KCST 3: Poetry Night

-------

"The Tree" as told by Pinkie Brony Chick

There once was a tree, stout but great that sat on a hill, sloping and high. All across the land lived people that would come from near and come from far and some came from the furthest reaches, but all came to gaze upon the tree and to find the meaning of life. For on those ever-reaching branches was carved a message short and true.

"42."

-------

"Monkeys" as told by Moosepig

five dead monkeys stuck in clay
some were brown
some were grey
through intense heat of summers day
it wont be long 'til they decay.

-------

"Sunset Moonrise" as told by Lilian Brandon (Tachyonic Raven)

Look West!
Low sun, high clouds
Flaming orange – too bright!
Red-tipped mountains, crimson sky
Bleeding color – orange, amber, lemon, lime,
Higher turquoise, teal blue, darker navy
Soft and rich as velvet.
Clouds obscure, take sun-color
Raspberry, tangerine, flame, the clouds
Are burning, burning, burning, burning!
Fire subsides, cools – twilight lingers
Night’s dark blanket covers the sky.

“Star light, star bright, first star I see
“Tonight.”
Twinkley, twinkley, little stars
How I wonder at what you are!
Cold hard diamonds in the sky
Sparkling brightly in my eye
Many millions – dazzling display!
Night’s blanket is not dark –
It shimmers!

Looky there
It’s the man in the moon!
Surprised face, white as a sheet
What startled him?
Or is he blinded by the sun?
Poor Mr. Man-in-the-moon
Always, only a reflection of his brighter friend!
But he outshines the stars!
I like the stars – doesn’t he?
Why does he block them out of the sky?
Still I like Mr. Man-in-the-moon
Nice bright cheery round face
Much friendlier than the sun.
The sun doesn’t like being looked at –
He hurts my eyes.
Hmm? What, time for bed?
But – ! Oh well, I’m coming.
Good-bye Moon, stars, and sky.

-------

"Bored on Saturday" as told by Victoria Doose (Centauromadoose)

I find myself staring at the plastic cups
lined up on the countertop,
tallying the shadows in their seams:
countless spider’s webs in the attic beams
sweep and snare the dusty wind
shifting through this arid atmosphere:

somewhere is the swing and scream of carnivals
blazing boldly in the drop of dusk,
and elsewhere is the blast of singer’s screams
thrumming in the asphalt:

while here is the steady tick of tomorrow on the timeface
and the bluish haze of a television in the dark.

-------