Tag Archives: poem

zombie e.e. cummings

i ran into

another old

zombie

poet

and we made this together

before

i beheaded

him:

[Z(o]

my(z

om

bi

e)

ni

ght

mar

e

s

(Inspired by my recent book being published! Check it out!)

The Road Not Taken (By the Undead)

The Road Not Taken (By the Undead)

By Robert Frost and Dennis Finocchiaro

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood, zombies on my trail,
And sorry I could not travel both not knowing which was safe,
And be one traveler, long I stood worried I would fail,
And looked down one as far as I could looking for detail
To where it bent in the undergrowth; I must avoid the zombie strafe.

Then took the other, as just as fair, because I had to choose,
And having perhaps the better claim, of safety and deliverance,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear; no mark of dragging feet or shoes,
Though as for that the passing there seemed safe as I could muse,
Had worn them really about the same, I hoped I had a chance.

And both that morning equally lay two bodies long decaying,
In leaves no step had trodden black. But trails of blood there lay,
Oh, I kept the first for another day! In hope there’d be no slaying,
Yet knowing how way leads on to way, I found one creature buffeting,
I doubted if I should ever come back, to try the other way.

I shall be telling this with a sigh that my knife did seep into it’s brain,
Somewhere ages and ages hence: it’s former soul did feel my blade,
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I— much in vain,
I took the one less traveled by, and a zombie I have slain,
And that has made all the difference in this, my long crusade.

The Z Word, my first published novel is available now here.  Make sure you like it on facebook by clicking HERE. Feel free to come by and post any zombie poetry you write on our page!

And yes, I know I’m going to literary hell for what I have done to this classic poem. It’s all in good fun.

Reading “A Coney Island of the Mind”

Created with an old 1958 copy of A Coney Island of the Mind, my own mind and my typewriter.

The Lonely Man

The elderly man sat in his easy chair waiting with diligence  for his only regular visitor…

…his mailman.

Made with my Brother Charger 11 and a vintage envelope mailed in 1927.

A Faded Memory

This and many other prints I’ve worked with are now for sale at my ETSY! Come on by and check them out!

As his memory faded, our grandfather only seemed able to remember the good old days of his childhood.

(maybe it is better that way)

The Boy With No Happy Ending

Artwork by Kate Hiscock of Slightly Me

He watches them embrace from across the street, right under the little orange hand that warns him it was not safe to cross. It glows, mocking him, forcing him to keep his distance.

He wants what they have. But he know his role in life, he knows where this all ends up.

He is the boy with no happy ending. If his past has taught him anything, it is this. And he accepts it.

He has this power over people, they find him so interesting, so quirky, so rare.

And yet he will never find love. And he accepts this.

The couple across the street, coming in and out of view as cars rushed by blurring his view of them, move as if under a strobe light.

Flash. They are kissing.

Flash. She pulls away.

Flash. He smiles.

Flash. She smiles.

Flash. They kiss again.

He watches, trying not to, attempting to look away before they notice how he stares at their obvious and understood love for each other. Everyone witnessing this moment can see their devotion. It is clear.

He wants a beautiful person to kiss on a corner, a sad goodbye even though they both know they will be in each other’s arms again later that night.

He will never meet that girl. And he accepts this.

More cars.

Flash. He gently strokes the tattoo on her arm.

Flash. She brushes a tuft of his dyed blonde hair away from his face.

Flash. He does the same to her and laughs.

Flash. She lets out a flirtatious giggle.

Flash. They are kissing again.

A bus passes and The Boy With No Happy Ending notices a woman on it with messy hair and an oversized gray sweater on. She is staring out of the window with a distant, melancholy look, and he knows how she feels.

As the bus pulls away, leaving a dark cloud of pollution behind it, he sees that the couple is no longer embracing on the corner. The girl is walking away, the guy is walking towards his side of the street.

The orange hand disappears, and the little white man appears, telling the boy it’s now safe to cross.

The Soup (A Flash Fiction Story)