The Cold Spot

We may be, as we speak,
In the process of being
Impinged upon by another universe. That is far more important than the behavior of my clouds!
It means that many a universe may stand beyond ours:
We cannot visit them, as such,
But in Poetry we can find perhaps, a touch.
So Deities and Philosophies are no more;
But look at the
Stanchion of Poetry,
Stronger than Blake and the rest of the classics and us combined.
If anything vies for eternity,
This is where to look first,
And look last.

poem by Stan Petrovich
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Harbor

Where dawn drains the sucking clouds
In agony for the russet rocks
Colliding on the beach below,
The undersea's ironic calm
Teems with the energy of heat,
primitive teeth aiming straight and true,
Unlike the wildly random lightning flashing above,
The tortoise not in love
With the seasnake;
The electric eel discharging on barnacles,
Particles of wind-driven rain
In the face of yellow-suited sailors,
Who shout and steer as if they were born there,
High-tide creatures of the sunken wave.

poem by Stan Petrovich
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It Comes From Beneath the Sea

Mars, on the other hand,
Is dessicated. It comes from
Beneath the soil there. Transluscence
Is its armour,
And thoughts & images pouring like rain
Another form of defense.
On gas giants, plentiful in nature,
It wafts in poison atmospheres
Unscathed. Among the floating
Predators. Untouched,
It will find us, soon,
And quickly lurk in the storms of dreams
It seeks. We, the dreaming
Denizens on the minor marbled planet,
On its foretold way to the grand alignment
of a tortured little
Galaxy.

poem by Stan Petrovich
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Broken Time Machine

Hurled into the future
With stunning energy flowing
All around, he saw the death
Of the Milky Way, eaten
Murkily by the huge Andromeda galaxy.
His sun was gone.
But it was his spacecraft after all.
He roared into a star nursery
Newly forming,
And was engulfed by the dark matter
That broke his control.

Chilled to the bone,
He could not go back again.
He would not describe again.
He might not wish again;
Again he became a blazing star
And recreated life as he had known it
A long long time ago.

poem by Stan Petrovich
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A Question

Do your tiny hands
Reveal freeflying thoughts,
Or better, are you intrigued
By the stumbling block dividing naughts?

It s not possible to conceal
An admiration impossibly,
Mathematically, real:
That lore is catlike in ferocity.

Doe-eyed, implacable, studious,
Said being is beautiful of mind;
Milton's honesty, old, then dutiful,
No brokenness can be so kind.

Quaked, then towered, forsaking
Friendship's throne for tears,
A humble dosser is partaking
Of an institution asymbolic of the years.

poem by Stan Petrovich
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Blue Motel

This is the night I feared most:
Coming at me straight and dirty,
Cringing, smoking next to filmy windows,
Worried if I'm the saddest man, coast-to-coast,
A clown in a cheap brown suit.
No wonder I'm beating a retreat:
She slandered my earnestness with him;
I caught them to the brim
Going at it, so I split.
And my cheap brown suit
Reflects neon blue
On this sordid bed I slouch upon.
Close by but on the far side of town,
Taunted by the moon,
Whose company I will keep, forever,
Soon, so soon.

poem by Stan Petrovich
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String Of Pearls

Around a jetting quasar-
A black hole that can no longer
Keep its hat on-
There comes a string of pearls
Phantom glowing pearls that
One cannot wear or even assemble
Their size and heat are so terrific.
Over the expanse of light years
I want to take on the trouble,
The suicide danger,
And capture these pearls for you,
To metamorphize them into something
Manageable.
And, then, string the cosmic
Circle around your lovely neck,
So they may dazzle the whole world,
Even more that you do without them.

poem by Stan Petrovich
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Contrails

With my Navajo friend Johnny,
Sitting on a dune of red sand
In Monument Valley, Utah,
And partaking in a little cotraband
Whiskey, we gazed up high,
Squinting in the air toward the sun
Where there was the vapor trail
Of a jumbo jet.

'Where are all those people
'Havin' to go? ' he asked.
'Packed up like those fishies,
Those, um, sardines in a can.'
Told him I did not know.
We rolled cigarettes
And enjoyed being landbound,
Down in the dumps,
Not double-daring gravity
And the jackrabbit horizon.

poem by Stan Petrovich
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Like A Hawk

Everywhere one goes
Eyes are drilling you like a hawk,
Looking for assymetry,
Disfigurements, enlargements,
Entanglements, perfection.

Every one looks
Eyes turn to you, or away.
Neither for a millisecond do they stay.
But the effects are engorging,
Annoying, exciting or displacing.

I once gazed at the corpse of my mother,
Who, peering it seemed high into the steeple,
Saw nothing except hazel.
But then I noticed something about her
I had never seen before:
Painless peace and superhuman
Repose.

poem by Stan Petrovich
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Browbeating the Populace

Throughout history
-Browbeaten populace-
They give us more than we cannot try
Than can,
And have the gall to call it 'freedom'.
Because the fish that will not be preserved
For the room of a reservoir project
(To say nothing of the visuals)
We kick mother earth
And ourselves to boot
Between the teeth.

I say let all
Decide for themselves,
Given time, given a cetain inbred love,
Not to disrespect nominal rights,
If they do no harm,
Rights that do not display the love of
Killing, or raping the world.

poem by Stan Petrovich
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