—Poetry by James D. DeHart, Chattanooga, TN
—Public Domain Photos
METAPHOR’S BEEN DONE BEFORE
Of course
the metaphor’s been done
before
Face the sun
Wind the hair
Smile the sea
But the metaphor
has been done before
Path the light
Choice the dark
Life the road
But the metaphor
has been done before
Silver the hope
Crimson the clash
Plum the aftermath
But the metaphor
has been done before.
Of course
the metaphor’s been done
before
Face the sun
Wind the hair
Smile the sea
But the metaphor
has been done before
Path the light
Choice the dark
Life the road
But the metaphor
has been done before
Silver the hope
Crimson the clash
Plum the aftermath
But the metaphor
has been done before.
MASS
The mass began forming early
and by noon had taken over
the human frame.
By three o’clock, it had taken
over the office floor, holding
the staff hostage.
Now the mass makes demands,
orders too much coffee, and has
begun a merger.
Soon the mass will be inter-
continental, taking over Europe
and then Asia.
Then space.
And it all started with eschewing
a visit to the doctor.
The mass began forming early
and by noon had taken over
the human frame.
By three o’clock, it had taken
over the office floor, holding
the staff hostage.
Now the mass makes demands,
orders too much coffee, and has
begun a merger.
Soon the mass will be inter-
continental, taking over Europe
and then Asia.
Then space.
And it all started with eschewing
a visit to the doctor.
BLEACH
I just dreamed she
was a bleached blonde
but I know better,
Running up to me in a long
familiar unfamiliar hallways,
wrinkles and cracks.
She wants information, my
dreaming self knows I won’t
share; I have never shared
very well. In front of my
eyes flash a series
of red images. Any one
of them would make
a perfect tattoo. That’s how
I know I am awake.
I just dreamed she
was a bleached blonde
but I know better,
Running up to me in a long
familiar unfamiliar hallways,
wrinkles and cracks.
She wants information, my
dreaming self knows I won’t
share; I have never shared
very well. In front of my
eyes flash a series
of red images. Any one
of them would make
a perfect tattoo. That’s how
I know I am awake.
BLACKBOARD POEM
They would tuck him
in the corner if his words
came too profusely.
Thus he sat and listened
to the tick of curricula,
the turning of tomes,
leafing through the pages
of tests and quizzes.
The din of voices and future
forgetting, but also ideas
remembered.
They would tuck him
in the corner if his words
came too profusely.
Thus he sat and listened
to the tick of curricula,
the turning of tomes,
leafing through the pages
of tests and quizzes.
The din of voices and future
forgetting, but also ideas
remembered.
CRITIQUES
A thousand small spiders
creeping across the page.
Laden with errors, one voice
says, while another uses the word
Wit and still another says
Nowhere near ready. Send more,
Send less, Quit sending.
A thousand shards of glass,
a thousand bitter barbs and a few
roses,
and that’s the work ahead.
A thousand small spiders
creeping across the page.
Laden with errors, one voice
says, while another uses the word
Wit and still another says
Nowhere near ready. Send more,
Send less, Quit sending.
A thousand shards of glass,
a thousand bitter barbs and a few
roses,
and that’s the work ahead.
FALLING OUT OF BED
There is no good way
to fall out of bed except
to not fall at all. The first
time was when I stayed over
and woke up in a tumble
of sheets, writhing in a cocoon
on the floor, tearful and unsure
of where I was. I remember
figures in the dark, crying
softly like me.
Now I tumble out each morning,
met with the same old me.
Not falling is not an option.
There is no good way
to fall out of bed except
to not fall at all. The first
time was when I stayed over
and woke up in a tumble
of sheets, writhing in a cocoon
on the floor, tearful and unsure
of where I was. I remember
figures in the dark, crying
softly like me.
Now I tumble out each morning,
met with the same old me.
Not falling is not an option.
HIVE
What if our feet, with
comfortable cacophony, fell
forward together
and what if our minds, at
one time, tuned to each
other so that upon parting
lips we finished each other’s
thoughts, feelings, even will,
always moving forward
always gaining ground.
What if our feet, with
comfortable cacophony, fell
forward together
and what if our minds, at
one time, tuned to each
other so that upon parting
lips we finished each other’s
thoughts, feelings, even will,
always moving forward
always gaining ground.
Today’s LittleNip:
GORILLA KEEPER
—J. D. DeHart
He is master of the dark shape
with the round gray stomach,
and the tendency to charge.
He is like one of them, with large
knuckles.
When he speaks, there is the peace
of trees and shade.
The calm of working with great
creatures of strength.
_____________________
Our thanks to poet J. D. DeHart for today’s—as always—fine work!
Tonight from 8-8:45pm on Zoom (759 5468 4014; Passcode: 9BQfh2), Terry Moore presents Mr. Love Jones Poetry Night, love poetry in honor of St. Valentine’s Day tomorrow. Check it out, and don’t forget the champagne!
____________________
—Medusa
GORILLA KEEPER
—J. D. DeHart
He is master of the dark shape
with the round gray stomach,
and the tendency to charge.
He is like one of them, with large
knuckles.
When he speaks, there is the peace
of trees and shade.
The calm of working with great
creatures of strength.
_____________________
Our thanks to poet J. D. DeHart for today’s—as always—fine work!
Tonight from 8-8:45pm on Zoom (759 5468 4014; Passcode: 9BQfh2), Terry Moore presents Mr. Love Jones Poetry Night, love poetry in honor of St. Valentine’s Day tomorrow. Check it out, and don’t forget the champagne!
____________________
—Medusa
—Public Domain Illustration
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.
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