Catchful Glints

 —Poetry and Photos by Steve Brisendine,
Mission, KS

 

 

DILATED

Eyes can be confined but
not tamed.

They pace behind barriers,
paw at glass.

You only think they
want to play.

   
    Come in here,
they say.
       It is feeding time, and you
   

       are appetizer,
    

       entree and dessert.


Look away while you can.


Too late.

 

 

 

 Pulled Plug

FLIGHT INTO

One firefly blinks in the dusk, the sun just down.


Tomorrow is summer’s first day, and then begins 

the slow descent—first to equinox, then toward 


brittle December sunshine and the deepest night
    

       of the year.

Then again, all darknesses must seem too long to


those alone, the ones who wait in falling shadows 
   

      for a flash of hope.

 

 

 

Shelter and Sky

lullaby

morning rainstorm;
I sit alone, surrounded
    by persistent ghosts

who are not ready
for curfew, for
    a good day's rest,

not without one
more story, told to
    shadows and walls

 

 

 

 

THE PARTY CONVERSATION

It comes (or should I say 
    

       They come?)


when sleep will not: dozens 


upon themselves of voices


chattering over each other,


animated and earnest and 


incomprehensible beyond


the odd scattered phrase.



 

There is no band, no rattle


and clink of ice and glass;


somehow, this makes me


feel I could be a better host.

 



Even so, the joint is always


packed; it’s an after-hours


bash at the Mind’s Ear Club,


and try as I might I cannot

 



summon either Morpheus


or a mental fire marshal. 


I am invited yet excluded,


both guest of honor and

the weird kid in the corner, 


hoping just once to hear  
    

        Glad you made it


or for my ride to show up.

_____________________

RE: PERCUSSION

 



Bag of kettle corn in her


hand, salted caramel shaker 

 



anchoring the polyrhythm of


old-school dirty funk; she 



 

bobs, nods, pops a kernel 


into her mouth in perfect



 

time with music the rest of


us only hear at the fringes

 



of bar chatter, the shuffle 


and flip of aces and eights.



 

She is the queen of groove,


eyes squeezed tight against

 



all square intrusions, all words 


and worlds save her own.

____________________

READY BAGGAGE

There is something to be said


for keeping a worst-case packed
    

         and at hand.

At the least, it should keep one


from being caught unprepared
    

        for endings: a

               Have a seat and close the door


summons, that grim mouth-set
    

        of cutbacks;

late dinner turned Last Supper,


with protestations for dessert
        

              (It’s not you …);

a second opinion that confirms


the first but cuts a month off
    

        your allotted remnant.

Optimists must buckle at that


sort of thing, the sudden snuffing
    

       of last hope;

better to shrug, smirk, blow cool 


smoke in Doom’s eye and say:

      

               I figured as much.

___________________

Today’s LittleNip:

countless
—Steve Brisendine



 

truth’s sting: each


poem is a grain


on a beach—and


yet we grind on,



 

cast and scatter


against all winds



 

and tides, hope


for catchful glints

___________________

Steve Brisendine lives, works and remains unbeaten against the New York Times crosswords in Mission, KS. He was recently seen on Medusa’s Form Fiddlers’ Friday with his original poetry form, the Dividita. A 2024 Pushcart Prize nominee, he has appeared in Modern Haiku, Flint Hills Review, I-70 Review and other publications and anthologies. He has no degrees, one tattoo and an unironic fondness for strip-mall Chinese food. Write to him at steve.brisendine@live.com. Welcome to the Kitchen, Steve, and don’t be a stranger!

___________________

—Medusa

 

 

 

 Steve Brisendine reading





 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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