, everything except. . .

Something swung in the gentle breeze, lazily circling in and out of view. It looked like a woven basket.

I walked up to the grizzled bush and pulled vines away. Something large swung out toward me and I leapt back in shock.

“What the?” I said, feeling my stomach twist. A woven form half the size of my body hung from a tree. Vines wrapped around most of its twisted limbs securing it to one side.

“Are you some kind of voodoo doll?” I asked, realizing that if a reply came from the woven form I’d most likely need to change my pants. There was no answer, just the sound of vines rubbing on branch. My attention focused beyond the vine. My eyes went wide. Nothing could prepare me for what I saw beyond the swinging form.

A small clearing sat to one side of the stream and path. A makeshift leanto sat between two trees, various objects and trash lay scattered about the space.

A fowl smell of rotten trash filled the air, making my neck tingle.

Maybe it’s a homeless person’s home.” I thought, trying not to panic.

Wind blew through the clearing picking up leave and trash, and throwing fetted air into my face.

I coughed and gagged, covering my nose and looked around. That what when I saw it, saw them. Dozens and dozens of twisted woven forms hung from the trees, swinging the wind. Their knobbled forms tossing this way that, faceless heads turning to look at an intruder, at me.

Dread fell upon me like thick oil. I did the only thing I could, I ran.

And I never looked back.

-M.E. InkOwl

Guest Submissions Needed

I’m going to be doing daily reminders about this now because I need more submissions! Please for the love of food, send me your posts about food. Any genre, any style, just make sure it fits within specified guidelines. Now is your chance to have your blog and writing featured! Read more to know what’s what:

Submissions must be about food. They can be any genre of writing as well.
Entries must contain no less than 50 words, no more that 1700 words.
Photos are a must, even if they are taken from the internet (please give credit).
Please list your website or blog so I can give you credit for your work and answer these three question for your author bio:
1. Where are you from?
2. What started you writing? (Why do you like to write?)
3. What is your dream for your writing?
*Pictures of yourself for the author bio are encouraged.*
**Pictures and content submitted with graphic language, violence and/or pornograpahic nature will not be accepted**
***Please give credit where it is due, I do not accept copyrighted work***
Send submissions to Michael.erickson512@gmail.com no later than November 1st.
I love forward to your submissions! Feel free to share, reblog, or ping this post as much as you can! Thank you!
-M. E. InkOwl

Morning’s Metaphor

We walked down lanes of mud and rock, passing grasses filled with bird song.

Behind us brilliant morning shone between cloud covered mountains. Fall colors stood out bright against the cold hills.

Before us a tumultuous sky spread from north to south, expansion and consuming the coming light.
And there among the reeds and canals we stood, three figures in the morning.

Great winged herons took to flight, calling long mournful notes into the crips air.

I felt in those moments as if we stepped into a living metaphor. Part, were we, of something more expansive than our mortal minds.

Our three figures balanced between it all, standing on the edge of a tempest sorrounded by light.

-M.E. InkOwl