Brain Division
In right-handers, languge flows freely;
Guns and arrows are attuned;
It makes for great drivers;
Makes for great divers;
Their flower arrangements
Are beautifully festooned;
Haughty also can they be in their derangements...
In left-handers we accentuate more,
Have grammar under the thumb;
See the horizon and know what's in store;
We can easily act the deaf and the dumb.
I am ambidextrous myself.
poem by Stan Petrovich
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Guilty but Beyond Evil
In the foregoing month
I have commited atrocities (some might think)
With mere words.
Hellenists would have me exiled,
Which I might even like;
And I would be proven to be in league with the devil,
At Salem, where that would be ridiculous.
I said that God had no hands,
Therefore could make not a thing;
That's the way it is for me,
And an author can only say what he or she thinks is true,
Or they lie too.
poem by Stan Petrovich
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Parallels
Scene 1:
I sit on the south end of the table
Across from you;
You say: 'I think I'm leaving George, Ezra.'
I say, 'You can stay with me, Hilda.'
Scene 2:
I sit on the north end of the table
Across from you;
You say, 'I think I'm leaving Wanda, Hilda.'
You say, 'You can stay with me, Ezra.'
Scene 3:
George, Wanda, Hilda and Ezra
Hold hands in a circle,
Round a grave marked 'Karen';
They all weep copiously.
poem by Stan Petrovich
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Time/Sand
The sundial spells remorse;
The sands in the hourglass,
Half empty, half full,
Prepare defeat,
Dividing the northern and
Southern hemispheres-
Extinct, non-extant time-
Travels of my feet.
Dispels relief.
Dry, dry is the desert
Of the triumphant return of the
Hero, even anything sweet:
Death, dearth, love,
Instant jaw burial,
Scientific discovery,
You & I lying awake,
And fearing nothing
But the future
Anew.
poem by Stan Petrovich
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An Eternity Passes
(written in 1965)
i still wait as a tree
waiting for you to pass
under me
i would walk but what
would they do-
they'd cut me in two-
i'd wave at buses and trains
create havoc and fusses
but i'm a wooden being
i don't know how i can see
but i see
and i scream in storms
with these limp roots in the past
-that is where you fit in-
all chagrin
when to told me to GET OUT
is when i came to this place
when i began to sprout
poem by Stan Petrovich
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Loneliness
A voice without a body,
I am wandering through the avenues,
Seeking shelter from the harm.
Negativity begets change
Productively, for good or evil,
But, beyond that, I respond
To the dales of grief
Of the downtrodden.
And calling out as their voice-
For change...
But no one hears a voice without
A body of evidence.
No proof, just conjecture.
I do maintain this effrontery
Against the mass of greed and hate out there.
poem by Stan Petrovich
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Largely, it is a case of misidentification
Never meant to hurt the guy;
Even through we had brawled
a time or two;
He had a weak time expressing displeasure,
Short of fisticuffs,
Exercising in the mud;
I was the sort to make an equation of it,
Hammer home the blatant stupidity of war.
Yet I find that when adversarials are opposite in their attitude toward what is real and what is a grand delusion,
Blows will be exchanged as frequently as the wind shifts.
poem by Stan Petrovich
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Outbound
Not having pulled away from the Station, But still I am outbound-
I am at all times outbound-
When I grovel under my overhang,
The rocks above are black then white,
Very unstable,
So I have to leave my home again, forever;
And never do I know where to roam,
To find stability
In the world.
It doesn't exist,
For one thing.
Because something ominous will Hang forever its head,
And from there I must be outbound again
poem by Stan Petrovich
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Schrodenger's Cat
Fifty-fifty is the probability
That the cat or even we exist,
After the atom splits;
Whether the cyanide gas turns us blue or sets up a clue
Not to open the box
And observe a cat
That is not there.
There is always the chance
(However small)
That we repeat the experiment,
Once, twice or infinitely,
Ourselves throwing the dice;
And live on forever after,
Opening an empty box,
And patting lively kitty on her head.
poem by Stan Petrovich
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Enough - Or Too Much -Wm Blake
Will it be uncouth
To be the wind,
Drinking from a fountain of youth-
Or is the sere service
Attire of old age
Respectable in more
Than one way-
With an eternity of
Clanging, cloying, noisy life,
There envelops no reduction
In strife, when the two
Entwine.
To life forever, then,
Is to be drudgery's
Forebearer:
The riling summer's heat,
Breathless winter's dearth,
Must be one with death
[...] Read more
poem by Stan Petrovich
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