Petit Fours: Tiny Poems with a Bite

Petitfour1

When I was a freshman in high school my best friend didn’t buy me a normal birthday present. Instead she bought me a whole box of petit fours.

I had never seen such delightful little squares. They felt like a bite size dream. I froze most of them and made each and every one last as long as possible.

I stumbled upon some lovely internet poets who are contemporary and nostalgic all at the same time. I tried to emulate their lovely type-writer cool, but my typewriter is oh so broken and the one at work (yes, there is a typewriter at the library, we are awesome) ate my money and laughed in my face!

So I fell back on what I know and made a semi-nostalgic poem-let for sharing.

There are lots more to come; I wrote 24 of these!

Hope you like them!

Please share!

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Poem 83 Revised

White all white, but white when it pretends to be yellow
a mustard fellow putting on airs declares
white caps of pretence on its plainer self.
 
Where else it may begin, below the calm
a storm of sentiment along the white whirling spheres
what hears the water come, a thumb on the rod
 
Of a well-oiled brush, with rush rounding our sounds
of yellow borrowing blue from the grey
come stay your eyes on a spatter here, a red
 
Run rattling on the eye, so shy some could call it calm
but lower still the truth tracks color on the canvass
a crass brass last attempt at sunlight, yellow all along.
—ECW 

Poem 53

no matter where i go, nevada will always be home

 

All the history I know

is the way the dust blows

cutting at the face of the earth.

Conflict-construct deducts

from the sand-sculptors I find

to capture filthy the free—

Send off didactic calligraphy—

the lights seem to me brighter in my wisdom.

Boyhood and summer becomes them; I am

not a boy… I can’t appreciate this moment:

westward-boot leather-toe, like you can.

Wrinkled furrows of manifest, resent not

only the meager syllabic meanderings of verse

or worse, the sounds of unraveling

minds. mines. Mine. We don’t speak

of the syrup we pulled from the Rockies—

Instead revel in man’s triumphant sun-bulbs

blushing dry meadows with life. Nothing survives

but we—ay sayers—dehydrated sipping on silver.
–ECW