Poems near, poems far

A PEACEFUL PLACE TO WRITE

I hear people speak 
of a peaceful place to write: 

a seaside cottage near
the earth's pulse

or a cabin in the pines
silent as a bat. But 

if they ever find such a place, 
the words do not come 

with them. They remain 
in the city, among the catcalls

and car horns, the drunken
laughter, broken glass

and the weeping, always
the weeping.

 

@   @   @    @

 

DOMESTICATED

Sunday night and I circle my bowl,
inspect my little blue shipwreck

for dead pirates again. I've memorized 
every pebble here, could name them

if I had to. When you return and drop 
a few crumbs of food onto the water

I'll look back at you, as always, and 
as always you'll mistake my glare 

for gratitude.

 

@    @    @   @

 

RAGE

Everything has its rages. Sheets 
smother beds in their sleep,

Sinks drown dishes, and lamps
burn moths by the dozen.

Those red leaves the maple
hurls upon your patio 

Are only a warning.

 

 

Comments

[Andrew]

Gee, thanks. I'll never be able to look at my fish tank the same way again.

Which is, I suppose, the actual job of a poet. But, still. I don't think most fish have that kind of thought process.

We did have one, though . . .

[Fred]

Charlie, I really don't see eye to eye with you on most things... but when your poetry is on, I wish I did see the world the way you do.

[Anne Rorke]

Hi Charlie, Just to say the imagery that you show in your writing is amazing. The story - in so few word, when I read DOMESTICATED the first time, I thought it was whimsical. On the second reading I can see that it has a lot more depth than that.