The Chase – Expert Poem

The best time to catch them

Is after the sun has crouched

Just beneath the horizon.

Or so I’ve heard.

 

10 o’clock–when the humans

Have finally shut their eyes

For a night’s rest,

I slink through my portal

To the outdoors,

Soundless as my prey.

 

I sit in the grass

Straight and silent–a Sphinx.

And I wait.

With the sun down

And the winter wind whipping against me,

I’m sure it is cold to my competitors.

But I,

I’m a Maine Coon.

I have the thickest fur coat around,

And I’m a step ahead of them.

 

Sharp claws are best

To catch them,

They say,

A sharp nose helps too.

 

500 muscles

help me slide across the ground

In a low crouch.

It’s the best way to hunt,

They say.

 

24 whiskers

Guide me through the darkness

Where I know my prey must lurk.

 

They can slip away so quickly.

They’re as elusive like me.

I have 8 claws to snatch them off the ground

Easily

If only I could catch them.

Where I’m From by Bri Reisinger is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.

 

Ars Poetica

Poetry is nothing

Until given meaning.

Like a barren shore,

The tide out,

At midnight,

Longing for dawn

To be filled

Once again

With life.

 

Poetry is hidden

Until revealed.

A handwritten message

In a bottle

Along a beach,

Half-buried in sand.

Eager for curiosity

To persuade someone

To investigate.

 

Poetry is vacant

Until occupied.

A newly built house

With stark walls,

Naked halls,

Lonely rooms,

And unopened doors,

Yearning for a family

To fill the void.

 

Poetry is hollow

Until filled.

A half-empty glass

In the hand

Of a child

Dressed in black,

Desperate for an optimist

To convince him that

The glass is half full.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Where I’m From by Bri Reisinger is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.

Mirrors – MicroFiction

I’m in a room full of mirrors, surrounded by distorted reflections of myself. Dizzily, I’m stumbling forward, watching my short-for-a-guy body twist and warp from all angles, but it isn’t my reflection I’m focused on. I’m looking for Maya.

Reflections of people all around me fill the mirrors, tossing around splashes of color.

I spin around, and I’m still disoriented. Shapes fly by like a kaleidoscope.

This fun house is really messing with my head.

But I’m sure Maya is loving every moment of it. I knew she would; it’s the whole reason I’d brought her to the carnival. I imagine her awestruck, watching her own huge grin twist and distort.

No, I’m not imagining it—I’m seeing it. There she is. I recognize those big brown eyes that match mine perfectly.

I run up behind Maya, dizzy with disorientation and ignoring the ball of vague nausea that’s spinning in my gut. I lean down behind her to put my hands over her eyes. She gasps, touches my hands. Then, feeling familiar skin, laughs and shakes me off. I stumble backward.

“Happy birthday, little sis.” She admires my oddly shaped head in the mirror and spins to face me, her smile showing off the gap where she’d lost a front tooth.

It’s been too long since I’ve seen her happy.

…And she’s gone. It had been a dream. My arms that had just been around Maya are resting limply by my sides. I’m in a hospital bed, and I’m shaking.

Where I’m From by Bri Reisinger is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.

Cellar Door – MicroFiction

I like to watch people.

I spend almost every weekend in the city. I find interesting characters. Then I follow them around for an hour, an afternoon, a day, half a week.

Not right behind them. Not even close behind them. Just close enough to observe them without anyone getting suspicious.

I follow my characters around until I find out the basics. What kind of shoes they wear, where they work, what kind of car they drive, where they live.

I follow their path on the sidewalk, mimic the way their heels hit the ground, peer into the same shop display windows they had, run my fingers across the car they’d gotten out of. I try to get a feel for their lifestyle.

She buys cake ingredients—she’ll be in the kitchen tonight. She buys cleaning supplies—she’ll start in the bathroom. He buys new clothes—he’s got a business meeting tomorrow.

That’s the easy part.

Getting into their house is a whole different story.

Some people make it simple. They’ll leave a key in a potted plant or under the welcome mat or under an oddly placed rock.

But others are smarter.

I’ve popped out screens to crawl through windows and even picked locks on cellar doors.

It’s never been about the money. It’s never been about the loot.

I do my work at night, or in the gloom of a hazy day. I’ve never worried about getting caught.

That is, until I did.

 

Cellar Door by Bri Reisinger is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.

In Half – A Villanelle

The branches cut the moon in half tonight,

and as I peer at the sky I know:

In one thousand ways you are more than I.

Who are you to glisten with colored light,

a hypnotizing glow on your face, though

the branches cut the moon in half tonight?

There is nothing there to give you stage fright

when the song in my head is yours, you know.

In one thousand ways you are more than I.

Lost somewhere deep in a city of light

while I’m barefoot on a dim country road.

The branches cut the moon in half tonight.

You haven’t thought of me, I bet, in spite

of my crossed fingers–they’re for you–although

in one thousand ways you are more than I.

The spotlight follows as you leave stage right

while tonight I’m all right just here alone.

The branches cut the moon in half tonight.

In one thousand ways you are more than I.