Trains of Thought

 

—Poetry by Michael H. Brownstein, Prairie City, MO

—Stingray Photos Courtesy of Public Domain

BECOMING
—Because of Melanie Monterey Eyth
 

Who does a poet love
if not the poem within,
the rhythm and the image
standing near enough
throwing everything off-
balance, almost drunk?

 

 

 

 

 

WHAT IS HAPPINESS BUT A TRAIN OF THOUGHT

When I cried
my cries bruised the wind—
when I sighed
my sighs formed crystals in the rain—
when I tried
I discovered mountaintops of glory—
but when I lied,
when I had too much pride,
ice formed in my stomach
and then I found my spirit guide
and my cries became cries of joy,
my sighs the light within stars,
my tries victories even in failure
and each day began as a rainbow.

 

 

 

 

 

LOVE POEM

The world splattered ink all over me—
water, then light; rust and moon glitter:
somewhere the Witch of Hollandaise,
Demon of Serpentis, dog of the chariot—

Beside me, she dreams she is asleep
her hair stops lighting red to blue to green,
then the color of the Antigua beach, early:
three giant stingrays swimming near the surface.

 

 

 

 

 

THE AUTO BODY MECHANIC

He is the sandy white-haired giant
with a fist that can fill an adult skull
and when he brings it down against metal,
he is the forge, he is the anvil—
gentle and calm with quiet in his voice,
choirs in his movements bending material
to fit and mend. Is there more to this man
of girth and strength? Watch him work,
the easy river flow of body singing
until one job, then another and another,
and still another are complete.

 

 

 

 

 

ON MARRIAGE

I did not settle down—
I settled up.

I did not tie the knot—
too constraining, too confining—
I helped us create a bracelet of kisses.

I did not fall in love—
why hurt myself—
I soared with love.

Do you know the meaning of marriage
in the ancient language of the Ocktoroomera?
I don't either, but I know they marry for life
and everyone is happy.

_______________________

Today’s LittleNip:

THE BIRDS OF FLOWERS
—Michael H. Brownstein

the soft orange globe
near the edge of night
rises between the hands of god

_______________________

—Medusa, with thanks to Michael Brownstein for today’s fine poetry!

 

 

 

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!