The Crepescule of Football Games
Transformed into
The petroglyphs
Before the songbirds who
Are out for no reason,
Dancing winged-
Songs stirred for the
Absence of housewives
With no more reason to
Love me;
The earth pushed a little,
Displaced from its godhoods
And toward catastrophe-
Dying a little the way the
Forest of angels
Drink sea salt- talk up
A little around
Graveyards- underneath power lines-
Why the sky is all blue
A little
F$cked up- punched in the face,
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poem by Bret R. Crabrooke
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In Them
Another promenade of a sorority,
Bringing out their show around their water fountains,
Preening and attempting their peonies—
They love their football teams—
Entire parking lots of them,
And there elbows bend away like the hemisphere—
Growing through the stained glass of the churches
Of their universities—
To end up as trophy wives—
Somehow there are too many of them to number,
And they sing together in the afternoon on
Weekends—
They know nothing of astronomy, yet they are up there—
Like vanishing pictures in the coloring books
Of girls who are too old now to find
Any understanding in them at all.
poem by Bret R. Crabrooke
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Of Moths And Guitars
River, what do you symbolize- it isn’t
Love that flows through you
Coming down the mountain, leaping
And showing yourself over
The stone, the little things entering you,
Like wedding rings,
Becoming lost into you as you travel
Down and join your other sisters who
Carrying your name in their throats-
River, river coming down the mountain-
The sky reflecting the memory of your
Greenness- Was it the trees who
Cried you, or the very pinnacle of
Stone reaching up to the fanfares who
Coalesced and made you run- soon you
Will be reaching the sleeping village,
And then hurrying further to the sound
Of moths and guitars.
poem by Bret R. Crabrooke
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Just A Little Boy
Imposes on an empty room-
A bouquet of parked cars, echoes from
A parking lot-
Other promises the moon steals- pretty
Ladders leading up
To second story bedrooms: but she
Has already gone to the nuptial-
She is a school girl at a
Banquet, and
She is not alone:
In a forest fire of uneasy businesses
Waiting to come home from
School,
As I fixate vulpine on the pornography of
Her saturated woods:
But I am just a little boy, and the canal
Lingers torpidly:
All of my words flood out to her,
Saturnine,
And she brushes her hair- the alligator
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poem by Bret R. Crabrooke
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In Her Beautiful Hair
Nubile poem on the cleft of an orb—
Silence slips over the curves of a river-
And the strange jewelry that decorates the housewives
Without a sound—
Sandlots of castles of missing cars
And other mouth less amusements—matriculating
To themselves until they happened to believe that
The most fabulous invention of all happens to
Be the hallways of their highschools—
And now if you can picture what joy they are in—
In the strange memory of fishes swimming around
A midway of an unbelievable palace that was
Never there—why then,
A joy to them- a joy to them—
A spark of a firework igniting in her beautiful hair..
poem by Bret R. Crabrooke
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In The Mowed Field
Succession of alphabet: tongue of amphibian
Over a lover’s nipple:
Circus tent of areola sprigged by pubis
In the moonlight coming over
The house too close to the highway:
The rattlesnake flattened across
The road,
Halfway made it underneath the Florida
Holy where the kids have made it
Safely run away:
Across the street from housewives who are now
Lovers—
Adultery in midway daydreams before
The naked bodies of goldfish
Not even worth a dollar:
The television silent besides the Christmas tree:
The lizards in the yard basking like
A statuary of primordial deities:
The cats too sleepy in the mowed field to care.
poem by Bret R. Crabrooke
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Well of Moonlight
This moon,
This moon,
This moon is not real:
There is another moon up
On a hill,
And my that moonlight
I draw water from the well.
Now my sister is getting married,
While I am waiting,
Waiting,
Wondering if I should stand sometime
Beside her stone
Beneath the well;
In autumn, or in summer,
I cannot tell.
My scars are salmon,
Salmon underneath the stars
And the pallid aspens, like sisters
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poem by Bret R. Crabrooke
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Not Even An Echo
As they dimmed over high school,
And the baseball diamond,
And the inevitable wives went home to
Their inevitable husbands:
From the malls as from the estuaries-
I thought of the romance
In the valentine of a firework: very cheap
Romance bought in packs
Like cigarettes- for an amusing moment-
To scare the children,
And annoy the neighborhood- and yet to
Come from so very far away-
And to be so profound in their beautiful
Daredevilry,
But too end up not really there- to last for
The moment of a lover’s holiday-
A honeymoon of overpriced nonsense-
And that is all:
Not even an echo, not even a sad knock on
A sad door.
poem by Bret R. Crabrooke
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The Valentine Of A Firework
As they dimmed over high school,
And the baseball diamond,
And the inevitable wives went home to
Their inevitable husbands:
From the malls as from the estuaries-
I thought of the romance
In the valentine of a firework: very cheap
Romance bought in packs
Like cigarettes- for an amusing moment-
To scare the children,
And annoy the neighborhood- and yet to
Come from so very far away-
And to be so profound in their beautiful
Daredevilry,
But too end up not really there- to last for
The moment of a lover’s holiday-
A honeymoon of overpriced nonsense-
And that is all:
Not even an echo, not even a sad knock on
A sad door.
poem by Bret R. Crabrooke
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In An Anonymous Week
If I am not beautiful, nobody really has interests
Or love; and I am quite shallow,
The pittance of an unreturned dove:
You know, you know- all of our graves or quite
Shallow, too- like animal graves,
Like animals shoes; and this is what I have been doing,
Digging up shallow tubs of earth, throwing dirt
Over my shoulders like a dirty curse, and doing it
Without appeasing anyone in the eye;
If I should have to die, If I should have to die, let it
Be little animal tears for me, and distant cars,
And distant echoes of somnolent feet; you know,
I am not pretty, and the way the earth moves, I shall
Be dead in an anonymous week.
poem by Bret R. Crabrooke
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