blood from stones

blood from stones

My tired eyes are mesmerized
by green stones flecked with jasper,
memories of flea markets colliding
with dry river beds and shallow pools.
I could have found these rocks anywhere.

The apple-colored trinkets bleed
in my calloused hands, fingertips massaging
imagined fluid from ancient pebbles
that I might have thrown at school windows.

This older version of myself spends
countless moments contemplating
coins and toy cars and rocks, stupid things
that distract me from writing stupid poems
about how foolish I truly used to be.

But I have no use for wayward youth,
those little pissed off primal gods
who scampered about in sheets and laurels,
smashing mountains with hammers.

Now I waste my precious time
squeezing blood from stones.


Copyright © 2011 by Christopher Chaffin – All rights reserved


About cjchaffin

Wordsmithing is my passion. I eat, sleep, and breathe words and phrases, only to regurgitate them and pray that they are better off than when I first ingested them.
This entry was posted in poetry. Bookmark the permalink.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s