Three Poems
Op Techs
Even our shoes muffled, we drift
in herds down their streets,
bodies flapping cloths
of liquid blues and greens.
We sink to feeding. Our voices
slice the air above slabbed
bread or meat,
accustomed sights.
We rejoice like gardeners
in pride of pruning,
in snips and rearranging,
success and failure fenced
by useless bones and blood.
At hour’s end, shuffling,
we disappear, like
their foreshadowed ghosts.
Serial Killers Still Are Things
Serial killers still are things
creating Aztec climbs to earn
the greedy gobble of our eyes and ears
Later, earnest teams like leaking oil
boiling in their wake,
hope to translate the eternal
riddle of their desires.
Journey
down the road cars
slowly drag, lights pulsing
blood droplets from small wound.
further down one sees the whole tail
leaking clots, blended into one
fatality.
From the visions of cats, vampires, insane trees, and family antics jumbled in her head, Lida Broadhurst shapes her prose and poetry. When it is too hot, too cold, or too rainy in Oakland , CA , the visions are weirder than usual. She has studied writing with Dr. Lawrence Perrine and Bevery Lauderdale. Her work has appeared in Mythic Delirium, Nemonymous #1, GUD, and many other publications. One of her poems was nominated for the Pushcart Prize and the Rhysling Award.