Enter Home Planet News Poetry of Issue #4                        Page 56
                                   
Table of
Contents



The Four-Sided Box

My world isn’t round
when it’s a four-sided box
made from cement, glass, and wood.
The ceiling is the sky
that illuminates at my command.
The floor is terra firma
where my feet make contact.
The walls are oceans
where islands emerge in frames.
The plants are forests,
dependent on me for water.
The furniture are hills and mountains,
keepers of my past and present.
The bed is a vast plain
for sleep to find refuge.
The windows and doors are the cosmos
hidden by shades . . . sealed by locks,
ensuring me that I will be safe.

        Patricia Carragon


The Far Side of My Mind

I search for today in yesterday
on the far side of my mind

                               where left and right hemispheres never meet
                                      where an oasis builds a hut by the sea

                                        where social media cannot touch
                               where my alter ego can be alone

When the tide rolls in
a turquoise bay would greet me

                               before the quicksand resurfaces
                                     before their chains come to claim me

                                       before my logic swims with sharks
                                before an undertow sends me home

Patricia Carragon




The Obscure Voice

The staccato of life
can’t hear this obscure voice
born from a different pitch.
It directs me into its path—
where ideas pop up
like Jack-in-the-box.
Innovation cleans up
the fairy tale mess
poured from broken teapots,
as the prefabricated walls
of expectations
come tumbling down.

Patricia Carragon__


Action Near BAM
©D train to Coney Island by Patricia Carragon
Two Treasures
^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^ 

In the closet,
two boxes sit on the top shelf.
A child stands on a chair,
opts for the sparkly one.
She covets her treasure
and opens the lid.
Its crystal contents bedazzle.

Over the years,
these crystals shatter.
Her illusions fly with broken wings.

In the closet,
two boxes sit on the top shelf.
An adult stands on a chair,
opts for the plainer one.
She covets her treasure
and opens the lid.
Its empty contents bedazzle.

In its glass bottom,
she sees who she is.
Her illusions wither like dead moths.

                Patricia Carragon