Are we so wrapped
up in the cloud
of how words work
that we don’t stop to listen?
I pause at the end
of the debate and think
who could have been persuaded
by tirade and bluster?
Then find out when I wake
up on election morning.
A world of masses heard
the same words I did and absorbed
a completely different message.
But I’m working at getting better.
Copyright© J D DeHart 2017
JD DeHart is a writer and teacher. His poems have appeared at Gargouille and The Other Herald, among other places.
i was away a while, since last summer
‘s referendum. i have an
it was all leading up, then it was suggested that i wrote about
remember the repair shop? where they fixed the old phone.
she said it needed two hands, so she could not write a note
so quiet like
a loaf of rising bread
or a letter
to the condemned
while the dead trees
of silence spread
their naked limbs
like a willow by the water
someone’s empty bed
all I know
is this universe
is a swarm of stars
and the moon
that ancient stone
burning like a ship
takes my life
on a journey without me
deaf as sleep
cold as the black sea.
it came in pink tissue, crumpled. the glass.
she said that i may like it though it was
not good class, did not ring true. i said
i did and imagined an elixir, blue and
it has sat waiting, and being of a pleasant
#mood added the lead soldiers instead.
( i guess those be toxic if sucked steadily)
so here is the glass with the old clock
that chimes wrong and the photo of
my father in the war, behind.
thank you mary. it is your birthday soon,
then mine comes later.