A sun-drenched day of stagnent air
and stubborn thought when all I hear
is insect buzz and forest chirp
uncensored through attentive ear

Look close! All beauty has an end
as ants dismantle butterfly
and drag her shell along the dirt
undisturbed by dwindling time

Evening Air^©

There is something in the air tonight;
the memories are strong
of bratwurst, bikes and frisbee games
on small, perfected lawns.

Memories of climing trees and games of tag
of dreading, "Time to go!"
The smell of booze on grown-up's breath
and words I didn't know.

Memories of sidewalk chalk and lightening bugs,
of days that seemed to last so long.
Of cruel, cold-hearted children's games
in the form of simple, rhythmic song.


Constant Stars^©

Waiting for the shuttle, I looked up at the stars
and felt completely removed, wonderfully far
from due dates and studies, from buildings and cars.

Last summer up North I looked up and the stars
were so bright and so clear. I was wonderfully far
from streetlights and sidewalks, from buildings and cars.

Back again, I hate the fact that those stars
are dulled by pollution from the shuttles and cars
that are the only real way to get anywhere far!


Rose of Two Colors^©

The salty, humid air stung
you eyes fixed on a distant horizon.
Empty with anger, the sky
hardly sparkled;
the boardwalk lights are poison.

The warm, thick air gave comfort to your being
as the courage in your veins created an illusion
dark as your intentions.
Your hair and eyes ran wild
around me, over me, through me
trapped in a frenzy of confusion.

The vacant evening air enveloped you,
heavy with morning sweat and amber heat,
as you embraced the end of intoxication
and imagination.


Spell^©

Fog envelopes daily duties
I can't remember last
or first or third or Tuesday night
specific in the past.

My own eyes they betray me
seem dizzy as I turn
and every look I take from down
that old spell it returns.

I can't trust my own two hands;
they stumble on their own.
The ink I pull across the page
makes no sense all alone.

I really ought to end this here...
I think I'm missing class
plus I feel so stupid writing this
with people walking past.


Writer's Block At Four O'clock^©

backaches, heartaches
five hours straight, whatever it takes

words into phrases, rhythmical prose
dances on pages, long lumpy rows
of slippery topics
who the hell knows...



^©All material copywright of Andrew Etzel