The Moon's Admirer
Who can say where the weather goes
When it leaves this house, it jumps over
The rafters: an octogenarian,
An old hurdler,
Who has practiced all his existence
To touch the glowing belly of the lonely
Satellite:
The woman he saw casting her eyes
Through his window
While he was a teenager.
Then, young and eager, he still prayed
And faithfully competed for her,
And thought that by graduation she
Would know him,
And the secret roads he ran on through,
Where, between the interludes of clouds,
She cast her light down like scattered seeds
To feed the exhausted birds
Famished from trying to swallow her
Opulence to feed their young,
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poem by Bret R. Crabrooke
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I Still Want To Go Down On You, ...., Oh Well
What wonderfully warm suppliant:
Now that I am drunk, and probably shouldn’t
Be writing anything. Yes, I should shut up,
And look at pictures of you, down the well
Of high school, with your tawny legs,
Shaved and brown like the elbows of trees;
But, as you can see, I am writing anyways,
Even if you or anyone else is reading this.
If you do, it will make me laugh, now that everything
Is thoroughly maudlin: I am neither as ugly as I
Fear, nor as handsome as your drunken expectations
Might have hopes. I am drunk, and it is Halloween,
And I am thirty; and I am published, by the great
Philanthropic arm of the queen’s navy, and undoubtedly
You are making lovely eyes with your patrons, or
Whoever you are with. I love you, and I thought
About writing you and telling you that, but
I am not as stupid as you might hope, nor am I
Emily Dickenson holding to the arm of her newly
Procured husband as they are floating down the Nile,
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poem by Bret R. Crabrooke
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Oh So Sad and Clever Boy
I.
I’m not very smart, so for you
I have to be clever,
I can be a dolphin clapping in the surf,
You play coy and feed me pregnant tuna
Barefoot in the amber sands;
Up to your exposed knees-
A whole bucketful will slow me down,
And distinguish a gunmetal sleuth in the sunset.
I can be a boy again mind numbed on vodka;
I can set off a quarter stick of dynamite in the
Ruby courtyard, crack open the geode,
and draw your attention,
Smile bare-chested and pick a wild pomegranate,
Juxtapose it near the stigmata of my navel
Or I can play checkers on the green geometry of
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poem by Bret R. Crabrooke
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