five poems
by Patrick Meeds
After Dinner Party
I’m coming at this sideways.
I’m hearing music
that sounds like someone playing
the inside of a piano. The inside
of a thunderstorm. Let me show you
how to start a fire without burning
anything. I don’t believe the invisible.
I’m trying to come up with a catchphrase.
I’m slowing my heart rate.
I’m counting my footsteps.
I’m almost there. Look
a gallery that only displays umbrellas
that the wind has blown inside out.
As usual God’s playing fetch
and I’m his ball.
As usual, I get used to it.
Metronome keeping time.
It’s important
that the actor hits their mark.
Target Practice
Cold hands. Cold feet. Something to do
with circulation I think. A residue
left behind. I’m prone to joking
about what I should be serious.
A defense mechanism it’s called.
Thinner and thinner I’m getting
and still the laws of physics want to
have their way with me. The power
of chain letters. A photograph
that steals your soul. A getaway car
idling at the curb. Some species mate
for life. Some ask to go on their break
and you never see them again.
Here’s a map. Keep driving until
you see different stars. Until you
don’t recognize the voice in your head
anymore. One day you’ll realize
you were waiting for the right moment
to pop the champagne
but it never came.
Redundancy Again?
Jupiter is huge
because it ate other planets.
Me? I’m taking the stairs
two at a time. Walk slowly?
No can do. I’ve never once
hit the snooze button. Not once
I tell you. The monsters that come out
at night aren’t the ones that frighten me.
Maybe that’s why I always miss the light
switch every time I walk into a dark room.
Maybe that’s why I like to press my palms
into my eyes until I see stars. I think
I’m going to get one of those phone numbers
that spells something, but not tell anyone.
See how long it takes for someone to notice.
In the old days you had to sit still for an hour
just to get your picture taken. You had to wait
weeks for some kid to ride up on a horse
and deliver your mail. The language old
timey, the news never good. Kind of like
how lava slowly destroys and creates
at the same time.
Airball
It’s not like I didn’t try
you know. I’ve been hammering
squares into circles and triangles
into sunflowers. I can tell you
what’s similar about a mirror
and a spider’s web. I’ve turned
plenty of compasses into paperweights.
Don’t get me wrong though.
In the sixth grade I did a report
on Austria and I learned all about
the Viennese waltz
and the Lippizaner Stallions.
I learned how to write in cursive.
I learned that the will
to keep moving forward
is all that matters. After all
three hundred million years ago
when a tree fell it didn’t rot.
It took another sixty million years
for the bacteria that causes wood
to decompose to evolve.
War College
Stealing the coins off of a dead man’s
eyes. Plucking a chicken in the yard.
Funeral suits and nursery rhymes.
Dig the grave two feet deeper just in case.
These hymns I do not recognize.
These prayers make no sense.
Tomorrow we travel. The other side
of the river is calling. Raise your hand
if you don’t want to be called on.
What good are all these scars if I can’t
show them to someone.
Photo of Patrick Meeds
BIO: Patrick Meeds lives in Syracuse, NY and studies writing at the Syracuse YMCA’s Downtown Writer’s Center. He has been previously published in Stone Canoe the New Ohio Review, Tupelo Quarterly, the Atticus Review, Door is a Jar, Guernica, The Pinch, and Nine Mile Review among others. His first book, The Invisible Man’s Tailor, is available from Nine Mile Press.