WHEN WHITE ROSES LOVE FIRE. Poem/Sonnet by David Spicer.


Should I compare you to a winter night
when white roses love fire and we desire
fertile land, singing repertoires we’ve cooled
with iced beer? The future is clear. No more
monkeys and rams with sunglasses will clog
the stations and cottages. We need to collect
the children before they wilt and tug
at each other like turtles with the lilt of aspirin
in their throats. Then we can beckon
priests and doctors who suffer policemen’s
ennui before massacres: it will be time
to launch the Jupiter missiles and portray
ourselves as the gods that we are not.



David Spicer has had poems in Yellow Mama, Reed Magazine, Slim Volume, The Laughing Dog, Jersey Devil Press, The American Poetry Review, New Verse News, Ploughshares, Bad Acid Laboratories, Inc., Dead Snakes, and in A Galaxy of Starfish: An Anthology of Modern Surrealism (Salo Press, 2016). He has been nominated for a Pushcart, is the author of one full-length collection of poems and four chapbooks, and is the former editor of Raccoon, Outlaw, and Ion Books. He lives in Memphis, Tennessee. for further views of his works see Poetry Life & Times & Motherbird.com

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