antediluvian-ghostwriter

[antediluvian-ghostwriter]

The sick feeling sets in again Is it dread, or resentment? Boredom?

Something you love turns to something you hate Not because it failed you But because the acid in your brain burns everything Eventually

You know that you are the problem That you corrode everything you touch And yet you cannot stop yourself From reaching out again

You love like a child loves a goldfish The tank is toxic, the water is poison And your hands are hell Kill it for fun To show that you care

Maybe you don’t like what you’ve become But you can never say no There is always another hand outstretched And it’s always so simple: Love something Pull it close And stab it in the chest

(If it bleeds, That means it’s alive If only for a moment)

fishbowl, 09.26.18

[antediluvian-ghostwriter]

I arrived in your town last spring,

Violin case under my arm.

You were delighted to meet a musician;

You welcomed my talents and my song.

I took your requests, obliged your tastes;

I played with aching arms and chafed forelegs,

To bring lightness to your steps

And pass your workday a little faster.

I entertained your children,

Orchestrated your weddings,

Played dances and dirges

Till you drank yourselves to sleep.

Summer came and went, and I

Was foolish enough to believe I might have found a home among you.

But when I came to you after first frost,

Asking if you could spare a bit of food for my troubles,

You smiled at me and shook your head:

Saying that if I wanted food for the winter,

I should have gotten myself a real job.

the ants and the grasshopper, 06.26.18

@poetryforplebs

[antediluvian-ghostwriter]

I was afraid to tell you Not because I thought you would hate me Or that you would cry But because I knew that saying it Would make it real

I couldn't say it, not even to myself Not when my winter clothes came down From the attic in boxes Or when the pictures disappeared from the mantel And I could feel everything getting emptier

I guess I thought As long as I didn't say the words aloud Maybe April would go on forever And we would never have to say goodbye

ben ruiz, 04.30.18

[antediluvian-ghostwriter]

I’ve saved the poem you wrote Propped against the books on my shelf Keeping their words company With yours

I’ve hung the poem around my neck Eight lines, strung together, glinting Like beads of glass On a silver chain

I’ve pressed the poem between the pages Of L’Engle and Burgess and White To preserve it like a snowdrop snatched From a garden of melting ice

I know you didn’t write it for me But I held it anyway And didn’t let go

Eight, brief, breathless lines Dusted in powder snow

holding on to pieces of you, 04.06.18

[antediluvian-ghostwriter]

upon the crest of the rock i recount my woes to a dark and glassy pool that returns my own reflection

perfect beauty eyes that never break from mine

i have found what i was meant to love all along

an attentive companion an unwavering audience a flood of accolades and sympathies

i have found god in my own image

i have found the eternal beauty of drowning

narcissus, 03.14.18

@poetryforplebs

[antediluvian-ghostwriter]

@allor7 did a reading of “Professional Advice” and it’s delightful. The cadence and the inflections do so much to help capture the tone I was going for.

Color me impressed.

Professional Advice by Antediluvian Ghostwriter More work can be viewed at antediluvian-ghostwriter.tumblr.com/

[antediluvian-ghostwriter]

At the bottom of the stone stairwell The jailer sits alone Staring down the shadows that gather In the far corners of the dungeon

Behind him, up the stairs, Lively voices lift a song Of friendship, of wit And valor

Eventually, the voices fade As the castle’s residents retreat to their rooms The torches flicker out, and the jailer Sits in darkness

Too dark to see the shadows anymore But he can feel them Burgeoning behind the bars of their cages Whispering a song of their own:

O valor, prepare Tonight ye shall die O wit, despair Your end comes by and by

The jailer smiles dimly into the darkness He is not brave, or clever But he has guarded here many nights And he has heard this song before

The shadows are restless tonight Affording him no chance of sleep So he rattles the keys on the brass ring And starts to sing along:

O friends, forsake The mirth of yesteryear O brethren, awake And learn the chill of fear

It is a bloody song With many verses Describing the many ways His friends will die

He knows his friends are afraid of him They do not understand Why he guards an empty jail Why he sings of poison and pain And knives

He holds the tune until morning When he hears their voices from above And knows that they slept well And knows that they survived

vigil, 03.02.18

[antediluvian-ghostwriter]

Poetry Participation Party | March of Mythology

Hello, everyone! This month we are holding an event, March of Mythology! 

The details are thus:

• there will be a list of prompts (lovingly chosen by your peculiar poets) from which you can draw inspiration • once inspiration strikes, you are invited to share your poetry, flash fiction, short story, etc. with us • this can be done by either submitting your work to poetryforplebs (authors are always credited) or tagging us in your post 

Once the month is up, a post linking to all the work will be posted for this event of March 2018. 

We humbly yet gleefully desire your presence in poetryforpleb’s FIRST Poetry Participation Party, March of Mythology!

[antediluvian-ghostwriter]

Wind the key with two fingers Three quick twists The little beetle skitters across the floor Unable to decide where it will go Or when it will stop

Its body is metal and its feet Are plastic

“We are not like the little beetle,” The doctor says “We make choices, we shape our fate”

And so I part with one gold coin After another, repeating “I make choices, I Am in control”

The audience is laughing tonight A good story A good joke

I huddle behind the curtains, waiting for the invisible hand To take my key and wind me up again

professional advice, 02.22.18

[antediluvian-ghostwriter]

Do not trust The woman in the wide-brimmed hat and the gardening gloves Ask yourself What is buried in the soil beneath the blue geraniums

Do not trust The forgotten path that winds along the ridge of the reservoir Ask yourself Why the ground beside the water is dust—dust, and a trail of tiny bones

Do not trust The pixie who leaves gifts by your bed and sorts your pantry Ask yourself Which of your books she has been reading when you are out

Do not trust The voice that whispers to you from across the frozen bog Ask yourself What is lurking in the shadows as you lift your lantern toward the trees

warning, 02.03.18

[antediluvian-ghostwriter]

I stitched my life up like a coat The rough hem scraped the ground Deep pockets held my happiness On odd occasions found

I knitted knowledge in a cap Clasped tight upon my skull The scholar’s weave did insulate My thoughts in darned wool

I wrapped my worries round my neck A handsome scarf they made I worked my mitten-gloves so fierce The frantic fingers frayed

The smiling world surfaced in sun Emerged like Lazarus bold — A summer day! they shrieked, while I Sat solitary Cold

patchwork, 1.27.16

[antediluvian-ghostwriter]

On a day like today When it’s 3 degrees out and feels like negative 5

The barista works his wizardry For the frozen exiles of the frozen north Whose shuddered sighs quick-crystallize In the cold thin air outside the coffee shop

The machines whir, grinding, blending, brewing Salvation for the icicle-tipped masses

overheard, 01.17.18

[antediluvian-ghostwriter]

Her mother asked her about me? Until now I had only been semi-cognizant That her parents knew of my existence

Her mother asked her about me — Does this change things? I am too shy to infer The context of the question Or the implications of the reply

Her mother asked her about me, And now my throat is tight I was content to be a figment Unknown; untouched But her mother asked her about me And I don’t know what that means

inquiry, 12.23.17

[antediluvian-ghostwriter]

A sea of white flakes swirl down from a grey-black sky Layer upon layer, an avalanche in slow motion Everywhere the air is full of snow

I shriek and jump and wave my arms And sprint across the half-freezed field Overflowing with thank you thank you thank you

I twirl and laugh through the torrent Beautiful, cold, and overwhelming And I run through the empty spaces Like the world’s worst dodgeball player Letting the coldness cling to my nose and chin and eyes

When I stumble inside the building I run my hand over my hair Smoothing down the tiny water droplets that glisten, already melting

Old warnings play in my ears: you’ll freeze out there But my heart is already yearning To run back into the storm

delight, 12.07.17

[antediluvian-ghostwriter]

The greybirds hop and skitter across the parking lot On a dim December day

Perhaps there are crumbs on the pavement I cannot see from my window

Perhaps they are in denial of the dropping centigrade And the snow clouds gathering on the horizon

Perhaps they, like me, are of that steadfast stubborn stripe Resolving to starve scratching at pebbles Before wilting under a southern summer sun

cold feathers, 12.06.17

[antediluvian-ghostwriter]

I woke up in a world that didn’t know me I stumbled around, confused, alone The crowds were thick like quicksand The streets were massive and loud and bright The honking of car horns alarmed my ears And no one would stop To answer my questions No one would stop —

I wanted to go home But home was a hundred years ago And I struggled to find it even in photographs Those photographs of a faded ghost A small and tired creature of habit A voice that had never been loud enough To get above the clamor

decades, 12.03.17

[antediluvian-ghostwriter]

A gentle-golem walked the shore; Its coat hem grazed the ground— It trod the grass with metal toes And whispered with a cloud

Anubis trailed them, muddy-pawed, Jumped at birds and pounced on bones While cloud and golem skipped their words Across the lake like stones

a dream of you, 11.03.17