—Poetry by Michael H. Brownstein, Jefferson City, MO
—Photos Courtesy of Public Domain
IN THE DISTANCE, HOYS AND MORE HOYS
and yet they were too slim to be so fast,
the fence line curved wood, penciled,
the feed near the house—not the barn,
a drip of water flowing downward into a gully.
My two children were young enough to talk
syllables and vowels, not infractions,
but words they used often to describe—
but now they could not pronounce an s.
Look, look, they shouted, their eyes sunlight,
the hoys are coming, the hoys are coming—
and I looked everywhere for boys, maybe girls,
but saw no one beyond the fence.
Still they yelled and danced and pranced,
galloped and leaped, and yelled out to the hoys
and I never understood anything else that afternoon
until dinner when my wife asked how were the hoys?
and yet they were too slim to be so fast,
the fence line curved wood, penciled,
the feed near the house—not the barn,
a drip of water flowing downward into a gully.
My two children were young enough to talk
syllables and vowels, not infractions,
but words they used often to describe—
but now they could not pronounce an s.
Look, look, they shouted, their eyes sunlight,
the hoys are coming, the hoys are coming—
and I looked everywhere for boys, maybe girls,
but saw no one beyond the fence.
Still they yelled and danced and pranced,
galloped and leaped, and yelled out to the hoys
and I never understood anything else that afternoon
until dinner when my wife asked how were the hoys?
SOMEHOW A BREEZE
Yes, you are too beautiful asleep.
I cannot wake you.
We stayed up late
the pain in your gut violent
and my pain wishing for yours to go away.
Dawn presses into morning.
I read,
a breath of light enters the room,
you breathe in the sun,
let out dream puffs of breath,
scratch your nose, raise your head.
In sleep, you smile.
When your eyes open,
you say the pain has passed,
everything is fine now,
and I want to believe you.
when I woke, I woke to a dream—
you holding on to yourself
an essence of rosewater and thyme,
everything that will be good with the world
and then we begin dancing around the rosebush
daring each other to jump over it,
each jump a success,
its thorns another part of how to love.
Yes, you are too beautiful asleep.
I cannot wake you.
We stayed up late
the pain in your gut violent
and my pain wishing for yours to go away.
Dawn presses into morning.
I read,
a breath of light enters the room,
you breathe in the sun,
let out dream puffs of breath,
scratch your nose, raise your head.
In sleep, you smile.
When your eyes open,
you say the pain has passed,
everything is fine now,
and I want to believe you.
when I woke, I woke to a dream—
you holding on to yourself
an essence of rosewater and thyme,
everything that will be good with the world
and then we begin dancing around the rosebush
daring each other to jump over it,
each jump a success,
its thorns another part of how to love.
WINGS
Glory dust with glory dust wings
the soft music of clouds
when clouds decide to sing.
A tread of sky, red dawn;
a thread of sky, dusk's fawn.
And everywhere a leaf-wind hum,
cricket chatter, songbird patter
and glory dust floats with the sun.
Glory dust with glory dust wings
the soft music of clouds
when clouds decide to sing.
A tread of sky, red dawn;
a thread of sky, dusk's fawn.
And everywhere a leaf-wind hum,
cricket chatter, songbird patter
and glory dust floats with the sun.
THE TEACHER STANDS WITH
THE MEN IN HIS NEW TOWN
Standing next to upstanding men
Pharmacologically consistent men
Men with thick blisters and strong-handed men
Men with compressed feet, heartfelt men
Men colored with soil, sun-injured men
Men full of cancer and grit,
Compassion and cruelty, men
Who know the bottom of the hole
Men who no longer climb to the sky
Angry men with streaks of generosity,
Men who are upstanding.
THE MEN IN HIS NEW TOWN
Standing next to upstanding men
Pharmacologically consistent men
Men with thick blisters and strong-handed men
Men with compressed feet, heartfelt men
Men colored with soil, sun-injured men
Men full of cancer and grit,
Compassion and cruelty, men
Who know the bottom of the hole
Men who no longer climb to the sky
Angry men with streaks of generosity,
Men who are upstanding.
BECAUSE HE SAID
And they marched onto the capitol
anger
changing
facts
into
anger
demonstrating
knots
of
anger
and they marched onto the capitol
And they marched onto the capitol
anger
changing
facts
into
anger
demonstrating
knots
of
anger
and they marched onto the capitol
AN ALPHA TREE IS STILL ONLY A TREE
an alpha tree, a drizzle mess
leader
of
omega
tweets
leader
of
nothing
meat
leader
a drizzle mess, an alpha tree
______________________
Today’s LittleNip:
To read a poem is to hear it with our eyes; to hear it is to see it with our ears.
—Octavio Paz
______________________
Good morning and many thanks to Michael Brownstein for his poetry today! He says that the last two are “skinny poems”, and he sends us a link to skinny poem guidelines: theskinnypoetryjournal.wordpress.com/about/.
______________________
—Medusa
Photos in this column can be enlarged by
clicking on them once, then clicking on the x
in the top right corner to come back to Medusa.
Would you like to be a SnakePal?
All you have to do is send poetry and/or
photos and artwork to
kathykieth@hotmail.com. We post
work from all over the world, including
that which was previously-published.
Just remember:
the snakes of Medusa are always hungry—
for poetry, of course!
clicking on them once, then clicking on the x
in the top right corner to come back to Medusa.
Would you like to be a SnakePal?
All you have to do is send poetry and/or
photos and artwork to
kathykieth@hotmail.com. We post
work from all over the world, including
that which was previously-published.
Just remember:
the snakes of Medusa are always hungry—
for poetry, of course!
upstanding.
