Selected Poems
Poetry in the Time of War : A week on the Home Front
Monday - Because of ongoing conflicts, poetry ration cards were issued.
Six thumb size stamps torn off for a few liters of octane verbs
eight for kilos of hard tack nouns, four others for adjectives
but none for adverbs, which sell slowly on the black market.
Our best effort of sewn stanzas have been sent overseas.
Tuesday - Poetry has blown a black out of proportion
into little pieces scattered in emptied streets.
Whistling sheets of wind wander paper snag
in protest on shards of glass. Broken windows become mirrors
to see yourself clearly through, onto the sidewalks.
Wednesday - Due to constant shelling, the book store and café were bombed out.
Piles of rubble of brick mortared stones were once homes
and gone people whose names can no longer hurt me.
Now, everyone's clock is hung tilted set still, broken.
We can tell if rhyme is right, for just a minute, twice a day.
Thursday- We wait for three hours allotted of rationed electric light and
hide in our rooms so we can write, fireside chats buzz in a radio distance.
Feeling targeted, everyone re-invents and attempts to translate themselves.
A desperate fear of being misunderstood. This could be the last poem they write.
Friday -We have taken to dress in black constantly.
Hold séance zoom meetings where our medium speaks.
The gypsy tries to take us away but she settles on random spirits.
She takes our souls on vacation, wherever they want to go.
We remain here and hold out with poetry, in a time of war.
