Eric Mellen is a freelance writer who currently writes poems and short
stories. He has been published by Poetry Quarterly, Poetry Life & Times
and Nostrovia! Poetry and is currently pursuing multiple
publishing opportunities. When he is not writing, he is studying English at
Athens State University and hopes to be a technical writer.
My first memory
Once when I was a boy
I found a piece of glass in the backyard.
I picked it up and it cut me.
I thought I would get in trouble so I lied
For the first time to my parents.
The devil manifested there as an entity
Outside usual experience.
A vexation and webwork temporarily
Impressed on my brain.
The webwork vexed me again when I had my psychotic break,
And his influence has punched and punished since.
Out of body dick
You looked at your dick.
Then it turned all shrively and small.
Then the balls seemed to deflate towards
Then you looked at it again
Whose dick is this?
I am 8 years old, building
A wall, block following block, while my
Inquisitive mind thinks the world
Is infinitely grand and I am so small:
My grandeur suspended until
They let me declare that I too am part of the fabric,
The web spellbinding us all.
My muse advised me to build a machine,
But I knew children were too young to
Gaia will surely smile on me
When I finally build my machine.
Gear and sprocket transcend
Futility, ratchet wrenching doubt,
Not many people build machines,
But a creator’s reward is not of this world,
And echoes in the tired tomes of eternity.
I was sitting on my porch
in my rocking chair one night.
I looked up at the stars
as they swam in and out of focus,
the trees swaying in their majesty,
my cat purring in my lap.
I began to muse
about our insignificance in
the vast scheme of things and
how my facebook post was moot
as an ant addressing an anteater.
Then I felt a connection.
Not to my generation,
my job, my friends,
my political party.
All that was stripped away
and I became singularly connected to
our civilization as part of a
I thought there was something
significant and profound about my revelation
and that this newly found commonwealth
would serve me with clarity and peace.
I know there are others serving as well
or better than I, but I will keep the pace.
It is the only way we grow.
There I sat at Copper’s Point
There I sat at Copper’s Point,
my head lowered between my tattered brown britches’ knees.
My shift was over, (barefoot) watching that lonely lighthouse,
sandy beige, the same color as my beach hat,
and then, on the windiest day in September,
Zoo. A delicately conscientious zookeeper’s assistant,
those sunny days, wild you could say.
I ran from cage to cage, feeding―
tigers, orangutans, monarch butterflies,
all waiting for the feast
which they got.
I saw a team of cheerleaders
with mist machines cooling
their cheery faces, sweaty
I once gave a rose to one of the girls
but was shot down.
A thousand thoughts collected into one emotion:
that much-disparaged feeling of rejection.
I knew it only too well.
That long-ago hell, sometimes grieving
sometimes relieving me of the boy
I was meant to be.
And then, there she was.
was her name, and no rose for her,
not yet anyway.
This time a cool chat
relieving me of my duties.
I could go into detail.
But suffice it to say,
all the animals revelled in harmony
oh, the romantics would not have thought
of a more eloquent word to describe it.
She died yesterday,
And now I reside in this lighthouse
where we stood alone, and outside the window
I look around
the "Blue" that is everywhere around me.