Europe, Summer 1997

we count first on our fingers
in bundles of five,
the places we have seen
the people we would visit
then we count from memory
the houses whose doors are yellow
standing out against rusted drainpipes
taking a second moment before
becoming grey in the passing view.

We watched the compounding skyline
which began as rooftops but became high-rises;
a wooden rendering of our own jourey,
which began on foot and boarded the railcar.
You, looking at me from behind our father’s glasses,
offer up a sigh of relief–we are moving now.
Moving on to something else.
We were young but I remember a sense of longing
an emptiness only time can fill,
following the footpaths of cobbled alleys
knowing a home-land in a place I’d never been.

–ECW

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Draft – Foucault Pendulum

image

someday, when we grow up
this too will be a memory
glowing with all the passion
of a darling age; someplace
elsewhere where we’ve
kept all the dishes pristine
and all the portraits are of young
lovers -us I assume- smiling wide
enough to swallow our medicine
someday, when we are gone
from here, this place will be perfect
and we will remember everything
golden and foil-stamped
like our wedding invitations
which everyone attended,
even the people who got sick
even the people we couldn’t
squeeze in, the record we keep
will be complete, circling the dowel
coming around and around
in tidy lassajous curves.

–ECW

Poem: Quagmire Kinfolk

Quag(mire) kinfolk

the girl in the marsh was me
when I was small and we were lost
I left the hurt there in the marsh
to be cleansed by mists
(to be) wavering weeds
the girl in the marsh was me
and I was younger then but
not                       so young
as to meet dread for the first time
he and I walked alongside
grassy heaps
and ferried our secrets
the girl(in)               the marsh was me
I left her there to wait on my return…
the marsh,  she           knew all
about the low hanging fog
and the weight
of water
in the
quag

–ECW

 

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!

Poem 155

Bridge kids

the ones who feast on left-overs
in upturned bins and grin
through sooty wooden teeth
overpass-crass, the yellow
cuticles of freedom; trust
funds and red lungs
aching for marboros & skunk
we sunk our feet in, ankle deep
and watched the sun set on some
one else’s sunday! Holiday! to be
young and effortlessly cool
in the night, fireside tinder headlines
and crumpled comic strips
make for shadow puppet slumber.

We live vivid in an instant;
don’t make me grow old with employment
let there be sunrises always on my window,
which is open, which is everywhere
and lay me down under the passing lights
of communter busy with deadlines
watching for nothing out the side
view, knowing only that tomorrow
will be the absolute endless same.

 

From the outside, your music is a blues tune
played over and over to a white moon
with a face like a resting doll,
we watch her while you’re sleeping
in your ninetofive daydreams
and keep her secrets from your policies.
We are well paidfor in sensations,
richly alive while we hitch-hike
across roads others dare not go—for fear
of safety. It’s the poor kids who wear
slacks and blazers: shuffling their papers
staplers and budgets, who will die of loans
and live anonymous in their ambitions.  

Someday, when we are all lined up
in a train station awaiting the arrival
of eternity, you might ask who was happy
and neither class will answer,
but one of us will know.

—ECW