OMEN
by
Graham
Duncan
The crow under my window
this last day of summer
will do, the strong sun
glossing his blackness
as he struts on the season's
thick mat of green.
He's fated to survive,
but how dark his sheen,
how taunting his tongue.
I would prefer to see
instead, throughly plated,
delicately eared and snouted,
the grounded armadillo,
he too made to endure.
Yes, I'd prefer to see
him quietly rooting there,
wearing his armor lightly,
but the crow will do.
Art by
Sean
Davis
Found on page 31 of the April
- May - June - 2001 issue of Poetry Depth
Quarterly.
|
CHINESE POETRY
by
Carol
Hamilton
Ginger pots sit
in morning slant sun
perfect brush strokes
slide up down
across pearly gray
concaves of porcelain
alert in light
filled with sharp flavor
Art by
Sean
Davis
Found on page 5 of the April
- May - June - 2001 issue of Poetry Depth
Quarterly.
|
JAZZ PIANO
by
Michael
Meinhoff
Rain falling in a melodic circle
me in the middle
falling hard fast soft slow
red hot or cool
with wind clacking forest bamboo
falling like delicate ballerinas
or ping-ponging the ground
and leaping into my wet arms
embracing my jazz heart
wringing it out.
Found on page 38 of the April
- May - June - 2001 issue of Poetry Depth
Quarterly.
|
MOTHER'S KISS
by
Nan
Sherman
She, of the deep dark depressions
seemed so happy that night,
as she bent over my bed
in her rustling blue taffeta gown
to kiss me goodnight,
tantalizing, sensual
drifting over me
her perfume.
How could anyone resist her?
Certainly not me,
her shoulders bare,
breast spilling over me
from her low-cut formal gown,
revealing her astonishing beauty,
the pearls I wear now
dangling frome her pale neck.
Engraved in my memory
her kiss soft on my lips.
Art by
Sean
Davis
Found on page 7 of the April
- May - June - 2001 issue of Poetry Depth
Quarterly.
|
GHOST TOWN
by
Larry
D. Thomas
It's so quiet here
that a rustle of wind
is a scream.
What buildings still stand,
like strange, angular hills,
have assumed
the timeless hues
of the landscape.
A saloon door, dark yet
with the greasy
residue of men,
clings to a single hinge.
The clapboards
have cracked and curled,
tugging at nails of rust.
For decades,
like the slow,
deliberate fingers
of archaeologists,
only the shadows
have been moving.
Found on page 30 of the
April - May - June - 2001 issue of Poetry Depth
Quarterly.
|
MOSSTOWN
by
Philip
A. Waterhouse
Mosstown blues
growin slow in me
down low
inside me
keep hearin
your Mosstown blues
listenin
your old song
too long
too long Mosstown
get over you
through with you
Mosstown blues
Mosstown
don't look after me
take care of me
got to get away
let me go
Mosstown don't go with me
don't let me look back
leave you behind
Mosstown
your lost town blues
i'm tired
i'm tired
to death
Mosstown blues
of fightin you.
Found on page 10 of the April
- May - June - 2001 issue of Poetry Depth
Quarterly.
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