By Lisa Brognano     CHASMHe yells to her over
Big bank of hills and
Sees nothing but blunt
Brown banks and a snake
River below.She hears Tom and from
Her ledge moves a little,
Sees the river and some grass.He strains and pivots, parting
The grass.  She remains still
And pale, swallows some air,
As she sees him climb over
The flow of the river where
The rocks lay.  He won’t stay
Long, he has to get back.      CROSS THE WOOD SOGenerous clear flow, wooden watering pail;
Deep purple flowers drink.  Tweedle-twaddle,
Water drips across old Patty’s homemade lattice.Neighbors say it takes an authentic rustic trusting
Man to cross the skinny wood so—after all it is
Coon River Junction.Patty makes lattice because he’s so good at it and
He’s got nothing else to do but cross the wood so.      THE PRIMORDIAL WATCHI inquired: “Cave man, what time is it?”
He wound up his club . . . and struck my watch.  Three
Stones from the cave’s ledge fell into a pit.I told him not to worry his wit,
But I must count the time passed under this tree.
I inquired: “Cave man, what time is it?”When he punches his time card to quit
Work at the Bow and Arrow Shop, then he will see.
Stones from the cave’s ledge fell into a pit,Only two descended this time.  Both split
And shattered—like my watch, unnecessarily.
I inquired: “Cave man, what time is it?”Perhaps midnight, as that counterfeit
Clock, the moon, looms above so predictably.
Stones from the cave’s ledge fell into a pit,Though solely one this time: no compatriots
To break the fall or end the monotony . . .
I inquired: “Cave man, what time is it?”
Stones from the cave’s ledge fell into a pit.     A & B

Sound comes from a button-like boom;
Earth comes from a chamber-tucked lump;
Sight comes from a quick circle whirling;
Touch comes from fine flannel nooks;
Smell is neutral, coming from last year’s
Prize-winning rainwater.      ODE TO DOWN BELOWBirds slap into the sky dense
Shrugged up into blue fade on blue
They are watched and shot.Generally, songbirds moan.
Big broad moans echo into
Vast high hollow.Brown birds borrow their sorrow
While they bicker, soar and stagger.Generally, a mountain crevasse is
A blessing, a sweet sort of refuge
A place to die, beauty burial, aerial
View of multitude of treetops, oh
Soothing deathbed, oh high bench,
Oh shooter down below.     About the Author:lisaLisa Brognano has two master’s degrees, one in English and one in Art.  She has taught high school English and Art.  Fifteen of her poems and seventeen of her articles on the arts have been published. Currently, she lives with her husband in New York.