The Poetry of Mark Daniel Milbocker 
One Shot Poem

Chin-on-fist reclined to pensate,
to unambulate and perseverate
until bemused clouds form a warm shower
or frigid flashback to a lost battlefield
thusly one gets accustomed to low hangers;
so when doldrums just dangle about swirling,
tapping shoulders to get a turn just before
refusing to be seated and converse frankly
leaving the coffee to cool undrunkenly,
one faintly knows how to tempt a greater
engagement as if there were a doorjamb more 
plainly hinged or wallpaper less aimed at
the ceiling, so I unrug the trapdoor creak
and peer into the underpinnings and appurtenances
noticing the crispy turning of the escapement
and follow the entangling to the bezelment
marionetted moons rise as if metronomed
to the spin of angels and their heavenly bodies
and I am nowhere to be found except between
the young slits' shadows where colors eddy
their spin and whisper back to their spheres
taking the easiest path to the thickest gravitas 
of meaning something so damn poignant that
humble-spud-words lack not savor but stew
into soft thoughts too viscous to swallow
buttery caramel of apple cinnamons that smack
of nothing memorable yet linger in the back
of unthroated thoughts that smile at the
machinations of choosing a voice to speak.
■





©2024 Mark Daniel Milbocker  All rights reserved.