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The Final Poem It calls to spring: spring answers. There. It echoes back and the wind picks lightly up. The final poem drifts like white cherry petals Through an open door. posted by Reen at 8:16 PM | link| versify 0 comments
Becalmed now, Calamity practices her knots, twisting the bitter end until her hands are raw from ropestrain. This may be her element: a vast flat sheet like a serving tray. No moon calls her. No planet stalks. The stars disdain to move And Cassiopeia is nightly resting in the sky's same corner pocket. The fish burble to the surface then, Their gleaming backs breaking the flat surface without a ripple. Even Calamity's red hands glow then. Her eyes have turned to silver. They are constant. They are the match of any moon. 100% proof of the Northern Star. posted by Reen at 8:14 PM | link| versify 0 comments
Arabic like loops of gold like the footprints of birds Huge storks and small swallows Peacocks and eagles Drawn in the characters There is much sense in their meaning There is much beauty in substance But you leave even your medium molten and moved. Black and glistening Birds fly from your delicate letters posted by Reen at 8:11 PM | link| versify 0 comments
You want description, the cars like purposive beetles making the highways echo with a sound like air rreleasing from a valve. You want history, the vertebral chain of an argument as it descends down your bloodline, rooted to your ancient chemistry. You want tone, the soft, arrhythmic slap of the new beech leaves sifting the sunlight, the green patterns they play. You want logic, the equations of the universe traced in chalk on the dusty board The white signal of the human. You want nobility, A subtle parting of the bending sea, the waves drawing back before A golden and envied distinction. You want a leader, decked out in capitals, for you to follow with your eye, as you stand, bowed and breathless in the street. posted by Reen at 8:09 PM | link| versify 0 comments
The kind the dentist gives you for the fairy, Cheap plastic hinge, a treasure chest For what's, after all, disposable . . . Or you wanted me somehow dispossessed, Decked out new like the unschooled Cousin in tawdry paisleys of Her own choosing, more than she was, but Not, you know, an improvement. Or perhaps, it's as simple As needing the ingredients to solidify, to Know the same mixture would Always bake my cake So that then you could keep me safe Displayed perfectly and still Pinned to your library card. posted by Reen at 8:03 PM | link| versify 0 comments
Sunday afternoon, smoke hanging in the air Thick gold of wedding rings, faces engraved With scratches, the plated dials of the television, Loudly tuned to sound of the races, the glint Of the hazy sun on eyeglasses, the flower In the hand of the Queen of Spades, the cough In men's throats, the crosses at their necks, The sting in your nostrils, the wallpaper unseaming In the corner behind the vinyl easy chair, The foil inside the cigarette carton, your eyes bloodshot all with gold, gold in the girls' hair, in their shirts, in their shoes, in their photographs, the jigger of liquor over every memory, every family gathering, every Sunday afternoon. posted by Reen at 8:02 PM | link| versify 0 comments
Calamity Versus The Monkeyshines The monkeyshines' hideout is almost made up. You Can only see it out of the sides of your eyes. You have to draw the map yourself. Calamity draws it so the hideout is only three steps away And right next to the county jail. No fair, no fair! The monkeyshines yell no fair! They take Calamity to court. They put Prince Paperweight On the stand. His mustache looks like spun sugar. He has a monocle made from gelatin and epaulettes Made from the lids of tin cans. Calamity objects. Section 502 of the County Code Prohibits evidence from imaginary royalty. It also Prohibits monkeyshines, maps, and girls named Calamity. The judge orders everyone held in contempt With his puffy, dark mouth. It looks like a hole in a Beanbag. He steps down from the bench like a stick wearing a judge's robe. He places Calamity’s red hat and long hair on his beanbag head and leaves for the links. The bailiff leads those monkeyshines, that Prince Paperweight away, but Calamity isn’t there. Ed note--I've been working for a while on a series of poems involving Calamity posted by Reen at 7:58 PM | link| versify 0 comments
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