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The Poetry Of.
Doug Richardson......................................


At the foot of a skyscraper of glass,
Reflection so searing
It could incinerate
Entire colonies of ants,
A gull lies on the sidewalk,
Neck snapped nearly in two.

It thought it was diving, diving
Into vertical ocean water,
Reflection so deep blue,
So salt and cloud,
That it was deceived.

In truth it was making
The natural transformation
From Narcissus to the Flower,

The precise moment of which
Never being fully realized

Even among those who can
Contemplate the reflection
Of their own beauty

Before it makes a mess of them
On the sidewalk, in public,
To be gawked at
And forgotten,

Or sometimes
Ignored altogether

By frightened passersby.

Six Flowers

Roses are still the best,
Each petal perfect regardless of color.
Roses are dear and lost to the imagination
Like a favorite song after decades of overplay.

Orchids are cruel.
Known to say roses are obvious,
Orchids should be painted exclusively by the vain
And should be clipped prematurely.

Sunflowers are demented and solitary
And are not taken seriously until they begin to wilt.
The wilting sunflower is seven-dimensional;
Nothing on earth rivals the spectacle of its demise.

Giant poinsettias are surreal,
Evoking memories of fragrant rubber colors
And the neighborhood twins Mary Carrie and Carrie Mary
Who went to different schools.

Poppies were originally a multitudinous unit
Covering 90 percent of the fields of heaven.
An apprentice ocean before the advent of water,
This was their ideal formation.
Poppies once mesmerized the messiah in gusts of sedative wind.

Lilies are mostly cheerful, sometimes naÔve, always aware.
Known to say orchids are worthy but misguided,
Lilies should always be given to restore relations.

On The Corner

On the corner is a pole
Dedicated to a button
Dedicated to the regulation of traffic.

Today I pressed that button
And pressed it again just to be sure.
The woman in front of me, leaning
Over the edge of the curb, turned and said,
I already pressed the button and you knew that,
But you pressed it again anyway.

She reached for her knitting needles,
Which protruded from a rip in her bag.

You looked like you were waiting on a friend,
I said, Or maybe for a cab.
Thatís why I pressed the button.

She clinched the needles
And winced like negligent acupuncture.

Just kidding, I said.
Sometimes I feel compelled to press the button
Despite the consequences. I apologize.

Her lips parted.
Chin dropped a little.
Our eyes widened.
An entry was made in the book of clouds.

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