Other People’s Poetry!
Five Haiku
The wind
Undecided
Rolls a cigarette of air
The mute girl talks:
It is art’s imperfection.
This impenetrable speech.
The motor car is truly launched:
Four martyrs’ heads
Roll under the wheels.
Ah! a thousand flames, a fire,
The light, a shadow!
The sun is following me.
A feather gives to a hat
A touch of lightness:
The chimney smokes.
The young are beautiful—but the old are more beautiful than the young.
–Walt Whitman
crouched in the corners and grappling by the hinges
only to remain unseen;
We weave our web of what we believe we understand
of the relationship of our acts and events
only to remain misunderstood;
From that odd wisp of steam of heated discussions
to the urgent hiss of a new page calling;
I teeter on that thin ice —
That single space of uncertainty —
And I ask
“What am I doing here?”.
The World is Filled With Unattended Packages
Wind is all we know these days. Ignore the snow, the cold,
but not the wind. In the fallow of pre-spring wood, we strolled
vulnerable, exposed, the wind catenating our quest
with the disquieting exaction of an uninvited guest.
And when my face shakes, it is the wind. When
I drift from your mouth and the words within,
it is not betrayal that the rebuff imparts.
It is the wind, chilling souls and racking hearts.
–Me
