CHASM 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:Lisa 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. |
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