If Not The Devil
hard-nosed reporter & a
soft-spoken fact-checker
grapple over painful affairs
he loves a lady who is dead
(ghost-glowing lover)
she loves a man on the run
(lank-looking galoot)
his feigned buck-teeth
her dangling foot
scarlet warnings
in crude sunlight
a dish of grilled halloumi
fat marinated olives &
brown butter pretzels
sits untouched
between them
on a small round table
in haste
he stubs out a cigarette
she twirls a dark blonde strand
warily
hard-nosed reporter & a
soft-spoken fact-checker
cover their passion marks
with relentless contrition
& when they part
he squeals the tires of his
black car
she retreats deep into a
pool
of poems
if not the Devil
small
Gods
pose heroes in obdurate
positions
then tell them they will never
be
**
More pecking today. More thinking. More day-dreaming.
Alas, more poetry. Good? Doesn’t matter because pecking.
In propinquity,
Nic
It's always good, Nic. Always a worthy exercise, even if it doesn't make immediate sense to the reader. Your poetry is like a breathing meditation - it slows me down and makes me pay attention, and in the slowing and paying, I see things I'd miss otherwise. Imagery and emotion, the beauty in mortal darkness and the pastel colours in love and joy. Reading your poems is never a waste of time. Catching way up now, alas, reminds me of the days when I paid daily visits to the Pot and was constantly inspired by your process.
ReplyDelete