Being Emily
She stomped on my ground
To furrow my heart,
This girl Emily.
Far and far away
With cinnamon hair
And glorious eyes,
She wrote tasty poems
For me and my kind.
Being Emily, however,
Was a curse.
Her husband was a wild-eyed puncher
Who pulled her around by her cinnamon hair,
Pretending to choke her
For the least infraction.
It burns me to distraction:
For Emily is my girl.
poem by Stan Petrovich
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Sink Your Sorrows
Look into a mirror
For there are your sorrows.
Align another one
And yes your Sorrows are compounded-
But it is artificial
As the pulse of your heart on your breath.
Sink your Sorrows through that mirror of the sea's surface,
Aligning in wave after wave
Of the moon's captivity,
And let the tides become your heart,
And the seabreeze your breath.
Sink your sorrows into the sea.
poem by Stan Petrovich
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On the Horizon
One never knows.
A beast with tearing claws
Or the golden pond.
There might be doom alighting
In your hair like a vampire bat;
Or morsels of soma in a silver bowl.
The thing is just to try,
Simply try to get there;
And when you do
Stand agape at either
Your fortune or your loss:
The important matter is
Trying.
I have withstood both
And lived to mark them down.
The choice is yours.
poem by Stan Petrovich
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Poem Attack
Poem, having grown teeth,
Somehow got out of a notebook
That lay on a dusty shelf,
And jumped me.
Its assault lasted an infinity.
It honed in on my hand,
Ripping to the root a
Penile finger, which action,
I think, gave it the idea
Of hitting me below the belt.
The doctor in hospital
Moving my bandages away,
Mechanically asked,
'Do you smoke? '
'That ain't the half of it, '
I answered.
poem by Stan Petrovich
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You're Fired!
The Duckster...
Born choking with cash,
even sent to military school,
like some damned fool,
he breathes nothing but hot air
into a buzzard's environment,
a whimpering Presbyterian ('Oh, so nice! ')
A face like a Roman spear,
clothes made in China,
ashes to ashes,
I can see him as a swaddling cloth in the mirror,
his hair combing itself back.
Be careful, he might even
steal your ego.
poem by Stan Petrovich
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Somewhere, it's dawn
Somewhere first light opens the eyes of the downtrodden;
And mirrored mountains paint the morning bright;
Somewhere the warm winds relax,
And the songs of the sea and field
Sing a heady yield;
Somewhere two lovers meet again;
And a dying poet puts down his final pen;
Somewhere a man of unending torture
Rests his forgiven head,
And free blankets and thick pillows billow
On a fearless bed.
poem by Stan Petrovich
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Something Nicer
In the Salt River Canyon
Right on the white bridge,
Photogenic,
You stood, both knees exposed-
I clicked and clicked.
The off-white salt pillars
Could be photographed all day;
And a myriad of stars all night.
One can see the richness in the lore exposed there: rock and tree.
I envy those who first came here,
Centuries ago with no cameras
To capture the glory,
Only tongues to tell the tales.
poem by Stan Petrovich
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When Death Is Survival
The last of your family is
Gone. You are now alone to contemplate
Motionless sands or sere waves
In deep purple, crying oceans
To turn the tide of what could
Have been.
No family. No friends.
Just the bellyache of a vast hunger
For richness of thought,
For a dream of clear vision.
The rocks are one color alone.
You are one color alone as well.
Might as well join them.
There is no heaven or hell.
poem by Stan Petrovich
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Free No More
It has descended;
the madness has become that
parasol on a hit of white ants
I have forever dreaded.
In grandiosity I am pleased
to ride out the night,
now a wizard in white,
now a placated being
with nowhere else to roam,
since I have been everywhere;
and everywhere having gone,
I am chained to a sofa that cries,
its belly distended.
I cannot sing to you, having
sung to the crickets their songs.
poem by Stan Petrovich
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Dog Days
August the Teenth, and hot;
Runs the riot of the rot.
In these septic days of summer
Sounds begin to simmer
And the tidal pools pour over.
Those curs, those mocking frogs,
Leap from beach to logs.
They scare away the sheep
& take away my sleep.
The sand begins to catch fire.
Fire is a hunter.
It is bound and out for Winter,
But going nowhere.
Canis Major stops amd stares
Into the sticky sun's glare.
poem by Stan Petrovich
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