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Year's End

The state cracked where they left your breath
No longer instrument. Along the shore
The sand ripped up, and the newer blood
Streaked like a vein to every monument.
The empty smoke that drifted near the guns
Where the stiff motor pounded in the mud
Had the smell of a hundred burned-out suns.
The ceiling of your sky went dark.
A year ago today they cracked your bones.

So rot in a closet in the ground
For the bad trumpets and the capitol's
Long seasonable grief. Rot for its guests,
Alive, that step away from death. Yet you,
A year cold, come more living to this room
Than these intruders, vertical and warm.

poem by Weldon Kees
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This Pregnancy

Cracked illutions,
And of the rendezvous of my pregnancy;
And i will never forget the last night.

A time of wheat and a time of love,
With apologies to the victims of the world;
But this pregnancy is dedicated to my lover.

Of man's curiosity,
I've spent 40 years starving for success!
But i am now pregnant for my lover,
And it is like the era of globalization.

Please, somebody should tell him who i am;
For i am carrying his baby and with the traditions,
And i an now with the cracked illusions.

Think twice before you close that door on me,
For the final count-down is on this pregnancy;
And the rendezvous is all that it takes.

poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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To a Pair of Blucher Boots

OLD acquaintance unforgotten,
Though you may be “ugly brutes”—
Though your leather’s cracked and rotten,
Worn-out pair of Blucher boots.

’Tis the richer man before you,
Dearer leathers grace his feet;
’Twas the better man that wore you
In the tramps through dust and heat!

Oft rebuffed by “super’s” snarling,
When I asked him for a “show”,
On that long tramp to the Darling
In the days of long ago;

Tell me, if you know it, whether,
As I sadly tramped away,
Bore I heavy on your leather,
Worn-out pair of Bluchers, say?

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poem by Henry Lawson
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Bigger Blue

Nothing is more blue,
nor anything more empty,
than a swimming pool,
it's dry leaves,
and cracked bottom,
a heart of light, and old rain,
glittered-out, with winking shards,
worn numb, by the concrete of
some Hollywood life,
drained into pictures,
turning to the skies,
sitting knee-sprung,
poised over,
an unreflective gulf,
with different strokes,
all triumphant blue is lost,
and as these moments,
are wind measured,
with floating dust,
cracked glass,

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poem by Guy Peppin
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Dispatch Me From the Batch

Dispatch me from the batch,
Of those who wish a rematch back...
To patch relationships that cracked.
As if life lived is meant for that!

I want,
True happiness.
I need,
To feel ecstatic...
In romantic graphic snatches,
That does not leave a single scratch.
Or a fighting done with a tit for tat!

I hope,
For a love that's known.
To be,
Shared and known.
And feel...
It always there,
To grow with two who are aware.

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poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Two For Nimal

for Nimal Dunuhinga

Cracked Song For Dirty Boots

This tree

grows still

a child's mind

a bedroom window

This house

this window

gone but for

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poem by Warren Falcon
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Penning to Exclude Mental Laments

Illusionist?
I wish.
As I sit with urges to uplift,
With...a,
Penning to exclude,
Mental laments...
To replace with a content meant,
For an elimination of all sentiments...
From eyes dropping tears to descend,
As if endorsements advocating...
Remorse,
With head down and shoulders bent!
Shuffling feet slowly on cracked cement.

Illusionist?
I wish.
As I sit with urges to uplift,
With...a,
Penning to exclude,
Mental laments...

[...] Read more

poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Mother's Trinkets

Don't go in there mother says
But I did anyway
Don't play with those mother says
But I played anyway

The light danced around the glass and crystal figurines, entrancing my
young mind
How could such objects be so beautiful?
They set fire to my imagination and the trinkets became my new toys. Mothers warnings meant nothing to me, not a care of how fragile the toys were went through my mind

Don't go in there mother says
But I did anyway
Don't play with those mother says
But I played anyway
The beautiful trinket lay cracked on the floor my wonderful toy existed
no more
With one careless slip of the hand down went the glass
And I burstt into nervous tears mothers warnings I suddenly feared
so quick I hid the evidence she would never know

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poem by M.S.B Anonymous
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Until Someone Is Challenged

It is a place of routines.
A job daily done.
A town...
Where everything done,
Is known by everyone.

And seasons go and they come.
Changing very little.
Accept for the birth of someone's daughter,
Or son!
Or a crime committed that stuns.

The only ones not aware of them...
Are those who are caught up,
In these same scenes.

Both routine and crime...
Over time,
Have come to be accepted
As commonplace as mustard is on a hotdog.

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poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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For John, Who Begs Me Not To Enquire Further

Not that it was beautiful,
but that, in the end, there was
a certain sense of order there;
something worth learning
in that narrow diary of my mind,
in the commonplaces of the asylum
where the cracked mirror
or my own selfish death
outstared me.
And if I tried
to give you something else,
something outside of myself,
you would not know
that the worst of anyone
can be, finally,
an accident of hope.
I tapped my own head;
it was a glass, an inverted bowl.
It is a small thing
to rage in your own bowl.

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poem by Anne Sexton
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