My poems “Scarecrow Ascends,” “Before We Knew,” and “A Step Closer” have been published at Sleet Magazine. I am grateful to editor Susan Solomon for taking these poems.
3 Poems Up at Sleet Magazine
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Tag Archives: politics
Poem Up at Vox Populi
My poem “Aleppo” is featured at Vox Populi.
I am grateful to editor Michael Simms for his support of my work.
Curtain
Curtain
Adept at withdrawal, it retreats.
How appropriate, we think,
that its body curls
with the wind’s
tug, offering
only the
slightest
resistance. Then
it returns,
bringing to mind
the habitual offender
whose discomfiture
lies in choice,
the fear
of enclosure
removed. The
forward glance.
And back again,
whispering its
edict: concede, reclaim.
Give and take. We are as one.
“Curtain” last appeared on the blog in July 2017.
Echo Charm
Echo Charm
Right on left, or returned
what circles back, unbroken
yet opened?
Your mouth centers me.
Diminished, I rise, listening.
Grass rubbing against grass.
The lizard’s scarlet throat, swelling.
Not refusal, but denial.
Eyes the color of blood.
You practice your words carefully,
repeating each special phrase.
Blood the color of sky.
Sky the color of eyes.
And always the warm shade.
Self-Portrait as Blemish
Self-Portrait as Blemish
Do not turn away. Stare at my impropriety
and accept the facts exposed: the mixed,
the blended, the unholy result of the extra-
legal conjoining. Or, that unconcealed
mark on the cheek, brown or black,
a pupil in the eye of the sack-clothed
target. Look closer. Ask your question.
I am the world inside the fermented
egg, the tacit accusation. What you choose
not to see. Feel my breath. Remember.
Poem Up at Vox Populi
My poem “Letter to Marshall from the Scarecrow’s Pocket” is live at Vox Populi, paired with an analysis of Putin’s payoff on his financial investments in Trump’s career.
Thank you, Michael Simms, for supporting and featuring my poetry.
Sherwin Bitsui on Poem-a-Day
One of my favorite poets is featured on Poem-a-Day today. Read Sherwin Bitsui’s piece from Dissolve, his forthcoming book. Listen to the recording. Sit back and think.
Political Haibun
Political Haibun
The wind knows impermanence but does not trust it.
Dependent upon atmospheric pressure, absorption
and rotation, who can blame the wind? We, too,
lend ourselves illusions, only to barter them away.
Three miles for a beer. Seven seconds for a fresh look.
A dollar extended for every five stolen. Empathy,
but only for the wealthy. Electing liars to office,
we justify our actions with more untruths. Nothing
improves. Even the quality of lies diminishes.
yellowed grass bending
under the sun’s weight
god’s will, they say
Ilya Kaminsky’s “Search Patrols”
Reading “Search Patrols,” I marvel that so much feeling, so many layers, can exist in so few lines. If you have time, listen to the podcast, which includes discussion of the poem as well as Kaminsky’s dramatic reading.
Letter to Schwaner from the Toad-Swallowed Moon
Letter to Schwaner from the Toad-Swallowed Moon
Dear Jeff: The glow here betrays our fantasies,
and between day and night and that uncertain
moment when neither holds sway, I have gained
a toehold on consequence. Who knew darkness
could shine so? Last November the surgeon
incised my belly six times but no light oozed
out and little crept in. I say little, but feel
a peculiar radiance emanating from my middle
which I can only attribute to the moon, although
the medical professionals would say it’s just
gas. But what do they know of Sheng-Yu or
Li Ho, of jade wheels and spilled cups? Last
night, to honor our marching sisters, I looked
to the cloud-filled sky and toasted them and
our ancestors, the poets and scapegoats, friends,
allies, compatriots, Five White and Jackboy,
shedding a solitary tear of joy in the process.
We won’t label the other tears, but I shudder
at our country’s current course and how the
bulging wallets of the rich continue swelling
at the expense of the poor and unhealthy,
the elderly, the unacknowledged, and those
living on the fringes, in colored shadows.
If we meet in person on some desolate, moon-
free road in a country that could never be,
how will I know you but from the ghosts and
smiles sparkling in the surrounding fog,
and the little voices singing their sad tune
of happiness into the night. This is where
we stand today, but tomorrow? Look for me
on that bench. I’ll be the full-bellied fellow,
the one with an eclipse leaking from his shirt
in a six-point pattern, two glasses in hand,
wine uncorked, ready for reptiles and politicians,
mirth and causation and good conversation
in brightness or tenebrous calm, whichever
needs replenishing more. But bring another
bottle. Or two. Talking makes me thirsty. Bob.
* * *
My poem “Letter to Schwaner from the Toad-Swallowed Moon” was first published at The Hamilton Stone Review in October 2017. Much gratitude to editor Roger Mitchell for taking this piece.
O at the Edges 