Kendra Lisum
Dark fiction. Ghosts. Weird west.
Kendra's Bad Poetry
Keepsakes
When your mother died, I sent you a brace of dead twigs.
When your dog died, I sent you a dozen dried roses.
When your hamster died, I sent you a wreath of bones.
But when you died, my love, I sent you my heart,
Pinned to a checkerboard by a thousand cupid wings.
Mud or Stars
Dark earth and bright above
We’re flesh suspended between mud and stars.
Is the space between any less worthy?
You can’t have one without the other.
Worth is not decreed
By light or dark
But by the art of being.
Existence is the miracle we’ve all achieved.
How do we spend this gift:
Slinging mud or reaching for the stars?
As I spilled my angst onto the pages, drowning in existential dread,
You materialized, as if conjured from the air,
charging across the carpet with purpose.
A thousand legs pumping.
I watched you scramble toward my socks,
Leftover from last night’s undressing.
Should I let you go, or will I find you later,
Hiding in my clothes?
As the vacuum nozzle chases you down,
I wonder if you sense your own existential angst.
Does it feel like mine?
Like drowning without air?
To the Millipede in my Room
as i sit in my dead friend's house
i can't help but ask if i'm taking advantage of the years he never got.
what have i got to show for it
but a shelf full of books,
a thousand trips to places known & unknown,
a new poetry book to remind us to pay attention
because what is life but attention?
as i sit in my dead friend's house
i can't help but ask
is this all there is?
a cup of hot tea on a rainy morning?
a soft dog to pet while ruminating in a notebook no one will ever read?
as i sit in my dead friend's house
i can't help but ask if this is enough?
enough travel, enough experiences, enough laughter,
enough stories?
is this enough to make up for all the years he was denied?
as i sit in my dead friend's house
