Meditation: University Green Issue #72 Featured Poet The leather magnoliapetals fall hardas if to crackthe sidewalk, then liebowl-still besidewaxy leavesalready yellowedby spring downshiftinginto summer. They twitch and skitterlike the bottlebrush tailof a nearby red squirrel,lifted by the slightestbreeze to be throwna-ground anew. But the petals hold,brown in the sun,and wait to catcha rain that will
Visions of Durant, OK Issue #72 Featured Poet who loned it through the streets in Idaho seeking visionary indianangels who were visionary indian angels—Allen Ginsberg, “Howl” I saw him today, Allen. Saw him as I blewdown Enterprise Boulevardlike an eastern wind.Saw him framed abovethe road in the unbrokenbut backlit clouds.Saw him in ragged blue jeans,work
There you are on the floor of the bathroom passed out. I ran past the glistening blinking Christmas lights to the guest room where my mother was sleeping And young Caroline, zombified, in her transient coming of age to leaving the nest bare bedroom. You said you would take care of things You said you
A China doll isn’t Chinese. She’s made of China. Her makeup, painted in fine brush strokes Is permanent, but not tattooed. Her coif will forever remain set and breeze-resistant Because she does and does not live in a sheltered encased world. She’s impervious to that sort of thing, nor does she care. Beautiful as she
I’m in your blue period, Poppy. Take me back to Cancun where you can see all of me and spoil me. You didn’t finish what you started And it was unfair of you to leave me with your blue feet. We were supposed to adventure together. I know it’s bland and boring, but I’ve taken
You can’t find that half ounce of mercury Shrunken to the base of the priceless miniscule vial Buried at the center of the iceberg In the Antarctic. Hack away with your foolish man-made tools, drills, hatchets, and axes, If you must, But you’ll only chip away and flake the surface Into pathetically shaved shards not
Old woman sits on rocking chair like a queen on her throne gathering robes around her in royal pose with a shaft of sunlight entering window in godly favor. White hair as silver-lined clouds drifts around her face while she rocks back and forth light to dark, light to dark. Silent in her reverie her
Gray-whiskered man lies on the ground; his arm pillows his head like mother’s hand when she held his babyhood. Eyes closed in sleep memory; a smile softens his face as he listens to his radio – music of static blankets his soul beyond crowds.
Old man stands ankle-deep in pasture grass dry in August. He contemplates the ground as if looking for something lost – Pocket knife? Metal car? Toy gun? Like an escaped prisoner a cricket scurries through brittle stems uncaring of silence just fleeing. Old man digs lint from his pockets, allows it to drift like dandelion
I watch my granddaughter Walk before me Or rather, I watch the men Staining their necks As they watch her walk by, Young hips swaying like the sea Oblivious. And I am proud That the blood of my blood Can draw such rapture Such admiration Perhaps a little lust, And I catch their eyes And
