One

I’m beginning a new venture. If all goes well, a friend of mine, poet David Vincenti, and I will maintain, poem by poem, a conversation. I’ll write a short piece. He’ll then respond to it. I’ll then respond to his words…and so on. Here’s my fist effort. Your turn, David.

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I’ve just considered
the rain,
how it must slip,

a silver pulse,
between the rills of bark
on the old oak,

that gaffer leaning over the grass
as if to pick a flower
for a lover long dead.

 

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A Prince, Some Jazz

Yesterday, I was able to spend a part of my day with a former colleague, a friend, a mentor. Two lovers of literature and words, we spoke of Shakespeare. This poem is born from our discussion.

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A Prince, Some Jazz

“The rest is silence.”
        Hamlet Act V, Scene II

Hamlet nests
where candlelight
scales the cigarette smoke
as a spider a curtain,

fathoms his worth
well secure within
a bubble’s sheen,
a blink harbored upon his brew’s

thinning froth.
The stout has warmed.
His will discovers
its collapse

where darkness burns brightest
and a snare whispers
beneath the drummer’s brush.
This would be his end;

yet, he’ll suffer another breath.
The saxophone
has yet to weep.

An Old Book

Earlier today, I wrote a poem illustrating the differences and similarities that wizards and warlocks share (or perhaps don’t share). Sadly, I wrote said poem on a computer I cannot tap at this moment; therefore, you’ll need to settle for the effort I share here. I’ll save my magic users for another day.

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An Old Book

I found an old book, today,
in an old box hidden
beneath an old table
sugared with dust
in an old room,

the attic of an old house,
where shadows
retreated to slumber and snore,
resting in hammocks
spun by spiders

weary of the sun,
an old book with old ink
and yellow pages
that harbored old words,
brandish and cutlass,

wyvern and manticore,
words that gripped my heart
with adventure and honor,
stories of knights and bold deeds,
old stories that made my breath new.