POEMS DONE ON A LATE NIGHT by Carl Sandburg

POEMS DONE ON A LATE NIGHT CAR

I. CHICKENS

I AM The Great White Way of the city:
When you ask what is my desire, I answer:
“Girls fresh as country wild flowers,
With young faces tired of the cows and barns,
Eager in their eyes as the dawn to find my mysteries,
Slender supple girls with shapely legs,
Lure in the arch of their little shoulders
And wisdom from the prairies to cry only softly at
the ashes of my mysteries.”

II. USED UP

Lines based on certain regrets that come with rumination
upon the painted faces of women on
North Clark Street, Chicago

Roses,
Red roses,
Crushed
In the rain and wind
Like mouths of women
Beaten by the fists of
Men using them.
O little roses
And broken leaves
And petal wisps:
You that so flung your crimson
To the sun
Only yesterday.

III. HOME

Here is a thing my heart wishes the world had more of:
I heard it in the air of one night when I listened
To a mother singing softly to a child restless and angry
in the darkness.

The Shadow Returns Poem

The Shadow Returns

A stranger here
not knowing
it’s a shadow
appearing disappearing
a skittish movie reel
with shifting frames
apologizing endlessly
for trivialities.

Sometimes speaking
knowing that it’s
slightly out of sync
hoping to be heard
erratic traveler
never here nor there
a shadow from another place.
The light
is somewhere else.

Blinded by the Light of Your Eyes Poem by Susan Mandel

Susan Mandel
(1)
Blinded by the light in your eyes
I cannot see the truth.
The darkness in your stare tells me
that dreams fade by the light of day.
Who do I see when I open my eyes?
Does it really even matter?

(2)
When you run to catch up with yourself
do you ever reach the end?
Exhaustion is bound to catch you before you do.
If the exhaustion doesn’t kill you, will you kill yourself?
Or can you not run quickly enough for even that.
Keep trying.
Swim.
Run.
Ride.
You’ll catch up eventually.
Just in time to see yourself die.
Never having found a finish line.

El Fuego Y Agua Poema by David Michael Jackson

El Fuego
por David Michael Jackson
Traducido por Jodey Bateman

No se apaga el fuego
Arde como fuego, como pena, sabes, como pena
Mozo, trae agua, agua para mi fuego, agua fresca, dulce y clara
Las pablabras no sirven. No sirven ni palabras ni labores
La espada clava adentro, sí, en la panza, en el abismo
Y las palabras no obtienen favor
Come el durazno, hombre, come el durazno, sí
atrévelo entonces, enconces, entonces
¨Queda más tiempo?
Tiempo entre crecer y envejecer
Tiempo entre el río y el mar
Come el durazno, hombre
es bueno
es dulce

Boothswargled in Boatswain by David Michael Jackson

Once when the lager were carrying their coats
in the sultry swemult of laggon’s presence,
in the swarthy simult
of essence itself.
Let us just say,
condense it to primulfigance,
leave it homing,
as the harrial is cresting to the himult
and the sweevers are weaving,
lasoming, hanging helpless in
swammance itself.
Oh swammance!
Oh swammance!

boothswargled

My dog was run over poem by Wayne Jackson

Dog Run Over

The dog lay in the street
a small
mass
of torn hair and blood pressed in pavement
and eyes hanging loose from the sockets.
and puddled liquid
soaking into rocks
quivering like
wind through light lines.
Once it licked and barked
its way about the house
chasing Boo and Boo him.
I didn’t see the car that hit him.
Was it someone I knew?
or a stranger driving swiftly on
an unknown road.
Couldn’t they have stopped
to make sure
to at least see
and mumble something
or other.
What would Boo say?
Could I tell him
it’s only sleeping
would he notice
it wasn’t moving
at
all

Dog Run Over Poem copyright Donald Wayne Jackson 1989