Saturday, December 10, 2011

Back to the War


When she left at dawn, no one saw 
The black-clad bereaved old woman 
Carrying a knife, a loaf of bread,
And a small straw mat 
On which they found her babbling 
At dusk on a scarred, bare knoll
Overlooking the pockmarked, 
Snow-covered landscape, the still
Uncut bread by her side.
 
 

Friday, December 9, 2011

Narcissist Not Reflecting Deeply Enough


Writing poems, you should never see yourself 
As a "poet" writing poems— 

The poem is not a pond 
Full of frogs croaking, 

It is an ocean. 


Thursday, December 8, 2011

Elderly Immigrant


I don’t remember much

About my youth 
In the old country— 

I was too young to bother 
About memories. 

Now, I tell myself,
I’ll soon know better. 


Wednesday, December 7, 2011

Moonstruck and Pure As the Driven Snow to Boot


What’s that you say poet waxing poetic 
Your writing’s crystal clear? 
But how clear is that now tell me oh 

Too late I fear I’m drifting off 
Will it help clear things up a bit 
If I stick this shovel in your ear? 

Tuesday, December 6, 2011

Right As Rain till Kingdom Come and Still No Sign of Wear and Tear


Isn’t it terrible about metaphors? 
Folks have been trying 
To pin them down for ages 
And they’re still tearing about, 
Catching clichés in red weather. 



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