Poem By Rod Mendieta

The madman that sits on my chair
Picks up the breadcrumbs
From the coffee table
But leaves one for the wandering little ant
Who crosses the big checkered desert
With unwavering resolve.
He also fancies himself a scout of sorts
Foraging for lost memories
In the vast frozen desert
Of his withering mind
And wonders if a heartless controller
Ensconced in an Olympian summit
Has wiped away the last little scrap
Of a once lovingly treasured remembrance
With his unforgiving hand.

Comments about Breadcrumbs

I'll toss this into October's showcase. bri :)
to October's showcase. bri ;)
Wonderful writ Mr RM +10
damn! i couldn't think of your last name! but only 22 poets showed up when i searched rod. :) now to read the poem. - - - - - - - - - - - - He also fancies himself a scout of first i thought He referred to the ant. but i guess you mean He, the 'madman' (you? ?) , like the ant, is searching for something. yes, i can see now why He is a madman. or at least i see THAT HE IS one. why? is another matter. the guy is aiming for institutionalization or at least meds! everybody knows that the Olympian gods are too busy to bother with such trivial stuff as one human! ! ! bri :) but, upon further reflection, it would seem the guy is having some semi-rational thoughts. semi-ones. maybe just meds and a weekly visit to a Dr. will be enough. i too sometimes think of helping out ants, or at least not rubbing out each one which tempts fate by scurrying across our kitchen counter, or bathroom vanity top! as Susan W. uses bread crumbs in her comment, not breadcrumbs, so would i. but who's complaining! ? hesitantly, to MyPoemList. bri ;)
Bread crumbs and ants and a checkered tablecloth have just been turned into extraordinary ingredients of this ingenious piece of writing. I have just put you on my list of poets to keep my eye on!

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Other poems of MENDIETA

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Sitting well away from the busy shoal
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The lustrous layers of your longing.
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For it pains me so to see you
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And fanning the flames of hope

The Island Of Your Smile

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And walk out into exile in a cove of silence
Than to raise a bridge of words
And steal over the ocean of your indifference.

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Her kisses drink me up slowly
Her mouth sipping keenly
Then playfully holding back,
Her moist lips thirsting,

Gratitude To A Black Bird

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Croaking a dissonant note amidst
So many Nightingales
Are you aware of my gaze?