Blade in the hand. “No” on the tongue.
It’s not the vengeance—though that too is sweet,
an overripe peach dribble down the chin—
not catharsis violet and cream
nor anything else Clytemnestra taught us
eat hearts in the marketplace, girl
see how it soothes you.
It does not.
Photo by Gabriel Meinert on Unsplash.
We ran aground
while the watch stood, sailors sang cerulean
dusk heavy, shore unseen.
Mist ate up sand, sea
wave-roar mute against plank, caulk
painted gaze straining, sails empty as the night ahead.
We met the rocks with a crack, whine, splinter
hull parted like driftwood on coral: Rotten
long before the mast split.
Photo by Andreas Psaltis on Unsplash.
Lament for the Marketer
(With apologies to J.R.R. Tolkien. See also: Lament for the Rohirrim.)
Where now the MQLs and the SQLs? Where is the ad that was running?
Where is the backlink and the keyword, and the bright CTA converting?
Where is the brand in the market, and the USP differentiating?
Where is the CPL and the CPC and the go-to-market strategizing?
They have passed like leads into Salesforce, like Slacks into threads;
The emails have gone down in the inbox, behind the spam, into shadow.
Who shall gather the clicks of the email nurture running,
Or behold the flowing prospects from the CRM returning?
Photo by Adilet Asilbekov on Unsplash.
What is lovely has left us:
No harbinger, no dove’s entrails,
no smoke sign at dawn.
What is lovely has left us,
silent, sightless, slipped away
quick and tender-footed.
We count them, nameless,
golden stones on an abacus,
tallying what has gone.
Photo by Jose Llamas on Unsplash.
I have seen you like a skyline
far off behind twisted overpasses,
towers blue against the horizon haze.
A downtown intersection
bike-bells clang the moment’s urgency,
restless with doing, doing, doing.
I stretch out for your hands and they pass me by,
the crosswalk chimes
so do plans hurtle towards their fruition.
Pigeons nest between rooftop spikes:
My city loves
the only way it knows how.
Photo by Dillon Kydd on Unsplash.