Could you ever forget the smell of the Atlantic coast,
salt and stone and the refuse of low tide?
What relief was there at the sight of the tidal pool,
the encroaching oak and pine,
the rock, the clouds,
the land at the end of the saga?

Son of Erik, blood of exiles,
was the sight of your legacy a relief
or simply another stony shore?


Frozen Conventional Blueberries

This poem of mine was published by Anamesa Journal, and may or may not have been inspired by real world events.

By Matthew Dischner

I punched a box today,
a three dimensional rectangular prism
made of cardboard and containing blueberries,
twenty-four packages of frozen conventional blueberries
to be exact,
one of ten that arrived this morning
and will arrive every morning,
ad nauseam, until people decide
blueberries in their smoothies
are no longer desirable.

I punched a box today and I’m not sure why.
Maybe to get revenge against the 60 pound case of rice
that fell on my foot seconds earlier.
Maybe because I enjoy the feeling
of cardboard yielding to a gloved fist
(there’s enough resistance to feel like
you’re not just ripping paper).
Maybe to vent frustration
at the endless retail Samsara hell
of stocking and warehousing
and re-stocking and re-warehousing
five days a week every week
closed Thanksgiving, Christmas, and New Year’s
Maybe because it looked at me funny.

All I know is I punched a box…

View original post 66 more words