Category: 58 @ 29
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Guantanamera
You sing it. Yourn — they mourn, they Wring it over, ragdolls and wine, Listening somber, listening longer Than anyone else in the “N” train’s crowd. Others ignore you, mothers note the Boredom born in baby faces. Teens spend their braincells as tender On turn-based games in their tiny screens. You sing it. Yourn — they mourn,…
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To Della Beyond the Veil
You yearned for your homeland. Always do. After the era passes you, you pass too. Music styles wane as moons, Norwood’s fiddle when new knew you, knew grandkids too, never me though or the little themes that we know, millennials make do. My how the strings request of me: “Play.” Can resonance reach across a…
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The Ballad of the Morning of the Writer
with deference to Stephen Pressfield Before she opened eyes, she heard Alarms — her shouting clock. She’d set it for her pre-dawn words. Her dry-mouth-taste: a sock? The children soon would rise from bunks And writing time would end But blank pages await. Tales trunked— They whispered, “Sleep again.” Children took out the pep from her…
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Rio Sunset Park
Ghosts in the gold, ghosts in the late Grate growing wet from grey waters. Ghosts in the water gushing its spray: Men in it which men aren’t mainly, Shadows and shades, shadows in spades Twinned and twining, twisting liquid Pining from physique, from playing rain: Where are the men within? White water at Nighttime walks…
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The Brooklyn Film Festival at Windmill Studios
A windmill guards wonder pictures: blades hedging bad ideas. Festival goers’ fists and feet vote as teams, very to very, sparrows—they echo spite for spite, but they aren’t right: Thous aren’t here. The windmill unwinds weathered not from spins unwound or spurning found sins. Windies gone whence called: nailed and neutered, naught milling here. It…
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Greenwood
Twenty-four crypts: teeming mouths songless closed, soothing whistlers they pucker: Thayer, Galdwell, Green, Michael — Greenwood blows cyclonic, sites of graves stirring waves up, staring stairs down for prey. Dowreys in stones displayed; stolen days, stolen children — stoves aflame the names! The dates! The native whistling low till lakes blow circular. Maelstrom made small…
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58 poems at 29 years old + The State of the Schaubert
On odd years, I’ve made this habit of doubling my age and writing that many poems. I did it with the 46 @ 23, the 50 @ 25, and the 54 @ 27. This year, I’m adding a tradition of updating everyone on the lay of the land. So here’s where things stand for me…