Monday, November 26, 2007

The Girl and the Fan

I wrote this poem for a very dear friend who spent a futile afternoon attempting to turn on a fan. Her apartment had flooded one muggy summer day and the cleaning company left the fan to help dry out the floor. In her defense, it was a massive, industrial beast of a fan, but a fan nonetheless. As a fitting post script, her husband had it going within five minutes of arriving home.

The Girl and the Fan

Upon a satin stool she sits
and sheds a single tear,
for though the heat bears down about,
no remedy is near,

while in the corner, ever close,
looks on the cyclops eye,
with shoulders hunched on blocky bulk
and toothy grin so sly.

Forever will she sit in heat,
as if enwrapped in furs,
for though she seeks to turn his brow,
it is but he turns hers.

Saturday, November 17, 2007


Repetition is the theme of the day. The placement of 'little' as the second word of each line was meant to lend the poem a certain flowing cadence and unity. Whether it works or not is up to the reader to decide.


A little blade of grass upon
a little hill was crushed,
by little foot in little boot
on little path that rushed,
and little thought was given it,
while little death it died,
its little stature lowered still
by little motions tried.
Then little corpse was laid upon
a little rocky grave,
its little self to recompense
the little ground that gave.
But little life will spring again
from little grains of earth;
a little blade of grass begot
in little, wondrous birth.

Sunday, November 11, 2007

Words and Minds

It's about time for a sonnet. This was written as a self-imposed exercise, and so tends more towards form than content. But then I never said I was Shakespeare.

Words and Minds

Our lips were made to marry intellects,
in common thought and reason rightly shared;
our ears to usher in such sonant lects
as found their inlets open and prepared.

So syllables between the two have flown
for ages past and ages yet begun,
to link our souls that, silent, stand alone;
the lover and beloved, bound as one.

This is the native course of old design
that dignifies our rough society
and serves, with stoic duty, to align
our separate hearts in simple unity.

But hope of consonance is mere facade
when prejudice corrupts the passage trod.

Thursday, November 8, 2007

Summer Song

Well, I have tried to post once a week, and yet, somehow, even in this small goal I have failed. I have an excuse, however - I was at a wedding in California. So, in the spirit of marriage and sunny California and the fading memories of Summer days, I thought it time to post this poem.

Summer Song

Evening falls upon the timber
from the golden harvest moon.
Sing your song that I remember
Summer laid to rest too soon.

Sing a song of gold and silver,
sing the blessings of the sun,
sing beside the gentle river,
where the waters twist and run.

Make this promise as a lover,
keep this promise as a friend:
if we live to see the summer,
sing your song until the end.