he comes and goes as he pleases
it’s a mystery to me
what he does when
he’s not here
sometimes
he brings clues though
a lemon scent
a gleam in the eye
a flattening of fur
today it’s
a paper chain
strung around his neck
pink confetti
in his mouth and ears
were you at a party
or in a parade
i ask
he looks at me as if i’m nuts
(from Dog Series)
Seema Chopra
.
This poem knows it can’t compete
with its neighbors
the Freeverse-Smiths
over there on the left
in concise lines and white spaces
of their modern open plan
and on the right,
the Traditionalform-Joneses,
with that fancy meter on the siding
clicking along in whatapest iamb.
It’s no secret
that this poem’s comment box
is always empty,
almost as if it had no identity,
no real composition.
This poem believes
it’s entitled to more.
So it will lurk.
It will do close readings
of them all. It will wait enjambed
until their phrases are turned
and steal as many as it can carry,
stuffing its stanzas full of cool devices
as it exits through their workshops.
If caught, this poem will plead
no contest.
j. blakkan
http://allpoetry-classic.com/dune
Alice presides:
agrees to be mother,
although she’s as mad
as a snake on crack,
she clatters the cups,
cups her breasts
offering sugar;
slaps down the paws
that clamour for more,
Strings of her pinafore
stretched to breaking.
Wishes she hadn’t accepted
the invitation that led
to the hood where trouble
resided;
where even the ones that were fed
are still wanting.
Read us our fortunes,
they beg.
Alice, who never learned
to say no
empties the pot
and pours over the leaves.
The March wind sweeps in.
Maggie Z Brown
https://allpoetry.com/Margrit
.
.
TheParkBenchReview 