Poetry Bay - On-Line Poetry Magazine

SAMPLE POEMS

From THE POEMS OF AUGIE PRIME
(Writers Ink Press 1999)

From BUTTERFLIES & OTHER TATTOOS
(Bootleg Press, 1993)

From TALES OF A YUPPIE DROPOUT
(Writers Ink Press 1992)

From THE MILKING JUG
(Cross Cultural Communications, 1989)

From TIE BACK THE ROSES
(Explicitly Graphic UK, 1986)

From THE MILKING JUG

(Cross Cultural Communications, 1989)

The Woman Who Waits

The woman who waits for her man to come
is lost, also weeps; cannot deliver
herself of dreams. She will have chains
wherever she goes. In the still birth
of morning, she will stretch lovingly
against his memory, thrill herself
with the careless breath of his last
departure. Neither wine nor the warm advances
of other men can cure her. The woman who waits
for her man to come punishes the night
with imagined caresses. Awake, she longs for sleep,
and its miraculous kisses. Asleep,
she dreams always of rain. She is folding herself,
leaf upon white leaf, into a book of empty pages.
Each one sounds his name.

Garden of the Nuns

I stole this orange from the garden of the nuns
to bring to you Juanita.
A workman was trimming pyracantha in the sun.

He did not see me
creep among the blossoming camelias,
although he stopped

to light a cigarette, sucking at it with enthusiasm
in the cool air,
admiring his work.

And I held my breath Juanita
as I reached between the fragrant citrus leaves,
praying he would not hear me.

My prayer was answered, Juanita
and this orange is for you.
It dropped between the shining leaves,

and I reached down to pick it up
as the sisters meditated, behind draperies
and cool windowpanes, on the Acts of the Apostles.

And yes Juanita, there are more oranges for you
from the garden of the nuns. This
orange I bring to you

to release you from your own meditations,
the ones that haunt you.
Take this orange, Juanita. It holds the sun.

Boy in Blue Trousers

On the island at the center of the bay
the boy fishes in blue trousers

a bucket of night crawlers close by
planted in white sand.

Water slaps this side of the boat that side of the boat
hits shore

eddies at his heels (which
are pink like salmon), dampens the sand

where he is sitting
and then rushes away, having gathered information about boys

buckets and all the bad things
fish should know about

as they patrol in wary company, beyond the reach
of fishing line

in the far-flung territory of water.

The Milking Jug

To see mortality in the cow's sad eye
or the snail stalled terminally in the tall grass

as the wet North wind tumbles the sky,
fondles the meadow; as the low clouds pass

through the heights of willows, willows. These
are the days of the milking jug; and the long sighs

of winter, waiting its turn beyond the trees
of Chatteris, sharpening its breath in arctic skies.

And I am alone with the dawn, and stalk
the river's edge; and dare the rain gash through

my anorak. And I am falling like a hawk
out of the sky. And I remember you.

samples | conferences

send comments to info@poetrybay.com

website comments to dpb@islandguide.com