New poem

A poem about Cape Breton .


Untitled

Lone sentinel on Cape Smokey,
rooted in rock hard ground,
dancer in the wind,
guardian of the north Atlantic.

The distant sound of a fog horn
trembling your limbs,
naked to the cold and wet
of this dark island.

Cries of drowning men
captured by your branches,
drawn from your carved body
by the rosin and the bow.

Knowing its place on the mountian,
the lonely spruce
turns and bows
to its partner the wind.

Poem

Time to get this blog on the road. I am hoping to get some critical feedback on poems at various stages of completion and would be glad to do the same in return with other poets.

Here is the first poem.

Two Pairs Of Socks

“Your poetry sucks.”

“What do you mean?"
her eyebrows knitting a sweater
and two pairs of socks.

"Your poetry section, it sucks.
Not enough for a good fire,
though god knows,
most of it should have been burned.”

“I don't pick the books,
and who are you anyway?”

“Nobody,
you on the other hand must be the duster.”

Her hand moves toward a letter opener.
“I'm sorry” I said
bringing us back from the brink,
“I have these books I want”.

“Late charges" she says triumphantly,
“that will be ten dollars.”

"I don't want to buy the library”

“You don't get any more til you pay.”

Stomping them back to their shelves
I peel the label from the 1946 winner,
so the Pulitzer prize is now where it belongs,
a gold medalion on the Alden Nowlan.

Out the door, no books, just two pairs of socks.