3 poems by H.E. Casson

Acrylic on Canvas #mustardgold.jpeg

@Mourning

Tell us why you are sad/not sad

Mad/not mad

Conflicted/devastated/glad

That ________ is dead

(*click here for thread*)

 

So we can tell you why you’re wrong

 

It’s wrong to say

You celebrate

(Would you, in public, masturbate?)

The dropping of a megaphone

That magnified

 

(*buffering*)

 

Your suffering

 

To die is saintly

Faintly praise

Or raise them up

Or raise a cup

But never celebrate/debate

Or mirror hate

 

It’s wrong to say

You found your way

By looking through the glass

Of a villain

Once they pass

 

It’s wrong to dance on graves

It’s grim

To tap it down

To trap it down

The danger found

In words that sound

An awful lot like

“Wish you dead.”

 

It’s wrong to cry instead

 

It’s wrong to mourn collectively

Performing grief connectively

That’s built on something real

But monetized

 

It’s ill advised

 

(*click here if you don’t like this ad*)

And tell us why you’re sad/not sad

 

It’s wrong to send out thoughts and prayers

It’s wrong to swear

It’s wrong to joke

It’s wrong to *poke*

It’s wrong to pour one out and shout

“It wasn’t fair!”

 

With heaven gone

(We’ve walked the stars)

Our rituals are sold in stores

That have no buildings any more

These seances of clicks and clacks

Won’t bring them back

 

And more than that

You’ll get it wrong

 

(*click here for song*)

°•○●■¤▪︎■●•°

Sweeter

 

The bees, they say, are dying                My grandmother, they say, is dying

True, I see them less                    True, I see her less

Than when I was a child                Than when I was a child

Before I knew                        Before I knew

To calculate                        To calculate

Their value                        Her value

In contrast to their sting                In contrast to her sting

 

I try to keep my eyes squeezed shut            I try to keep my eyes squeezed shut   

Hands over ears                    Hands over ears

Pull curtains tight                    Pull curtains tight

Live in small boxes                    Live in small boxes

Ecosystems                         Ecosystems

Of bedroom, bathroom, TV room            Of bedroom, bathroom, TV room

 

I know I will miss them                I know I will miss her

They way the made things sweeter            The way she made things sweeter

The way they gave us life                The way she gave me life

When the flowers forget to bloom            When the flowers forget to bloom

And there is no way                    And there is no way

To bring them back                    To bring her back

 

°•○●¤▪︎□□○•■●•¤

My Time in Space

 

He is a scientist

    What’s more

An engineer

And he can hear

    The drum, the thrum,

    The humming of the gears

 

And he can tell 

    (like the top was popped)

    What’s underneath

    What’s buzzing in my ears

 

One time he told me 

Time

    The line

Is not a line

It slips and slides

Like gears that grind

    Until their teeth

    Are powder fine

        Until their teeth are gone

 

And now I ride a bus to school

A bus that takes me

Back in time

Past places that are not in line

Past buildings where I took up space

    The place

    That ground me down

The face that I have found

Lost in a sideways eight

 

I think on what he said

    My bed

        My teeth

            My gears

                My years

                    My head

 

I hope time is not linear

 

So they can hear:

The child trapped in the infinite

The halted time of being hit

I whisper to me not to quit

 

“You’ll be okay

You’ll be okay

You’ll be okay”

I say

 

Until we pull away

 

 

 

 

H. E. Casson is an under-watered late bloomer who was planted in suspect soil. Their work has been published in Room, Apparition Lit, Stonecrop Review, Grey Borders, Fireweed, and Jones Av, among others.