Words
Death-Bridge Keeper’s OTHER Five Questions (THREE Questions!)
To WHAT,
from what,
is time a bridge?
Of WHO
and WHAT
is that bridge a carrier?
To WHAT
do the people
and things
the bridge carries
across
and back
throw up
a collective
— and insurmountable —
BarRRier???
Born...
Free Poetry Skool @ Downtown Public Library
Poets gather
like words on a page
scribed in their own handwriting
as illustrious lines
they embody poetic form
— such as , a tercet , perhaps —
where this...
Taking a Short-cut on a Dead-end
You know...
I’ve been dying, more than I’ve been living
I’ve been making more than I’ve been giving
You’re telling me I’ve been forgiven, what am I...
Bring an Original Poem to Class
Scary things, scary things
The things that have created me
All come back, so haunting
Surrounded now, I can not breathe.
Can someone please
Soon help me
Rid my life...
The failure in our living
Dying where we stand,
slouched, our eyes closed,
hands covering our ears,
one could almost imagine
the world has stopped revolving,
a silent protest
against our collective indifference
of the rot...
Viewer’s Choice
Those who can afford tickets
to the theater, opera,
savoring the culture
of a city of prosperity,
where millions skimp on meals,
worry about their children
denied opportunity
because of poverty,
tormented...
Broken Poem
There is a poem
lying beside the road, its red
fur ablaze in the morning sunlight.
The spine of the poem is broken
and one leg is partially...
Small Window
I
discern
a
tiny
space
in
one
of
fifteen
minutes;
two
days
later,
I
deduce
which
one,
approach
it
and
peer
inside
(can’t
tell
whether
it’s
bright
or
dark),
hoping
to
glimpse
a
poem —
or
the
closest
edge
of
one.
Jethro McClellan was born in Boston, moved out West before he turned five, and has called Boulder home for most of his life....
Landscape, Mid-Consequence
The oft-oppressive miracles
of the combustion engine beckon
from whiny highways of a degradation
we must call fair
An asymmetrical face
appears in the exhaust drift
between the taillight and...
A Body Built of Folk and Lore
Deep in the hills and between the streams.
Where fables are passed and the willows weep.
Where wind flows through the tree tops.
And the children grow...