Thursday, April 12, 2018

New poem by Carter Billis


The blankets I’m wrapped up in
Keep my fingers from turning blue
But true warmth is unattainable
If I’m here without you.
I reach for you occasionally
As if I’ll be able to feel you breathing
And you just rolled over in courtesy
Since you were snoring rather loudly.
If I saw you there next to me
I would want to wake you up,
Not just to disturb your sleep,
But because I liked it when we would stay up and talk.
Now I get excited and go to shake you,
But the only thing I find next to me is my sheet,
Not as soft as the touch of your skin
And nowhere near as warm as you would be.

Thursday, April 5, 2018

Literature should mean something ...


a man
walking down the street
looks up to see
wheeling in the air         looks
up to see a billboard plastered
with black letters.
                                    BIRDS LIKE ME
says the billboard, and

a pigeon lights on it.

                                    Cornelius Eady


(Birds like me is the theme for April for submissions to Waterways:  Poetry in the Mainstream.   This year the themes are all taken from poems by Cornelius Eady.)

Wednesday, March 21, 2018

Joanne sends link to How a Poem Happens blog.

Joanne Giannino sent a link to another poetry blog.  Check it out.  This entry has a long interview with academic poet Robin Becker following her poem Hospice.
Joanne Giannino

Monday, March 12, 2018

Another nice one from Carter!

Our Carter

Not Yet

I sit in bed all day
Schoolwork never done
Head always filled
With thoughts I can’t explain
But that’ll never change
So I’ll just keep writing
Nothing and everything
‘Til the pages of my notebooks are covered in stains
Just like the sweatpants that I’m always wearing.

Thursday, February 22, 2018

Carter Billis
by Carter Billis

String tied tightly around my wrist
My thoughts float loosely in the wind
Enclosed in a safe of latex.
Can’t get too far from me
I could lose touch with myself
But can’t get too close
I could lose touch with reality
I’ll keep them hovering at about ten feet Hoping nothing comes to pop them
when I’m not looking.

Wednesday, February 14, 2018

A Valentine for a piece of wood, Sylvia Manning

Mesquite Angel

“Angel: the candle that leans to the heart’s north.”
é Char, Leaves of Hypnos #16

Sitting one, spine straight, head high, proudly
facing due north, true as compass assurance,

anyone can see
you’re only of oldest mesquite tree
broken roughly, quite, its largest limb
wherein you dwelled these decades

until man in machine raised
its wide snout to break you roughly out,
blood red, anger in your bark-
created head and crown
audible even in awful noise
of machine going on to tear away
the other limbs and huisache.

Jagged sharded wood,
splintered hood of your headpiece
pointing to clouds above new caliche,
skirts swept as if side saddling
a mount beneath to bear you

wherever an angry angel
deems she must go
before they bring the chainsaw,
the blood moon, the fire.

2/14/18 after