Friday, August 30, 2024
Sunday, August 18, 2024
Sunday Every Day Pome
Close Reading
Poems created purely to survive a close reading
We must interrogate everything, said
Every poet I have known is writing
The same poem over and over
Every poet thinks he/she is better than Billy Collins
Let me show you how I left out a word
How I crossed the swamp on a trestle
How every story is a hustle
Even interrogate the interrogation, said
Black kettle made from beaten metal
The idea is to never settle
Saturday, August 17, 2024
Saturday, July 27, 2024
Saturday Pome
Day in the Life 2024
The truck in front of us says
In huge bold back window letters:
Avoid the father
Ram the daughter
I’m watching my wife look at this
As we pass the Long View Internet Café
Max’s Junk Yard and Lowman’s Motel
There’s some class, she says
But I’m thinking about my granddaughters
The strippers are mowing the grass
At the Treasure Club as we pass
I remember running to the basement
Of the library to get to the shelf
That had the sports books
I remember the smell of those books
We’re back behind the truck
With its roaring muffler
Its temporary politics
They turn right
Where we turn left
That’s how it is
When I get home
I’m gonna hug those girls.
Thursday, July 25, 2024
Thursday Poem
About to Knock
Behind the busted clapboard shack
A sea of broken lawnmowers swam
In a pine-needle gulley.
A swarm of mopeds more abandoned
Than parked in the grassless yard,
Tarpapered windows
Kept the world at length.
The finance creditor stopped
His Buick Regal by the road,
Stepped perilously through
Thistle and briar bush toward
The stepless plywood porch.
In the sun nothing stirred.
Till he stood at the door,
An expensive steel contraption
With a teardrop window,
About to knock.
Wednesday, July 17, 2024
Morning Poem
Obscure
Early enough in the day,
Surely I’m about to surprise myself.
If I listen good, I hear
The momma turkey conducting
Her eight chicks across the trail
I will reach in five clicking minutes,
The light a perfect yellow fade
Into scrub hickories thick
As a full court press.
A fat copperhead, still full of night,
Crawling toward the granite
Aperture of his domain
Pauses to blend with pine needles
In a slow pitch of shadow
I pass without knowing.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)