Oh, rolling tongue

A short poem.

by Marcus Jonathan Chapman

Oh, rolling tongue
thick fatigue
lolling numb
“I’s” and “Me’s”
“Me’s” and “I’s”
“I’s” and “Me’s”
Oh cant reprise

beaded muscle
sweating taste
folding tussle
panicked haste
spit no more
of I or me
but wrap your mass
around a “we”

Deny, Aloof, Fame

A short piece incorporating three random words, written in 20 minutes.

by Marcus Jonathan Chapman

Crickets
No wind
Move your arm
Feel it swim.

Black swiss cheese
Above the trees
Blinking holes
Moving souls

Words betray
I’m okay
Donkey’s bray
I’m okay

Nature moves
Flashing screens
Breathing mouths
Counting beans

Piles of beans
Flash on screens
Breathing mouths
Become routines

Dying slow
Long goodbyes
Reflecting glow
Attracting flies

Nothing loved
Nothing gained
Straining eyes
Entertained

Wearing masks
Hiding flasks
No more smiles
Wandering aisles

Keep in mind
Distance gained
No more hugs
Distance maintained

Hold the phone
Coming home
Fingers itchy
News so kitschy

One more touch
Finger raised
Swiping screen
Red Blue praised

Square root =
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Year of fear
Drinking wine

Crickets
No wind
Move your arm
Feel it swim

Blue pastel
Above the trees
Sending man
To his knees

Social Security

A short poem, 2013.

by Marcus Jonathan Chapman

A little boy sat on a bench in a park,
watching old men play their game.

One moved his piece,
they frowned and they slouched,
then the other accomplished the same.

The castles moved straight,
the horses made hooks
as the black and white shapes met their fate.

The boy slightly shifted,
his gaze never lifted,
as the sun slowly made her escape.

The men’s eyes creased wrinkles
as moves spotted became twinkles
and their hands became part of the pieces.

The boy closed his eyes,
looked up to the skies
and asked god why this game never ceases.

God gave its reply
in the form of a sigh
but the men and their game stayed the same.

The boy shook with cold,
looked back at the old
and decided that he would proclaim:

“I know I’m too young
for all of your fun
but it’s getting quite cold you see.

My mother is waiting
but I’m still debating
if this is the game for me.

I wanted to know
before I did grow
who would be left with his king.

So I’m asking quite nicely
if you’ll play concisely
and finish this game before spring.”

The men gave a chuckle,
one grabbed his buckle,
as the boy cocked his head to the side.

The old men gave advice,
hoping that would suffice
but the boy sauntered right up beside.

Without making a scene,
he reached for the Queen
and moved in a line that was straight.

The old eyes got wide,
the boy swelled with pride
as the man on the right cried,
“Checkmate!”

Factor, Attic, Fill

A short story incorporating three random words, written in 20 minutes.

by Marcus Jonathan Chapman

Fill what’s empty
plenty
one to twenty

space unrecognized
sized
brain disguised

Addict’s eyes
compromise
Attic’s rise

March backwards
hcram
stuffed clam

Time to rhyme
Logic and
Reason be damned

Not a factor
Nonsense
wheal-less tractor