Flood

Steam rising
from oil top roads,
crossing streams,
rushing on without
regard for what lies ahead.

Masterpiece

My two year old boy
is forcing out his lungs,
pleading for his mother
who continues to sit in her blue chair
in front of the computer screen,
asking me what is going on...
He colored a crayon masterpiece,
his canvas the white closet door.
I swatted him gently to scold
and make a point,
but peering upon his signature art now,
I wonder why I feel so bad.

Warm Beneath the Covers

We just arrived home
from winning nine hundred and sixty dollars
at the Horseshoe Casino.
Our min-pin met us at the car
overjoyed we were home.
She came inside and cuddled
up beneath the covers on our bed
as she did every night 'till we
reluctantly put her out to resume
warmth under her own blanket
on the front porch. She
was happy, as were we,
as sleep grabbed hold of our dreams
'till we woke, then went to the door
to let her back in. She wasn't there.
Hours of searching, yelling and crying
achieved nothing. Tonight my eight-year-old
daughter believes a hunter took her home
and she's warm beneath someone else's covers.
I can only hope she dreams of us
as we will of her for the years to come
or until she comes home.

Broken Arrows

Cherubs tap-dancing
atop cream cheese frosting,
pretending broken arrows
laid aside can easily
be mended, impersonating
slack-less pearls of oyster's
never-ending purpose
to fulfill lustrous perfection
of buried loves beneath
thunderhead compounded soil.

An Acceptable Bonus

I've been sitting at the computer
attempting to create a new, awe
inspiring, breath taking, pulse
racing flow of cryptic words
to impress peers and readers.
If only the combined usage of flowery
language could slap some
finicky editor pounding away
at the enter button of his computer,
sending out an array of form rejections
for unsuspecting authors like
myself. It's three AM and I realize
I'll have to wait till tomorrow,
when the sun breaks through the plane
of solitude's horizon. Sneaking
into our room, sliding beneath covers
on the left side of the bed, trying not
to disturb my beauty's rest. Her eyes
flutter and she moans, breaking
the quiet chatter of the television
hunkered in the corner. She grows silent
and by the screen's hue of dancing
tube-induced shadows, I watch
what inspires me, realizing
an acceptance is nothing; she's my bonus.

About the Author

Sirrus Poe was born a Yankee, but as fate would have it he now talks (and sometimes writes) with a southern drawl. After years of moving around the United States from Tennessee to Texas a gorgeous southern bell captured his heart. That woman is Carrie and the one that attempts to keep him sane, although with Peage and Tyler (their two kiddos) acting better than their father, it's a full time job. His poems, essays, short stories and photography have appeared, or will, in numerous online and print magazines such as Ken*Again, Dare Magazine, Decompositions, MiPo, and Aphelion. He is currently revising his novel, BROKEN DREAMS, for Port Town Publishing and a selection of horror stories and poems for Challenger Books.