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Modern Poesy

Appealing like the charming teen-ager
Lovingly in love loved by the same 'ager
Sometimes metering doddered lika a toddler
Prosodial lingua travailing like a prattler..
By all means
Poesy but says 'I don't bother'
But I say'o.k, you're too a stylish mother'

poem by Indira Renganathan
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I'm a normal teen-ager except for my size.

quote by Dana Hill
Added by Lucian Velea
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When you come to Christ as a real young person, I think when you become a teen-ager either you rebel or you search, doubt, and wonder.

quote by Jerry B. Jenkins
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Night In Iowa

Nimbus clouds erasing stars above Lamoni.
Jaundiced lights. Silos. Loose dogs. Cows
whose stench infuses the handful of homes,
whose sad voices storm the plains with longing.

poem by Deborah Ager
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Alone

Over the fence, the dead settle in
for a journey. Nine o'clock.
You are alone for the first time
today. Boys asleep. Husband out.

A beer bottle sweats in your hand,
and sea lavender clogs the air
with perfume. Think of yourself.
Your arms rest with nothing to do

after weeks spent attending to others.
Your thoughts turn to whether
butter will last the week, how much
longer the car can run on its partial tank of gas.

poem by Deborah Ager
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Movie Memories

Holding hands at the movies
waiting for the lights to dim.
Anticipating the characters on the screen
but thinking of only him.

The one beside you, not on the screen.
His arm now on your shoulder.
You feel the length of his arm.
He becomes a little bit bolder.

You see the characters on the screen.
All are playing their part.
You forget the name of the movie
but not what's happening to your heart.

The lights come on all too soon
but not before he kisses you.
Great to be a teen-ager.
Sorry, the movie is through.

poem by Edwina Reizer
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The Tortoise In Keystone Heights

When I knew, it was raining.
Winter in decline. I was tired.
You in your soaked shirt diffused
into the western sky bulging with clouds,
speeding cars a few feet away—
why would they not slow down?

Though afternoon, a slip of moon
busied itself with rising,
and it had to mean something.
If only the moon were not out.
You shoveled the crushed tortoise
and her eggs off the highway into the dirt.

Those soft, white eggs.
This is how I love you:
drenched with Florida rain
and looking like hell,
Florida itself a hell,
the moonlit rain a rain of fire.

poem by Deborah Ager
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Morning

We are what we repeatedly do.
—Aristotle

You know how it is waking
from a dream certain you can fly
and that someone, long gone, returned

and you are filled with longing,
for a brief moment, to drive off
the road and feel nothing

or to see the loved one and feel
everything. Perhaps one morning,
taking brush to hair you'll wonder

how much of your life you've spent
at this task or signing your name
or rising in fog in near darkness

to ready for work. Day begins

[...] Read more

poem by Deborah Ager
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The Lake

The yard half a yard,
half a lake blue as a corpse.
The lake will tell things you long to hear:
get away from here.
Three o'clock. Dry leaves rat-tat like maracas.

Whisky-colored grass
breaks at every step and trees
are slowly realizing they are nude.
How long will you stay?
For the lake asks questions you want to hear, too.

Months have passed since, well,
everything. Since buildings stood
black against sky, rain hissed from sidewalks
and curled around you.
O, how those avenues once seemed menacing!

I know what you miss
sings this lake. Car horns groaning

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poem by Deborah Ager
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Santa Fe In Winter

The city is closing for the night.
Stores draw their blinds one by one,
and it's dark again, save for the dim

infrequent streetlight bending at the neck
like a weighted stem. Years have built
the city in layers: balustrades filled in

with brick, adobe reinforced with steel,
and the rounded arches smoothed
with white cement. Neighborhoods

have changed the burro trails
to streets, bare at night—
no pedestrians, no cars, no dogs.

With daylight, the houses turned galleries
and stores turned restaurants open—
the Navajos wrapped in wool

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poem by Deborah Ager
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