Carelessly Precious God
Over and under
Rivers
Indian givers are
Precious liars;
And I always wondered
Where you
Disappeared to after
School,
Because it was as if
The day was ending
And my bullies
Existed in a void
While I awaited
Always for the return
Of the education of
A carelessly
Precious god.
poem by Bret R. Crabrooke
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The Ages of The Sea
If I passed away in
The ages of the sea,
Would you come
To remember me in
The trailer parks of
Your eyes-
As if I'd been sleeping,
Kissed by the rattlesnakes
Who've crawled on their
Bellies
Across
The mowed yards of
The retirement homes-
Because even if I do
Not exit now,
I am coming home to
Where once you lived.
poem by Bret R. Crabrooke
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If You'd Been My Sister
Would that you’d been born my sister,
Then you would already be happily married,
Free of the holocaust
When your mother left to be born again;
And you’d already be happily married:
Maybe you’d be considering me,
But you never would;
And I would be sitting here all alone,
As if I had never known you, if you’d been my sister.
poem by Bret R. Crabrooke
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The Laundry In The Clustering Aloe
All over the yard, I’ve placed my
Guns in the snow:
My mother is drying the laundry in the clustering
Aloe,
And Alma is somewhere close to here,
Gossiping to conquistadors while the
Airplanes fly so low to listen;
And the television breaks the news, and the
Kidnappers don’t look so bad:
So soon it will be Christmas, which makes all of
The vanishing children very, very glad.
poem by Bret R. Crabrooke
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The Vanishing Children
All over the yard, I’ve placed my
Guns in the snow:
My mother is drying the laundry in the clustering
Aloe,
And Alma is somewhere close to here,
Gossiping to conquistadors while the
Airplanes fly so low to listen;
And the television breaks the news, and the
Kidnappers don’t look so bad:
So soon it will be Christmas, which makes all of
The vanishing children very, very glad.
poem by Bret R. Crabrooke
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The Calls of A Sunny Winter
Laughing through the calls of a sunny winter:
The sun is leaping like a pony, rambunctiously stealing away
From any gods that it ever knew
In its young life, while last night I saw the brown reservoirs
Of your body sleeping underneath the Christmas tree,
And underneath the television;
And laughing, as it held a child on the couch of the Mexican
Household- so freely as if it was ours.
poem by Bret R. Crabrooke
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Or The Mail Man
Builders for these castles get their hands wet
And then sculpt the necks of parapets and heron:
They burn around the shoulders
Growing freckles like periwinkles as they step
Over the jelly-fish—
Their mother leaving them to be watched over by
The sea so she could go
Shopping with another man or the mail man—
In its innuendo the sun will burn,
The cloud with disappear—and the birds will turn.
poem by Bret R. Crabrooke
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On A Birthday Cake For Dying Rabbits
Storm clouds laughing over bowling alleys where
No one spends any real time in-
And the jaundice east blowing out the sick
Candles on a birthday cake for
Dying rabbits:
And this is my toy sent spinning out onto
The concrete field,
Covered with so much graffiti, like tattoos
Around your neck,
And the airplanes coming across you
Carelessly every night, but never having the mind
To look down and see.
poem by Bret R. Crabrooke
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To Be Awakened
Write in a cradle of luxury:
And wait for the traffic to pass by like
Beautiful lures
And housewives in their mouths:
Now I do not know which way I am going—
The concrete is so singular—
Airplanes touch-down maybe fifty feet
Away from me—
It is the year of the dragon, and she is my wife
As the angels fly into her,
Burning themselves—wishing to be freed,
As her hair darkens
Until it is finally time to be awakened.
poem by Bret R. Crabrooke
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Without Prestige
I am through performing
Grotesquely muted
Against this voyeuristic
Wall
As clear as a shallow sea
Prostrate before a
Warlord star.
A gift
For your casual soul
Window-shopping.
My heart is hung around my
Neck with your name.
Your pet,
My only trick is to
Disappear as you
Walk away
Holding whoever’s hand.
[...] Read more
poem by Bret R. Crabrooke
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