Some poems simply will not permit themselves to be shortened sufficiently for Twitter. They’ll go on Facebook (my feed there is public), and I’ll post them here on Tuesdays under a separate heading. <\/p>\n
To steel and wire the stately wood gives way,
\nDestruction wrought for power — but leaves room
\nFor sun to coax a flower, earth to say
\nIts grace: “I was clear-cut, but now I bloom.”<\/p>\n
I’ve searched for iambs far and trochees near;
\nNow I give up. I’m going to have a beer. <\/p>\n
Speeches and donuts, the meeting’s bane:
\nHot air for the belly, hot air for the brain. <\/p>\n
Leftover soup, congealed and insipid
\nLet there be light! and a beep: Now it’s liquid. <\/p>\n
Enchiladas and kimchee: My lunch for today
\nHas its mean origin up in west Bristol Bay. <\/p>\n
Old gray men, sighing, hands
\nClasped behind, search the ground
\nFor crumbs of squirrels. <\/p>\n
There’s nothing wrong with brevity
\nBut sometimes a poem wants to be
\nFour lines, not three. <\/p>\n
The rain, gently sighing
\nDenies forecast, mocks plans, renews
\nThe patient goodness of the earth. <\/p>\n
He cuts across a thicket
\nOf cars at right angles
\nTo get to the Bojangles.
\nHe must really need that biscuit. <\/p>\n
The leaves of elms, dark splotched
\nLike old men’s hands,
\nAugur the year’s decline. <\/p>\n
Crumpled bodies, lifeless strewn
\non blankets, creased with care, await
\nthe resurrection? breath of God? or merely
\nvinegar in the rinse cycle?<\/p>\n
She tilts her head to contemplate
\nA gingerbread? Or sunlight’s gleam
\nOn pebbled brook? ‘Tis memory’s fate
\nBut faint to look past camera’s dream.<\/p>\n
Together we shall ride
\nThe Islamabus, my bride
\nWith communal apostles, or worse!
\n‘Tis not to be missed — but it’s just a store list,
\nSo please read my handwriting as verse.<\/p>\n