A Collection of Writings by Connor Guetersloh
In the attic of a shop
Filled with endless antiques
I revived the music box –
Old
Dusty
Beautiful
I cranked its lever gently.
The cylinder rolled slowly
As did each tinkling note
Plucked from the comb –
Nostalgic
Painful
Sad
Asking why I had forgotten.
It was too pricey for my purse,
That tune of times gone by,
But I cherish its melody
Inspiring
Encouraging
Incomplete
So I shall fashion a tune of my own.
Watch how snowflakes whirl
Within this winter valley white –
Just as sugar sprinkles softly
In a Jasmine tea delight,
Sweetening the elixir
Beyond its flavored strain –
Such is the caking of sweet powder
In children’s hearts gladly fain
As it freezes lake, freezes flower,
But warms the wayward soul –
As trite teacups of Chamomile
Warms drowsiness to droll.
Best pouring lightly in the morning –
Heavier in deepest night,
Streaming tea to please the palate –
Snowy sky to please the sight.
The cross-country train chug-chugging through the dark
Is like a clattering serpent winding through the pines
Thundering across Washington, Idaho, Montana
Clearing firs of birds with a deep-throated whistle
Over bristled mountains and under hollowed hill
Pursuing a sunrise that never seems to come
To those unable to snatch two seats for one sleep
Those dark aisles filled with snores and uncomfortable positions
As the moon beats down its cool, silver-splotched rays
On that slinking beast barreling towards small sleepy stations
Lit by dim lampposts erected along the trailing track
Groggy passengers interchange with drowsy passengers
As the snow turns from black to white under faded light
And the Midnight Express bounds back into the wilderness
Heading for that daybreak that yet seems ages off
As I, the sleepy poet, stare out the window, breath fogging glass
And await those hours with tired eyes and contemplative mind.
When Robert Frost chose to take
The road less travelled by,
He avoided a quite careless mistake
That I too late descry.
I chose to trek the trail most trod,
But cannot seem to pass
This row of fools who slowly plod
As one conjunctive ass.
Miss Clara is thrice in a tizz
Over glances from Johnny McFizz –
Too bad she will learn
Three glances confirm
He suspects just how ugly she is.
baby, look at that
Sun
how it glitters on the
Water.
it’s morning, and we’re going
Surfing.
pull down the waxy bulky
Boards
tied precariously to the roof –
And don’t forget to lather
Sun
screen on your soft cheeks
i wouldn’t want to see burnt.
allow me to zip up your
Wetsuit,
black and sleek and hugging your sweet skin
from neck to ankle.
let’s jog out into the white
Foam,
a beautiful struggle against the
Sea
as we lay on our bellies
and paddle with all our might,
we then sit erect, watching,
waiting for sign of overturn
in which we might catch a
Wave.
Splash!
you rise triumphantly and sidewind
up and down and up
on its curvaceous face.
i am taken up in its rough arms
to tumble over and under and over
Wipeout!
i must say that my choice
Waves
are the juvenile hills on which
the two of us can stand
side-by-side
and glide with the
Tide
to the comforts of the
Shore.
Simplicity:
A state unknown
By worry-warts
And complainers
Who wish that life
Were not so tough
But that they could
Suck dry the mass
And back in idle
Pursuits of sloth.
Simplicity
Shall truly be
Discovered by
The hard workers
Who preserve gains
For calmer times
Understanding
That simpler things
Are with patience
Finally earned.
have you ever
for a moment
disconnected
your mind
from your body
and suddenly
felt the strangest
sensation
as though the you
inside of you
did not belong
there
but somewhere else –
out of body
out of mind
caged by the world, set free
to observe all
that surrounds you –
Softly conclude:
I fell alien.
Hark, the sea
Undulating
wave over wave, Swallowing
the horizon, Blending
two blues of hazy hues
as limpid light Skirts
over the chalked foam
in a sheet of golden electric –
an extension of the ship’s wake
until neptune furls his brow
and thunderheads Loom
dark above spark, Blotting
out sun and sea simultaneously
then Thunders, heaven’s waves upon
earth’s, Whisking the whitecaps
into gale and further Drowning
the horizon until all Melts into one –
the ship Sails on
and i
as it.
There was a Crooked Man
Who walked a crooked walk
Within a crooked house
That reeked of crooked talk
And when his crooked head
Full of crooked thoughts
Laid down on crooked bed
He’d cast his crooked lots
For future crooked days
And every crooked sin
Would find that crooked pays
With every crooked win
He’d dream of crooked girls
To please him crookedly
As his money crooked furls
Under stress of crooked fee
He’d fell his crooked foes
And drink their crooked draught
Smiting weak with crooked toes
Their friendship crooked bought
He’d spread some crooked lies
To laud his crooked face
So every crook with ties
Would know their crooked place
‘Til with crooked smile he wakes
And leaves his crooked home
For reality skews crooked
When none but crooked roam
He saw his crooked neighbor
Merely crooked in his shape
Unlike himself, a crooked core,
That perfect modern crooked ape.
Morning's Early Dark 