Poem: Late Night Block

Here’s a poem of mine that was very recently published in Yes, Poetry! It captures my sad and dour mood quite well; for at the moment I feel absolutely powerless in the face of human ignorance. I am so sick of greed and selfishness ruling the world.

If you like this poem, there are two more of mine at: yespoetry.com (scroll down to March 10)

Thanks for stopping by.

OWL

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Late Night Block

my hands folded, boney.
corpse-still on my lap.
the fingers not
clog dancing over keys.
only a still ridge
announcing
the dark side of the moon.

at two a.m., the dim lamp
is hitting them that way.
shading the bulk of the skin
to pale the knuckles.
each round bump
a bloodless face
of a solider lying near the Marne,
late september.

if they moved now,
it would be sweet magic.
make their fiancées
in distant homelands cry.
but the lamp is heavy.
cold as a gibbous sky
soon to cast sleet.

it’s hard to think under its siege
of anything the dead
want to say.


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