Double Down in the Jewel
The kid walked through the doors
thar slid open at his approach
No shopping cart
nothing but a forty-four
magnum in his jeans
He blew away
the myopic clerk
making change
at the ATM
On his way out
he paused for an old lady
pushing her cart
and an undercover cop
blew him away
You can see the bloodstains
on the brick wall outside
[...] Read more
poem by Michael Pruchnicki
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Flinging The F-word
I suppose some of you versifiers
think the use of the f-word
puts that extra zing
in your lines
You think the truth is as crude
and coarse as your writing is
You abandon all standards
convinced of your righteous
intent
You ignore Emily's rule-
'Tell all theTruth but tell it slant-'
Emily Dickinson's
metaphor for
her lack of directness
is the stuff of poetry
poem by Michael Pruchnicki
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Looking toward Bozeman
The peak is named after the native American
woman who accompanied Lewis and Clark
on their epic journey across north America
Sacajawea rises into the blue Montana sky
not far from Bozeman and the state university
where I studied outdoor literature once
Like reading for the first time a sonnet
by John Keats I looked over the peaks
toward Bozeman and knew I was home!
poem by Michael Pruchnicki
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OK, Let Ursus Major Speak!
Every time I read something
by a guy named Hemingway
I marvel at his taciturnity!
He says it all in little space
while others go on and on
like that Irish guy from Dublin!
As a second generation grizzly,
I favor William Faulkner who wrote
about Mississippi folkways!
Of course the guy who takes the cake
was a man who knew the trails
and byways of real wilderness - Jack London!
poem by Michael Pruchnicki
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Rear Echelon Combat
Far from high velocity rounds zinging
overhead, rear echelon MFers type
up the morning reports and casualty
lists from Company A on a hot day.
They swat pesky flies and sweat
in air-conditioned pyramid tents
wearing starched BDUs and
shiny jump boots laced just so
No CBIs here! Crossed rifles
are just a far-fetched metaphor
for three hots and a cot
in a combat zone -
no purple hurts here!
poem by Michael Pruchnicki
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The Legions Will Come
They will come
massed in ranks,
battalions and regiments,
young men and women enlisted
in a good cause
led by a bespoke
charismatic charlatan
preaching eloquently
about something or other
we can all believe in
they will come
for those unpatriotic citizens
who resist the clamorous crowds -
camps for re-education will spring up
like weeds in a vacant lot.
(Originally posted 16 Feb 2008)
poem by Michael Pruchnicki
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Bears in North America
No, not the hulking linebackers from Chicago
but the grizzly wandering its range in Alaska
meeting with a band of brother bears
and traveling to a campground
on the Yellowstone for a confabulation
on the best writers of the century!
They tore up the trees discussing the merits
of Ernest Hemingway and Scott Fitzgerald
leaving piles of scat in the meadows
when the subject of James Joyce
and stream of consciousness came up!
poem by Michael Pruchnicki
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Turnbuckles
Sometimes I think of the cargo holds on ships
with the metal covers secured by turnbuckles
to protect cargo in stormy seas
Even if the bow noses into towering waves
the covers hold and the ship won't sink
nor will the cargo shift
Then I read some of the posts that have
turnbuckles keeping secrets battened down
so that nothing leaks
There the metaphor fails in its comparison
because gossip and innuendo have a way
of eluding lock and key
poem by Michael Pruchnicki
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Panning for Gold on the Fortymile
I spent a summer panning for gold
on the Fortymile River at Tom's place
not far from Chicken
in Alaska
I remember the sunny days
and the hours scratching
in the cold river
The dark waters yielded
little but chicken-feed
specks of ore
separated from river sand
by centrifugal machines
powered by gas
chitty chitty bang bang
and a handful of bright
stuff I culled
[...] Read more
poem by Michael Pruchnicki
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Schoolboys In 1939
Once I saw a black & white photo
taken by a Japanese tourist
of London schoolboys
walking briskly to grammar school.
No planes over London yet,
although German troops were blitzing
through Poland that September afternoon,
and Warsaw schoolboys were
running pellmell to bomb shelters,
Jew and Christian alike.
Grainy photos taken on Polish soil
by news photographers
were of victims dead and dying.
The photo of English schoolboys
was of victims yet to be!
poem by Michael Pruchnicki
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