Poetry says what a writer means – prose what a writer thinks about. Advertisements
Sun wallowing bellow the horizon You drove against our first torrent of snow; Snow that outlasted a mid-winter thaw Then icy rains that sealed it into slippery mounds, Until now: a week before spring. Waking plants keep trying to see the sun.
In China Town’s Teaming, sun-steamed streets, Oriental ladies Trundle Chinese-charactered plastic bags Weighted strait down To their shuffle stepping feet Under eyes as implacable as stars.
Now comes spring Hear it ring against the walk: April’s spray Splashing tender shoots to summer roots, Rising green on blue, And waving warm in a glory of gliding gold.
Winter’s made the city white: First fall after the winter’s hubbub, Cooling more quickly than expected. Soon January will be here Breathless for summer When under the flying lamp, We’ll await the icey season’s festivities Fashioning gifts before fall.
He used to call us “George” All of us,”George” Even though he knew our names. Harry up the street like me was “George”. Though I never asked why he said it, I trusted in its sameness – Its sense of objective egalitarian comraderie.
The muses gift bedecked in shrieks: Stunning feats of vocal dexterity, Pitched high To feed the fancy Of the ravenous crowd.