Curio Poetry (3 Pieces)

Curio Poetry (Inaugural Issue, Online) Dec 2011

By The Dozens

He kills as many as he finds, throws them
into the wheelbarrow. Their bloody eyes
stare up at him in astonished adoration,
freed at last from the earthly burn of air,
dust in the lungs, not enough to eat ever,
always running away from everything,
terrified. They seemed to anticipate
the fall of the ax, the swing of the hoe
or the heel of the boot to come down
on their fragile skulls and the sudden
long silence that followed; seemed almost
to look up, welcoming, as the end,
once it was inevitable, approached.


Sunset Over Oakwood Park

All day long, in the sunlight: the park.
The shadows shifted, lengthened,
made green greener where I rested
in the shade, cooled, lulled, heavy-lidded,
longing to lie on the grass an hour longer
under the influence of birdsong
on the best of possible April days.
At last the long shadows merged,
stretched to the farthest edges of the park,
the tops of the oaks caught a fleeting fire,
the darkness deepened, the sun
became a final sliver of gold, and was gone.


Sign-Off

I’ve had enough of that, he said,
pressing a button, ending the newscast,
putting an end, finally, to the useless
bombing of sand dunes and babies.
Then, half-reclined against the bedrail
he pressed another button, turned up
the morphine drip to maximum, closed
his eyes. I’ve had enough, he said.

Ventriloquy

Every Day Poets (Online) Dec 2011

What time did you
come to bed she asked

and when he told her
midnight she said

too late, too late,
you’re always up too late

and he could hear
in her voice

his doctor’s voice
his mother’s voice

the clarion voices
of his guardian angels

The New Echolalia

Every Day Poets (Online) November 2011

Whatever I ever say to her
she repeats back perfectly.

I think you’re beautiful, I say;
she tells me I should trim my beard.

I tell her how much I love her.
She reminds me to take my pills.

She gives me a kiss
when I bring her coffee.

On A Wire

Front Porch Review (Online) April 2011

Under their wings is white:
early in the morning, early
in autumn, birds, perched on lines
give new meaning to the words
‘the birds alight.’ Birds in search
of one last brightness, one last
dream of summer flight, gleam.
Spied from below, the underside
of wings is white, flares like the last
flash of another summer, undone
by autumn’s shortened light.

Cana In Reverse

Four And Twenty (Online) March 2011

   ...and, when they said good-bye,
the salad tossed itself in disbelief,
fine wine paled watery.

Outbound

Fourteen Magazine (Print) (Great Britain) Feb 2011
Later, digitized at Poetry Magazines
--Originally Published (Online) at: Crescent Moon Journal (May 2005)--

1.

It's hard to find you
gone tonight, outbound

among the stars, and I
wingless, without a song

under a dime like moon
look up from ice.

2.

I did not dream,
last night, the loose end

would ravel. Your departure
loomed. I held my breath

while you slept, tired,
tried to imagine you

far from these sheets
of snow, under another sky.