Poem 48 Revised

The flea to the elephant says:
Catch me! Catch me!
But elephants have no time for fleas
With feet like the trees
And a trunk broad and stout
With a swing of his knee
He could swat the flea out.
But the flea to the elephant pleads,
Catch me catch me
If you chase me I’ll fly
Up from the circus and into the sky
Yelling catch me catch me
But the elephant gruffly refuses the tease
And lays down his trunk and his ears with great ease.
And says Catch me catch me
Catch me you say
What lovely a life solely for play,
This body too old and too tired must lay,
Now kindly young one
Would you hop on your way

And leave me these bones for another day
–ECW
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Poem 46 Revised

Push on push on
Clouds of cotton rumble riots
Pushing on pushing
Tinker trifles batten windows
Push back weather—on resistance
Rain-rough rampage, shutters shocked
Hand-held hopeful, cellar door doubt
Rain rush random rakes mayhem no drought…
Bring the rain then?                       
Bring the rain!
And conquer god-fists with bent wrists
In basements with bucket shields,
Pushing on pushing on
Push on push
Downy drench so do-eyed daft
Watch the push push push of the rain.

Bring the rain! 
–ECW

Poem 45 Revised

Mama Hydra
In her jewelry box of
Vacant shells
Rough cut gems
Scatters lights
With impatient hands
Pulls furrows
From the floor.
A carpet rippled by
Careless bare feet
The sea-bed wears ridges
calling me home.
I trust the compass
Steady marking north.
No worry whether
I follow the needle—
If I will arrive. Love
Is trusting the magnets
Letting them pull
Metal from my pores.
Permitting their gesture
To be finite in purpose,
A beacon guiding me north.
But when the moon passes
Ten thousand tides from tonight
That hand with a compass
Will point to
The under-bellied pole.
Turned over white like an
Expired fish.
Will they be wrong?
Magnets in the core swore
South. How
Could this compass be true?
My soul. My hand,
My helpless compass waits
On ridges of the seafloor
To shift again, swallow up
Old peaks and valleys,
Someday ten thousand times over
No longer constant,
Every needle set to change,
Whispering South,
Mama Hydra—inspecting her treasures—

Sends a call

For new directions…

Will you trust the compass?
–ECW

Poem 44 Revised

Attic Portraits
There’s a box on the wall
And a man in the box
He smiles when you smile
And he talks when you talk
But you are not the man
He is the inverse of you
He is the sour survival
The piecemeal of rot
The wicked inside of you
Roped into knots
But you are not that man,
He is the inverse of you,
That piercing sore,
The sore at the core of a man.
A man who would smother his lover
Would oil the streets
Set fire to reason
Spite life with disease.
But you are not thatman
He is the inverse of you
And you burrow inside
What you fear to be true.
There’s a box on the wall
And an eye in the box
To see all

Not forgive, not forgot.
–ECW 

Poem 43 Revised

I Killed A Spider
Coarse groans of chalk on board
Pull ebbing from my pen
Ideals of nobility
Folly-fraught with men
And then…
This, tiniest of monsters:
Acute the root to life
The pitter of his petite feet…
Fascinated I pause
And observe…
Silk-screen a room of minds
On the pin tip of his linger—
Watch an ink-spit for a spell
Conquer the length of my finger
In perfect awe…
His body swaying side by side
I offer my pen as a vessel,
With his decline I resign
To ponder that panorama
Captivated…
But I tire of his trek
Wishing to send him off anew
I slowly—
Precisely—
Flick him with my pen.
Oh Horror!—a blunt curvature
A crushing weight!
He was taken
By the careless curl of my thrust.
Dead he lingers a smear in the margin.
And I return to the lecture.

—ECW 

A Feast of Excuses

Sorry, sorry, I know it’s been 2 weeks and I might have died. But here I am…

We decided to cut off the internet, which is why you see me posting 10 things in one day like a psociopath (which is not how you spell that, and I’m not even going to check, because it should be authentic and spell check is cheating). Also, per my usual I’ve grossly misrepresented the time I have to do a project for school and I dropped my whole life to binge read Dorothy L. Sayers’ Harriet Vane and Peter Wimsey novels… All I can say is thank god I don’t have internet because I would have gotten no poems or reading done, I would have just been watching Walking Dead and Korean horror films until my bed was too scary to look under. Also my sweetheard built me a yellow library to read and rest in, so there was no use going anywhere with internet when I could be a hobbit in my hole…

Alas, here are my 1,000 excuses, laid before you like a feast, enjoy.

That’s enough nerdyness for one post, I will follow this with poems that have been revised. Look out for the revisions coming soon, but there just isn’t time for it all and my paper takes precident over my little literary dream gyre, and upheaviung the very fiber of all literary thought and process can hold until I’ve done my due diligence with Ms. Sayers.

And while Yeats is right about one thing, I hope my little falcons can hear this falconer while I call for a brief moment of collectivity. If you have no idea what I am saying, please dip your toe into the canon and read “The Second Coming,” it’s lovely.

As Always, Keep Writing.