Buoy the population of the soul
Toward their destination before they drown
~ Robert Pinsky
October 2019
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This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution- NonCommercial-NoDerivs 2.5 License.
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“The repetition of my days/ that are alike,/ my days that are not alike.” ~ Nazim Hikmet

A day like any other –
Cold for the season, humming

With clouds, strung like accordions
Over the ribs of suspended bridges

Tug boats, like hunting dogs, nosing out
Passages to the open sea for cargoes

Lifting my head to look through the high windows
I sense their absence again occupying that old space

A passing wall of rain over bony nerves,
Memories' backwash over the hour's reef

My Poems

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Rain this morning thudding
Against my lacerated sleep seemed to plead:
“Do not be so distant from this desolate
House. Soaked in the humid air,
Ink runs from a dream’s gouache of you, Radhika.
Kiss me awake again this morning, just as
Ash departing into heaven kisses the fire's face”

My Poems

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Boom Rush

I just read in North Dakota
There is a mad rush underway

For the black gold hidden
In the prairie’s belly.

Grapes of Wrath writ in real life.
But all the rooms are taken:

Hotel rooms, motel rooms,
Trailers, backseats of cars,

Tents, Wal-Mart parking lots,
With a serpentine waiting list for everything.

So the Joads are forced to cling,
To squat, to brace themselves against

The bone chilling wind and the coal heat
In whatever silver of space the body can fit.

How much space does a body need?
The heart sometimes feels like this:

Filled with syllables’ black ink but unable
To find a stanza’s room to inhabit.

My Poems

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