Week at a Glance
Sunday stitches eyelids shut. Monday
gesticulates with the soggy, chewed-up
end of a cigar. Tuesday loses a crap job
and never finds another near as good.
Wednesday tumbles to the ground dead,
then gets up and dusts off its clothes.
Thursday, when asked, can’t explain it.
Friday isn’t what you’ve been told it is,
a fist-sized muscle. Saturday tries to slip
in the door without the dog going crazy.
Doctrinaire
We’re born, given just a few simple lines to speak,
told in a threatening tone not to fuck them up
or stray from the basic script, then go through life
repeating the same weary lines over and over
while being overflown by stars we forget are there.
Burning Bridges
Let there be no doubt
that our world is a cage.
We are living a life
of shadows, of echoes.
You don't look like you
anymore. I wasn't there
even when I was. I'm
a foolish old man who’s
been drawn into a wild
goose chase by a harpy
in trousers. The trail is cold,
if there ever was one.
Source: Quotes from characters played by Jeff Bridges as found on https://www.rottentomatoes.com/celebrity/jeff_bridges
Howie Good is the author most recently of Stick Figure Opera: 99 100-word Prose Poems from Cajun Mutt Press. He co-edits the online journals Unbroken and UnLost.
heart
Thursday, April 9, 2020
Friday, March 13, 2020
Laura Johnson Contemplates The "Stretched Me", The Languages Of Tree Frogs, And The Golden Puddles Beneath The Undergirth
Pendulum
The afternoon shone window-stripes across
our den floor. Mama rocked me back and forth.
“Shhh,” she said, “Shut your eyes.” I didn’t mind.
My feet stuck out beyond her knees, and
I tried imagining how I would feel when
my feet could reach the floor, when I was in
a long, grown-up body like hers. I was
completely inside and comfortable in
that size me. Would the me that was me stretch
to fill my body when I grew taller?
Or would I be somewhere in my shoulders,
chest, and head, and the rest be extra to
rock a little three-year-old, like she rocked me--
thought-quieting Mama, measuring time.
Other
The principal walks in
though she never walks in
after school with no
students or lessons to observe.
Sits down. “You know we’re in
the middle of renovations.”
The long and short? She wants
to give my room to another teacher
who is leaving her room for
renovations. It will be easier for
that teacher if I teach ESOL in a lab.
I walk the hallway, pushing my
cart of world literature and workbooks.
It’s an empty, almost straight path,
soft earth gives beneath my feet,
I walk through patches of warmth and
shadows, listen to tree frogs all around
speaking their other languages.
Another Instance
(To Denise Levertov)
Your words, banked in
subconscious ether,
fall like rain on the family van as
we drive to the theater.
The street’s golden puddles slosh
against the undergirth.
Knowing there must be a rainbow, I turn,
see it against that one dark corner
you described, and
my daughter asks why I
always gasp at everything.
Laura Johnson is the author of Not Yet, recently released by Kelsay Books and available on Amazon. Her work has appeared in a range of online and print journals and anthologies, including Rasputin, Literary Mama, Time of Singing, Reach of Song (Georgia Poetry Society, 2018) and The New Southern Fugitives. Laura holds an MFA in Creative Writing from Fairfield University and teaches English/ESOL at Fayette County High School in Georgia.
The afternoon shone window-stripes across
our den floor. Mama rocked me back and forth.
“Shhh,” she said, “Shut your eyes.” I didn’t mind.
My feet stuck out beyond her knees, and
I tried imagining how I would feel when
my feet could reach the floor, when I was in
a long, grown-up body like hers. I was
completely inside and comfortable in
that size me. Would the me that was me stretch
to fill my body when I grew taller?
Or would I be somewhere in my shoulders,
chest, and head, and the rest be extra to
rock a little three-year-old, like she rocked me--
thought-quieting Mama, measuring time.
Other
The principal walks in
though she never walks in
after school with no
students or lessons to observe.
Sits down. “You know we’re in
the middle of renovations.”
The long and short? She wants
to give my room to another teacher
who is leaving her room for
renovations. It will be easier for
that teacher if I teach ESOL in a lab.
I walk the hallway, pushing my
cart of world literature and workbooks.
It’s an empty, almost straight path,
soft earth gives beneath my feet,
I walk through patches of warmth and
shadows, listen to tree frogs all around
speaking their other languages.
Another Instance
(To Denise Levertov)
Your words, banked in
subconscious ether,
fall like rain on the family van as
we drive to the theater.
The street’s golden puddles slosh
against the undergirth.
Knowing there must be a rainbow, I turn,
see it against that one dark corner
you described, and
my daughter asks why I
always gasp at everything.
Laura Johnson is the author of Not Yet, recently released by Kelsay Books and available on Amazon. Her work has appeared in a range of online and print journals and anthologies, including Rasputin, Literary Mama, Time of Singing, Reach of Song (Georgia Poetry Society, 2018) and The New Southern Fugitives. Laura holds an MFA in Creative Writing from Fairfield University and teaches English/ESOL at Fayette County High School in Georgia.
Friday, January 10, 2020
Stefanie Bennett And Anthrax Spores, Objurgation, Homeric Underpinnings, All Of Us Tossing Salt Over Our Shoulders
UNDISTORTED EXPERIENCE
It’s growing up diagonally
At 64 and remembering
September 11
(Not specifically because
Cousin Ricki
Was there...)
It’s the tick-tacking accuracy
Of whether anthrax spores
Are absorbed
In our
Hung-over
Morning coffee
... Pseudo market forces,
PC hackers
(Con amore)
Or trilingual brokers
Ensnared by
A crust of
Bullion rising
That collars the phrase – we
Become
What we deplete.
MACHIAVELLI REVISITED
No one lives here any more, so how
Is it you found me
Thwack-happily accosted by chores?
Yes. It’s the Sabbath – and dare
I objurgate your
Sunday best’s just too solemn
For my taste. Wise up. The young
Could do with a good rumble
Just ask that
Punk berating parrot how Homeric
Underpinnings took flight
The day I evened old scores.
Still – why not
Cut to the crux
Of the crime...
Ah! Mentoring is narcissism’s
Elixir. Naturally
I’ll give it spin
Only next time
Send me
A new-born.
RADIO FREE EUROPE & BEYOND “KISS”
Dexterity was put on hold
As the bombs dropped.
Submissively, the woman
Tossed coarse salt
Over both shoulders,
Steadied the cut-glass pitcher
And folded curd
In a spotted napkin.
When the panting corridor of air
Spiralled
It slapped
The courtyard-child
(Her child)
Oblivion-bound.
Omitted is the sound
Of love’s collision.
Stefanie Bennett, ex-blues singer & musician, has published 12 books of poetry, a novel, & a libretto & works with NO Nukes: Art Action For Peace as well as ‘Equality.’ Of mixed ancestry (Italian/Irish/Paugussett-Shawnee), she was born in Queensland, Australia. Stefanie is currently working on New & Selected Poems.
It’s growing up diagonally
At 64 and remembering
September 11
(Not specifically because
Cousin Ricki
Was there...)
It’s the tick-tacking accuracy
Of whether anthrax spores
Are absorbed
In our
Hung-over
Morning coffee
... Pseudo market forces,
PC hackers
(Con amore)
Or trilingual brokers
Ensnared by
A crust of
Bullion rising
That collars the phrase – we
Become
What we deplete.
MACHIAVELLI REVISITED
No one lives here any more, so how
Is it you found me
Thwack-happily accosted by chores?
Yes. It’s the Sabbath – and dare
I objurgate your
Sunday best’s just too solemn
For my taste. Wise up. The young
Could do with a good rumble
Just ask that
Punk berating parrot how Homeric
Underpinnings took flight
The day I evened old scores.
Still – why not
Cut to the crux
Of the crime...
Ah! Mentoring is narcissism’s
Elixir. Naturally
I’ll give it spin
Only next time
Send me
A new-born.
RADIO FREE EUROPE & BEYOND “KISS”
Dexterity was put on hold
As the bombs dropped.
Submissively, the woman
Tossed coarse salt
Over both shoulders,
Steadied the cut-glass pitcher
And folded curd
In a spotted napkin.
When the panting corridor of air
Spiralled
It slapped
The courtyard-child
(Her child)
Oblivion-bound.
Omitted is the sound
Of love’s collision.
Stefanie Bennett, ex-blues singer & musician, has published 12 books of poetry, a novel, & a libretto & works with NO Nukes: Art Action For Peace as well as ‘Equality.’ Of mixed ancestry (Italian/Irish/Paugussett-Shawnee), she was born in Queensland, Australia. Stefanie is currently working on New & Selected Poems.
Wednesday, January 8, 2020
John Grey Sober At The Jukebox, Wary Of The Dear John Letter, And The White Man's Blues
THE
DESIGNATED DRIVER
I'm
drinking in a pathetic way
My
fingers take up the task.
They
drum on the table.
A
friend jokes, "How's the Sarsaparilla?"
Actually,
it's flat cola.
I'm
the designated driver.
My
thirst has been elected.
It
must stay away from quenching
while
my companions
double
down on their happiness
with
every sip of ale.
Tumblers
of the stuff arrive,
froth
enough to give birth
to
Venus on the half-shell.
The
beer glows melted gold.
The
table rocks with filthy jokes.
Only
I know they're not funny.
Jukebox
blares and the singing commences.
Raucous
bellows compete with booming beats.
Harmonics
take a beating.
Melody
tanks.
My
ears are sorry
they
were ever volunteered.
My
buddies flirt. They roar.
They
argue loudly but nothing comes to fisticuffs.
Mostly
they're out of it.
Some
collapsed across the table.
Others
taking S curves to the men's room..
It's
up to me to tell them
what
a good time they're having.
Eventually,
the bar closes
and
my amateur, unpaid taxi
drops
them at their house, one by one.
When
I'm done,
I
really do need a drink.
Out
comes the whiskey bottle.
Click
goes the glass.
I'm
the designated driver
who
drives himself to drink.
LOOKING
IN ON THE AUTHOR
She
wrote ferociously with one hand
while
the other tapped slowly, softly, on the desk.
And
then her pen slowed
as
the tapping sharply increased velocity,
became
almost violent as it thumped
relentlessly
into the wood.
Finally,
she began to write at a moderate pace,
and
tamped the tapping to an equal speed.
Her
creation, her fingertips, in perfect equilibrium,
gave
“Dear John” all of the kiss-off he could handle,
all
of the kiss-off he deserved.
He
was a white American boy
with
one incessant problem.
He
wasn’t a black American boy.
No,
not the poor kid
dodging
bullets on his way home from school
in
some inner-city ghetto.
But
the stylish, dazzling kind
he
heard on the radio,
saw,
now and then, on television,
when
the Southern censors allowed.
He
was troubled by his own skin.
Not
because it paved the way or anything.
But,
when he picked up his guitar,
the
shade of his hands
didn’t
go with the chords he played,
And
when he opened his mouth,
the
tonsils gushed sweet as a soda fountain,
not
rough and lived in.
No
grit in the tongue. No blood in the notes.
Not
even when the tune dropped
from
major into the 7th.
Just
a vapid imitation of a standard blues progression.
He
was a white American boy
obsessed
with what he wasn’t.
He
tried writing songs.
They
came out like the Archies not Muddy Waters.
He
even made some black friends.
They
thought the Blues were a corny as Fat Albert.
They
remained friends however.
And
he became a white American man eventually.
Accepted
what came with it.
Not
privilege exactly.
But
a willingness to leave his guitar
shuttered
in its case for months on end.
When
he did bring it out,
it
reminded him how dumb he must have been
to
want to be some old black bluesman
with
the world on his shoulders
and
the sound to prove it.
Instead,
he picked out some of the latest pop songs.
Sang
along to who he had always been.
John
Grey is an Australian poet, US resident. Recently published in
That,
Dunes Review, Poetry East and North Dakota Quarterly with work
upcoming
in Haight-Ashbury Literary Journal, Thin Air, Dalhousie
Review
and failbetter.
Monday, January 6, 2020
Joe Balaz Sings of the Caracal, What's Beneath the Waves, and a Kite on the Moon
SLOW DOWNFALL
Dere’s da lynx and da caracal
by da cheetah and da cougar
standing next to da margay
and da leopard
along wit da serval and da jaguar
while da lion and da tiger
play tag wit da ocelot—
You get da idea
I like big cats
da moa wild da bettah.
Da key word heah dough
is “wild”
cause I no like look at da buggahs
in wun cage.
Turn da prisoners loose
if you ask me.
Dose setups in city zoos
are just scientific circuses
witout da whips
and flaming hoops.
Dats why I no mind
da nature programs
filming da huge felines
in dere own habitats.
Even dough dey stay endangered
dey are bettah off
being wheah dey supposed to be.
If da buggahs go extinct
den dats da way it is.
It’s not like dis planet
nevah see radical changes before.
Go ask da saber-toothed tiger
about dat.
As da world is squeezed
in da face of development
and technology
some wonderful tings
are gonna be lost.
While all of dis happens
I rather be wun neutral observer
to da slow downfall
rather den wun animal keeper
holding nature against its will
so dat its creatures
can exist as side shows
in pay to see jail cells.
CHALLENGING AS IS
Christine no can do it anymoa
visiting and trying to help out
wen she’s not even wun relative.
She feels kinnah bad
and hates to sound distant
but she knows
she gaddah tink about herself.
It must be wun very confusing
state of being
wen da sun is blotted
out of da sky
and all da familiar faces
no longer have any names.
Sitting deah
wit her ailing acquaintance
and observing da restless sea
from da surface
Christine fully realizes
dat she has no idea
wat is going on beneath da waves.
She’s struggling wit her compassion
and by no means can she imagine
wun halo above her head
cause lately she feels
as if she’s drawing inward.
Her world is hectic
and is challenging as is.
Dere’s no silver spoon
in her purse
dat she can fling at da clouds
to induce wun rainfall of plenty.
Christine has given everyting she can.
Wen she gets back to her own place
and accesses da new reality
she rationalizes and lets go
like many people eventually do.
Opening her refrigerator
Christine finds
dat wit all of her recent running around
she needs to get some fast food again
cause da only ting worth eating
is wun box of uncooked chicken
but da pieces are frozen solid
harder den her newly changed heart.
LIKE LOTS OF TINGS
Like Buddha
taking wun selfie.
Like hunters
eating vegetable soup.
Like eternal peace
aftah da bomb explodes.
Like Santa and Satan
wit da same letters.
Like ants
in wun birdcage.
Like wun priest
in wun whorehouse.
Like wun kite
on da moon.
Like wun refrigerator
in wun igloo.
Like virgins
wit experience.
Like feelings
to wun robot.
Like wun monk
wit wun Mercedes.
Like convictions
made of vapors.
Like silver spoons
in wun orphanage.
Like wun praying mantis
witout claws.
Like dyslexia
to wun blind man.
Like light
to wun black hole.
Like concentric ripples
reversing.
Like mirrors
in wun parallel universe.
Like wun elephant’s trunk
searching through papers.
Like lots of tings
dat keep you blinking and tinking.
Joe Balaz has created works in American English and Hawaiian Islands Pidgin (Hawai'i Creole English).
He presently lives in Cleveland, Ohio, and he is the author of Pidgin Eye.
Dere’s da lynx and da caracal
by da cheetah and da cougar
standing next to da margay
and da leopard
along wit da serval and da jaguar
while da lion and da tiger
play tag wit da ocelot—
You get da idea
I like big cats
da moa wild da bettah.
Da key word heah dough
is “wild”
cause I no like look at da buggahs
in wun cage.
Turn da prisoners loose
if you ask me.
Dose setups in city zoos
are just scientific circuses
witout da whips
and flaming hoops.
Dats why I no mind
da nature programs
filming da huge felines
in dere own habitats.
Even dough dey stay endangered
dey are bettah off
being wheah dey supposed to be.
If da buggahs go extinct
den dats da way it is.
It’s not like dis planet
nevah see radical changes before.
Go ask da saber-toothed tiger
about dat.
As da world is squeezed
in da face of development
and technology
some wonderful tings
are gonna be lost.
While all of dis happens
I rather be wun neutral observer
to da slow downfall
rather den wun animal keeper
holding nature against its will
so dat its creatures
can exist as side shows
in pay to see jail cells.
CHALLENGING AS IS
Christine no can do it anymoa
visiting and trying to help out
wen she’s not even wun relative.
She feels kinnah bad
and hates to sound distant
but she knows
she gaddah tink about herself.
It must be wun very confusing
state of being
wen da sun is blotted
out of da sky
and all da familiar faces
no longer have any names.
Sitting deah
wit her ailing acquaintance
and observing da restless sea
from da surface
Christine fully realizes
dat she has no idea
wat is going on beneath da waves.
She’s struggling wit her compassion
and by no means can she imagine
wun halo above her head
cause lately she feels
as if she’s drawing inward.
Her world is hectic
and is challenging as is.
Dere’s no silver spoon
in her purse
dat she can fling at da clouds
to induce wun rainfall of plenty.
Christine has given everyting she can.
Wen she gets back to her own place
and accesses da new reality
she rationalizes and lets go
like many people eventually do.
Opening her refrigerator
Christine finds
dat wit all of her recent running around
she needs to get some fast food again
cause da only ting worth eating
is wun box of uncooked chicken
but da pieces are frozen solid
harder den her newly changed heart.
LIKE LOTS OF TINGS
Like Buddha
taking wun selfie.
Like hunters
eating vegetable soup.
Like eternal peace
aftah da bomb explodes.
Like Santa and Satan
wit da same letters.
Like ants
in wun birdcage.
Like wun priest
in wun whorehouse.
Like wun kite
on da moon.
Like wun refrigerator
in wun igloo.
Like virgins
wit experience.
Like feelings
to wun robot.
Like wun monk
wit wun Mercedes.
Like convictions
made of vapors.
Like silver spoons
in wun orphanage.
Like wun praying mantis
witout claws.
Like dyslexia
to wun blind man.
Like light
to wun black hole.
Like concentric ripples
reversing.
Like mirrors
in wun parallel universe.
Like wun elephant’s trunk
searching through papers.
Like lots of tings
dat keep you blinking and tinking.
Joe Balaz has created works in American English and Hawaiian Islands Pidgin (Hawai'i Creole English).
He presently lives in Cleveland, Ohio, and he is the author of Pidgin Eye.
Thursday, January 2, 2020
James Diaz Tells Of The Boy Who Threw His Words At A Train, A Negligence of Bandages, And The Warp Of Trauma
Shiver n' Shakedown
Put
your ragged heart
in
the red dirt
some
boy threw
his
words against a train
outta
town
never
made it
calls
you sometimes
says;
iowa, portland,
mexican
border,
i
still love you
probation
officer
at
the door again
late
on rent again
had
a using dream again
again
again
torpedo
heart
listen
to the town go dead
at
night
against
the chain link fence
wrapped
around
motel
six
blue
sky kids kicking dreams up in their veins
feel
this god make or break you
down
into laughter
why,
you
don't ask why
anymore
you
let the world have at you
take;
liver, gut, limb
take
what you're gonna take
and
shout about all the rest
I
need to sleep
dear
god, I need to remember
where
it is I come from
but
never mind that now
I
see the lights
I
hear the heat
it's
all over except it's not
ever
over.
I've Got You, Hold on
what
it's like
and
no one has stopped
My,
that's quite a wound you've got
I
know
I
really do
to
help you
all
evening
it's
been like this
people
pretending no one is bleeding
no
one human
can
you lift your leg for me
does
this hurt, here, try this way
lean
into my hand, I've got you
fuck
is wrong with these people
I'll
go get bandages, hold on
I'll
be back
and
you tell me it's been ten years since you've been home
and
what happened was...
and
it still haunts you
and
sometimes this feels better
out
here, all alone
better
that the wounds are now only accidents
and
I know, I really do
what
it's been like
I
see you bleeding
no
safe place and so completely human
you're
not foreign to me -I've
got you, hold on.
It
Is No Act, To Love You Here
Trauma
warp
round
the
root
I
rot,
you call-
I
come
running
feel
the
furrow
the
shakes
scan
my
insides
all
rut
and ribbon
say
this
life
will
not
escape us
will
turn
into
a
porch
light
in
the
deep
mountains
and
when
you cry
an
angel
loans its wings
we
beat
the earth
we
drink
deeply
from
that
ground
open
up-
something is coming
through,
bigger
than
light
higher
than
dope
come
drop
these chains
come
hold
this wheel
steady,
scarred
and
beautiful
wishing
well
belly
whispers
break
the
night
and
our
hearts wide
open.
More
than
father's
return
this
time,
our
instinct
for love
and
deserving-
the
retching
along the highway
spilling
its
own light,
and
such
hands as these to catch it.
James Diaz is the author of This Someone I Call Stranger (Indolent
Books, 2018) and editor (along with Elisabeth Horan & Amy Alexander) of the
anthology What Keeps us Here: Songs from
The Other Side of Trauma (Anti-Heroin Chic Press, 2019). In 2016 he founded the
online literary arts and music journal Anti-Heroin
Chic to provide a platform for often unheard voices,
including those struggling with addiction, mental illness and Prison/confinement.
His most recent work can be found in Moonchild Magazine, Occulum,
Drunk Monkeys and Thimble Literary Magazine. He resides in
upstate New York, in between balanced rocks and horse farms. He has never
believed in anything as strongly as he does the power of poetry to help heal a
shattered life.
Wednesday, January 1, 2020
Andrew Shields as a Human Bench, as a Witness to a Tom Waits' Homicide, and as Thunder in the Sun
Bench
Most of the time, nobody sits on me
or even notices I'm offering
everyone a chance to take a break
on their way from someplace to someplace.
I'm used to it by now. I take what comes:
two teenagers who scratch their names on my back.
An overweight old man with a tiny dog.
A Dad who sits to watch his children playing
in the cul de sac. The sunshine of
the early spring that warmed my slats last week.
And now more snow than I have ever had
weighing me down after a late-winter storm.
Like everyone else, it, too, will leave me soon.
Even that Dad has stopped coming by for a rest,
his children now older and playing other games.
Like I said, I'm used to it by now.
I Dreamed Tom Waits Killed His Brother
accompanied by
a walking bass
and a little high hat
Took him out in a canoe to the lake's center
and there under the full moon
offered him the choice of death
or murder and in the drowning
shooting knifing or strangling
one of them died and the other
the other rowed back to shore
climbed in the car but the keys
were at the bottom of the lake
he had to hotwire the car which
fortunately he knew how to do
and while he was driving home
a cop pulled him over for going
a bit too fast down the road
cop didn't like the look of this guy
noticed he didn't have any keys
took him out of the car and cuffed him
he's doing time for stealing his own car
after killing his brother
but nobody ever found out about this
until I had this dream one night
wrote it down Tom Waits
killed his brother and is doing time
for stealing his own car
stealing his own car
stealing his own car
Thunder
The thunder rolls from clouds on the horizon,
although the sky above is hazy blue.
No rain is falling, but the wind is rising;
the leaves are talking, but not to me and you.
Let's sit down and listen to the thunder.
We cannot see the lightning for the sun.
But now a flash begins to make me wonder
whether we'll be dry when this is done.
Let's leave the yard and make our way inside.
The weather's good to watch behind the glass.
The branches sure are bending in this gale!
Twigs and leaves are blowing across the grass.
Pity those without a place to hide
from the torrent and the pounding of the hail!
Andrew Shields lives in Basel, Switzerland. His collection of poems "Thomas Hardy Listens to Louis Armstrong" was published by Eyewear in 2015. His band Human Shields released the album "Somebody's Hometown" in 2015 and the EP "Défense de jouer" in 2016.
Twitter: @ShieldsAndrew
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/andrewshieldspoems/
Most of the time, nobody sits on me
or even notices I'm offering
everyone a chance to take a break
on their way from someplace to someplace.
I'm used to it by now. I take what comes:
two teenagers who scratch their names on my back.
An overweight old man with a tiny dog.
A Dad who sits to watch his children playing
in the cul de sac. The sunshine of
the early spring that warmed my slats last week.
And now more snow than I have ever had
weighing me down after a late-winter storm.
Like everyone else, it, too, will leave me soon.
Even that Dad has stopped coming by for a rest,
his children now older and playing other games.
Like I said, I'm used to it by now.
I Dreamed Tom Waits Killed His Brother
accompanied by
a walking bass
and a little high hat
Took him out in a canoe to the lake's center
and there under the full moon
offered him the choice of death
or murder and in the drowning
shooting knifing or strangling
one of them died and the other
the other rowed back to shore
climbed in the car but the keys
were at the bottom of the lake
he had to hotwire the car which
fortunately he knew how to do
and while he was driving home
a cop pulled him over for going
a bit too fast down the road
cop didn't like the look of this guy
noticed he didn't have any keys
took him out of the car and cuffed him
he's doing time for stealing his own car
after killing his brother
but nobody ever found out about this
until I had this dream one night
wrote it down Tom Waits
killed his brother and is doing time
for stealing his own car
stealing his own car
stealing his own car
Thunder
The thunder rolls from clouds on the horizon,
although the sky above is hazy blue.
No rain is falling, but the wind is rising;
the leaves are talking, but not to me and you.
Let's sit down and listen to the thunder.
We cannot see the lightning for the sun.
But now a flash begins to make me wonder
whether we'll be dry when this is done.
Let's leave the yard and make our way inside.
The weather's good to watch behind the glass.
The branches sure are bending in this gale!
Twigs and leaves are blowing across the grass.
Pity those without a place to hide
from the torrent and the pounding of the hail!
Andrew Shields lives in Basel, Switzerland. His collection of poems "Thomas Hardy Listens to Louis Armstrong" was published by Eyewear in 2015. His band Human Shields released the album "Somebody's Hometown" in 2015 and the EP "Défense de jouer" in 2016.
Twitter: @ShieldsAndrew
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/andrewshieldspoems/
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