New poems and poems from the
neighborhood falls silent,
a book of 68 poems
Copyright
Patrick Dobson and personally recommended press, 2003,
1132 E. 65th
St., Kansas City, MO 64131, 816-333-7303
three poems stolen from the neighborhood
1.
kids’ ball rolls down
empty street toward the old man
who stoops low,
scoops it up,
saves it from traffic
at the bottom of the hill
then, drops it,
rolls it a little
under the balls of his feet,
one foot, then the other,
kicks it back
2.
moonlight falls though oak
breeze heavy with grass and bloom
flecks across your cheeks
3.
mailman smiles, wipes sweat
from his temple
says it’s mostly bad news
a
cottonwood
this
up-and-coming
event
brings to mind
a
good wooden box
fashioned
by friends’ hands
or
even a poor one
as
long as a few drops of sweat
or
blood from a hammered finger
stains
the grain
where
the lid meets the side
just
above the body
down
through the soil
through
the mold-laced wood
the
seedling cottonwood
sends
roots,
draws
the man into the leaves
that
sound so much like a river
and
the trunk, the rings, the paper
between
the heartwood and the bark
and
the man will flutter
into
the wind
onto
the water
over
the earth
in
snowy fluff
Morning mass
from the alley Mrs. Alvarez
watches the garden soak up rain,
smells life in compost,
rotting leaves, ground well turned
she whispers to herself
the names of garden plants—
oregano, habanero, potato, tomato—
she shakes the umbrella,
crosses the street to church,
tells the priest she remembers
when fertility was life's curse
in the night
wind
sheer slaps a siding patch
against
the gutter
harpies’
wings along the roofline
and
down through shards of yesterday
ceiling
fan beats time
for
rhododendron in moonray dances
the
magnolia scratches the porchlamp
the
dog bites a bite, quakes the bed,
settles
in again, haunches flexed, ears cocked
a
prayer whirls on the fan
out
the window
falls
with magnolia petals
into
dawn
Frank Dunlay, March 12, 1940-April 16, 2001
When I first met Frank,
squashed pumpkin head atop a suit,
he squinted, asked me if I was in pain.
Not like I was, I said.
We shook hands.
Well, boy, you're in the right place.
And he patted me on the back
like I had come home.
Seldom Seen/archive/contact/poetrysheet
all material copyright poetrysheet and personally recommended press, unless otherwise
arranged with the authors.
for information, contact rev. patrick dobson,
editor, 1132 e. 65th st., kansas city, mo, 64131, 816-333-7303.