One For Her
She longs for peace so much
That a thatched cottage appears
Round her when she sleeps.
Snowbound, a resting place for a man
Who desires small candles
And the wafts of incense
Over the dragons of his day.
Comforting words are plied as though
As natural as autonomic breath:
'See me, I love; hear me, I love.'
It is the rejoicing of an overbearing day
To stay by her side.
And the moon sighs softly.
And the gentle flakes fall.
poem by Stan Petrovich
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Pretending Trees
The trees take pretend trips
When we are not there
To cut them down or burn them up.
They imagine rising into the air
On moonlit romps without gravity's grip,
And mate like snakes, entwined,
Going as high as stars,
Looking down upon cities
And their captive kind,
Crying out for us to let them go,
To let them entwine without the cars,
The noise or the neon glow.
But their desire is doomed
Because what they get is pruned.
poem by Stan Petrovich
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Long Lost Love
She wakens;
It has been a decade's sleep.
She hearkens;
It's I to her depths, not cheap.
A lovely brown curl is twisted
By her crooked finger;
If I had only listened,
I could have heard the murmur of her shapely heart;
The murmur of her lips apart;
But in enticement I grow stupid,
And, lanced by some succubus cupid,
Only did tell her I loved her profoundly.
And she shakes that off like a fly, roundly.
And flees off into the night.
poem by Stan Petrovich
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The Gods Do Not Intervene
The battle between Athens and Sparta lasted a lifetime and more.
Men who ate lentils
Were not interfeared with by any gods,
Said Thucydides,
who is the father of scientific history.
He did not outlive his own battle,
Dying suddenly by an iron sword.
His blood spurted on his pages,
But most were saved. If one reads Greek,
One can smell,
On the pages
Blood and lentils and pointed iron. And read the first truth about the horrors of war.
poem by Stan Petrovich
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What To Do
When the seascape walls are crushing
their force upon you,
What do you do? When the herons
are picking out the best part of your bloated
body, the eyes, what do you do?
When the screaming mess of cities
and the abhorred citizens are threateneing you,
what remains to be done?
I cry into the tide at noontime,
but how much more volume does
that increase the ocean by?
What is there to be done,
if nothing works at all?
Nothing staves?
poem by Stan Petrovich
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The Bursting Bladder
Can't hold it like I used to;
The pee is a dominant force of Nature:
(Emerson must have written about it someplace):
In high school I could traverse dry terrain aplenty:
Now it only becomes a poop in lieu!
Never part ways with the waystation (or you'll rue the day) ,
And when relieved, find the most pleasure outside of reproductive coherences;
Take little to heart outside of bodily functions;
Always, always know when & where to fart.
poem by Stan Petrovich
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Pan
A lilting melody accompanies me
Down the white-rock earthen path-
Played by Pan, half man,
And the air is an arc of rainbow drops,
With the forest smell pervasive,
The tug of gravity pushing my thighs;
The brunch underfoot of my creature company;
He scares me more than a little,
The cleft feet and all;
The rank putrid smell,
But at the town gate he blows a piercing f sharp;
Turns and disappears into the foliage;
Leaving me lonely again.
poem by Stan Petrovich
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The Sky Is Winking At Me Tonight
It is as if there is something
I must not know:
I quickly dig up my dogeared Kant
And search for an explanation-
It is all thete, if one goes deeply...
Our senses are blundebusses at best.
There are hidden forms, gossamer wings,
Are tangential eaquations,
We stupidly overlook.
I think - no, I say - that they walk among us,
Tripingly in laughter, and point
Out our absurd predelictions.
One cant find much
humor in being laugher AT.
But I do.
poem by Stan Petrovich
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Moodswings
With the Gorgon's head
Flush to my cheek,
Her ungodly breath
In my nose,
Whispering to me:
'Take the extreme I give you
And plunge it into your fellow man;
For they deserve no less.'
Like an arrow I shot out eyes with my eyes,
A spear, I controlled little lives.
Having changed now,
From a simpering fool
To the devil's tool,
My core is apple-rotten,
Misbegotten,
And all I require is forgiveness
For my tiredness,
Which is the Gorgon of moods.
poem by Stan Petrovich
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The Abyss
To test the 'Stare into the Abyss' bit,
Toroweap Point is a perfect place-
Hang your legs over a volcanic 3,000-foot drop,
And stare anywhere you like.
If you are firm in your commitments,
The Abyss will free you;
If you have low imagination,
The Abyss will drive you away;
If you are a great philosopher, poet, scientist, or musician,
The Abyss will nestle in your heart;
If you have drunk far too much wine,
You will become one with the Abyss.
poem by Stan Petrovich
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