RWB Workshop Poem of the Week—July 24

Poem of the Week 7/24/18

Della Rowland


Teterboro           

A plane bound for Teterboro airport may someday crash into my backyard,
onto my house, onto me and the cat,
onto the dense line of trees that forms the back property line
and the north-east corner where the picnic table and grill sit on the patio,
onto the side porch of the house, with steps
going down either side to both front and back yards,

which on that day will be in flames.

The white plastic fences, guaranteed for a lifetime, no painting required ever,
will melt,
curve concavely, coquettishly into my yard,
fold neatly into the burning fuselage,
which will blaze brightly,
as suddenly splendid as lighter fluid on charcoal
when a wooden strike-anywhere match
swiped across patio slate is thrown into the barbeque grill.

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RWB Workshop Poem of the Week—July 17

Poem of the Week   7/17/2018

Don Zirilli

A Message from Me and My Care Provider to All the Romeos

Dear broken jar of honey,
I’m writing from the savage sting
reflected in your cracking glass.

Dear desperate bugs

lighting up July,
my fireworks are all prescribed.

Dear love-starved wanderer,
I wrote the recipe for your tears.
I made them taste like ocean.

Dear empty room with slashing light,
I’ve got no space for cribs,
no paint for rainbows.

I’m a doctor of remaining.
My bedside manner
burned the beds.

Dear hands-on Casanova,
when you find out what it really means
to walk on air,

you’ll hold me as tightly as I hold you.

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