Tag Archives: Enoch Thompson

Waxing, Waning by Enoch Thompson

800px-Ocean_waves_foam by Jon Sullivan

Waves,

curving, beautiful,

ocean cloudy,

yet when you imagine them

they shine the clearest ideal blue.

Salt on your tongue and in your eye

reminds you there is no escape

from grit, from the salty sand ashore,

there can be only less or more.

It’s enough to make you contemplate

a seaweed’s fate or fish’s story

seen from it’s ugly marble eyes,

how the ocean shallows

shift distant horizons

into whole alien

worlds

beyond, behind.

You contemplate waves,

take mental snapshots, recall

precise amounts of sand stirring

at the shuffle of your foot, floating

to the top of the wave like white pepper

in a scratched kitchen glass. You are

limited, terribly limited at counting

grains of sand upon the shore.

Only god has time for that, so

just enjoy the screams of

pleasure, fun, perhaps

a little hidden, silent

panic as the

waves crash

down.

_______________________________________________________________________________________

To read Enoch’s bio and more of his poetry published on WIZ, go here.

Photo by Jon Sullivan

On how fragile life might be by Enoch Thompson

car dash board at night

We hit something
she said “a raccoon?”
I said, “opossum.”
I said, “turn around,
let’s turn around.”
and there it was lying in the street
a silhouette of sharp snout and feet
orange on grey on black, the colors fade.
A cat, we hit a cat.
So this is death, bulging, leaking red eyes
protruding from its crushed and swollen head.
She, distraught
me, disturbed
so this is death.
I’ve been punished
now to forever drive
slow
and hold a breathe
at every shadow
flashing
across the road.

__________________________________________________________________

Enoch Thompson 2014Enoch Thompson is an aspiring poet and storyteller.  A grave robber, a pirate, a wizard, an ugly shambling skeleton, he trudges the paths eighteen million other better men have skipped down.  Always, as new words become published and new voices shout to be heard, his anxieties grow.  He is a modern-day writer and encapsulates all of the insecurities society has placed on the cliched profession.

To see more poetry on WIZ by Enoch, click here.

The Pressure of Procrastination by Enoch Thompson

439px-Face_in_the_Pool-Knight_Fighting_Dragon

My teeth sting in my face, the gums feel like they could bleed,
but I don’t brush them, no, why do such a simple thing,
it would be a waste of time.  Instead I loaf,
waiting for the brilliance that’s rightfully mine,
waiting for a smell of joy, a salty tear running down to my nostril,
waiting for love as obvious as the warm hour of day when I’m out in the sun.
Maybe I’ll discover a new color when it happens merely by chance,
but I wait for greatness.

I could never be content with just a toothbrush in my hand.
Let that invisible sting at the bottoms of my gums, deep in my veins,
turn into a green tinge of growth, climbing up, climbing out.
Let me cry out in pain and rage when I eat.
Then with a scalpel, with rough-studded tools,
let me slay that dragon, and I’ll smile easier.

_____________________________________________________

Want to read more of Enoch’s poetry? Go here, here, and here.

Me at 18 by Enoch Thompson

800px-US_Restroom

At first the hard tile floor beneath the sink
was relief from mounds of powder and frost
feet and feet deep

The silver pipes above my head
felt like distant blankets, not soft, or even felt by me
but as a sense of found security

Whose thin crust shattered in the night
when fathers, sons, or truck drivers
stopped to piss and be my guest

____________________________________________________________________________________

To see more poetry by Enoch, go here and here.

Attention Deficit by Enoch Thompson

Milkweed_Follicle_releasing_its_Seeds

There is a tornado’s ghost of filth on the floor.
A harrowing neglect slinks in through the pores of my legs.
Pumping faster, I run off the bend and into the bush.
While branches close in, I hunch, curling up,
becoming the trees, the soils, a seed,
until I never knew any one thing before.

______________________________________________________________________________

Enoch ThompsonEnoch Thompson is an aspiring poet and storyteller. He was born and raised in Detroit, Michigan. He is a former student at Utah State University-Eastern in southeastern Utah. He has been homeless off and on since he turned 18, and is at present living with a long time family friend. He spent his first years of grade school being home-schooled and was illiterate until the fourth grade. He taught himself how to read, which is why he has a passion for reading and writing. He is too young, too unsure of himself, too ready to soak up the dramatic.  He says that the written word has affected him by opening his mind to various new perspectives and possibilities. He dreams of one day going to college at the University of California, Berkley.

The Whole of My Interest by Enoch Thompson

472px-Joseph_Sattler_-_La_Danse_de_la_Mort2

I always assumed death
would devour me
in his dense boney fingers,
snuff out my life, like
crushing flies on a window pane;
and forevermore
I would write
of the blackest mold
beneath my eyelids.

However,
books with spines
spewing sunshine and
colorful ribbons
sheltered
white sheets
of paper inside me.

Now, I press
at the balls of my feet,
waiting for anything
to devour me.

___________________________________________________________________________________

Enoch Thompson is an aspiring poet and storyteller. He was born and raised in Detroit, Michigan. He has been homeless off and on since he turned 18. He taught himself how to read, which is why he has a passion for reading and writing. He believes that becoming the best writer he can be is how he can become the best person he can be. He says that the written word has affected him by opening his mind to various new perspectives and possibilities. He hopes one day that his writing will be mind-blowing. Currently, he is a student at Utah State University-Eastern in southeastern Utah. For more poetry by Enoch, go here and here.

The illustrating image, “La Danse de la Mort” by Joesph Sattler, is in the public domain.

Invitation by Enoch Thompson

First Snow by Nonnecke

Excuse me, Winter,
Won’t you please come to tea
With the rustling wind
And yellow, red, falling leaves?

And when you leave,
Go giving a present–
A beautiful flower
Or butterfly pendant.

But please be swift.
The tea will be cooling
In the night wind.

With Love,
Sincerely,
Autumn

_______________________________________________________________________________

For Enoch’s bio and more poetry, go here.

Photo by Nonnecke.

Pine Scars by Enoch Thompson

800px-Pinus_rigida_cone2

A pine cone
Bit through the seat of my jeans,
And on that day
I vowed never to climb pine trees.

Never again would I feel
The sap underneath
The triumph of
A climb’s ending.

There would be just the memory…
…that, and the falling…

_________________________________________________________________________________________

Enoch Thompson is an aspiring poet and storyteller. He was born and raised in Detroit, Michigan. He has been homeless off and on since he turned 18. He taught himself how to read, which is why he has a passion for reading and writing. He believes that becoming the best writer he can be is how he can become the best person he can be. He says that the written word has affected him by opening his mind to various new perspectives and possibilities. He hopes one day that his writing will be mind-blowing. Currently, he is a student at Utah State University-Eastern in southeastern Utah.