Life is a poem made up of random words and actions, along with many moments of silence.
check mate.
lurking and planning,
the bloodclot’s greatest power
is its cunning stealth
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in reality,
it is an act of treason
by a blood brother
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in this silent war
the contingent’s upward march
craves resignation
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there is no winner
when sudden death ensues and
all prospects are gone
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and it is thus that
perseverance, blind hope and
injections proceed
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here, cherry blossoms
and haiku moments cede to
possible check mate
— Adam Donaldson Powell
don’t ask.
(from Adam Donaldson Powell’s “Collected poems and stories”, 2005.)
please don’t ask me how I am;
you can’t really expect
me to be any different
than I was yesterday.
we’re all really quite normal —
me, myself and I, and in
despite our narcotic state can
be up and down simultaneously.
and don’t look at me too long;
I despise those “I know
how you must be feeling
eyes” and concerned tone.
why must you always misconstrue
the way my gaze avoids yours?
my anti-social disposition is
intended to protect you from us.
no — it doesn’t help to
speak slowly, pronouncing
each word with the sweetened
diction of a nun or nurse.
I honestly can’t tell you how to
act, for I have trouble enough
getting us to agree about
how we’ll shield you from me.
it’s really best to let me volunteer,
lest my unbridled demons unleash
their flame-throwing dragons to sing
the delicate threads of your own ego.
and you, so footloose, must avoid looking
back into the darkness whose glittering
maze of mirrors encaptures those who poke
their noses where they don’t belong.
go ahead — ask me how I am…
— Adam Donaldson Powell
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