The darkness had gotten so bad,
I thought: Believe only in night.
The sun is a dream.
Some still say it’s better
to stay in the dark
where we can’t find each other,
where all we know is fear. Not you.
Something shakes on this night sky–
a sun
that breaks through . . .
flowers suddenly
raising their hidden heads.
Poem by Kenneth Pobo. Pobo lives in Pennsylvania.
To President George W. Bush, with love
You can reflect war
with a smile.
You can expect war
with a smile.
You can prepare war
with a smile.
You can declare war
with a smile.
But those who have died in war
never used to smile.
So when you reflect war
when you expect war
when you prepare war
when you declare war –
please stop smiling
just for a while.
Casualties are matters
You must not make a fuss about
They happen
By some casual coincidence
During casual visits in a foreign country
When people are too casual
About security counsels
At times
Speaking of casualties
May sound serious and solemn
But honest to goodness:
Its message to the public
Always ends up with
Never mind
Slaughter their windbag he-haws with just words,
conquer distractions with direction,
pave the media echo chamber with your message:
Build unity, bridge each and every bunkered abode;
no more war for profit
feasting on pounds of flesh;
let me now use a fairy-tale term:
Defang the lion-faced giant who steals and smirks.
Despite the war, spring returns,
blazing sun, apple trees litter the ground with savory orbs.
Bite this autumn flesh, or forget its abundance.
Suck its succulence, or mutter behind closed doors.
A writer should know there is so little to say–
writing after changing a diaper, before kissing goodnight–
that to pile clause upon clause is just salesman’s candy,
not the work that hinges downward into silent walks,
walks when you had to go.
Then begin the difficulties: Now the novels,
the dramas, screenplays, the poems pour forth
bound in tomes, to unpuzzle the core.
Poems by Gregg Mosson. Gregg Mosson is author of Season of Flowers and Dust from Goose River Press, and an editor of this blog.
Scrap the script, etch upon a stone
of all you know your own; quarry your success
to build a bridge to the future,
for every lodestone spans out infinitly further
like Buddha’s arms revealing flower after flower,
one of math’s published letters to the human heart.
I owned a map, but journeyed for change,
though beyond known lines, I quivered inside,
developing courage because courage was challenged.
The landscape in this zone was barren to my eyes
yet unrolled to spangled sunsets as I tred the road,
opening before me because I dared.
Come what may, come and dare to dream–
not lost amid the cloudy dream of wishes–
but deep within the juicy dreams of life.
Poems by Gregg Mosson. Gregg Mosson is author of Season of Flowers and Dust from Goose River Press, and an editor of this blog.
