by Warren Gaston | Oct 15, 2016
NOTE: This poem was written in 2011, posted on PBT 9/2015 but continues to be relevant to current events. If you were me, I’d be in love with you, but since you’re not, then only I will do. It is my greatest pleasure to be the nation’s treasure. With a citizen like...
by Warren Gaston | Oct 12, 2016
Paris, Montmartre, 10/7/16 On the Rue Saint Eleuthere I entered a gallery to ask the owner the way to Picasso’s le Bateau Lavoir*, the ‘laundry boat’ where Pablo scrubbed artifice from art in 1907. The man let fly directions with his hands, gesticulating –...
by Warren Gaston | Oct 11, 2016
Lyon, France 10/4/16 4:00 p.m. Four black teenage girls, hair sculpted in intricate artful braids, shoulder hip bump bounced along the cobbled Rue Sainte-Helene, their giggled voices ricocheting mouth to ear, exuberant for some reserved excitement I could not know and...
by Warren Gaston | Sep 26, 2016
Each day a man carries cut roses to the garden, a bouquet of roses to the garden, long stem roses to the garden, the garden of sticks and stones, the garden of stiff stalks, withered leaves, and black petals. What can we learn from the man who each day carries roses...
by Warren Gaston | Sep 23, 2016
Do not go far from the sea and from the earth. Do not go far from the moon and stars. Do not run, walk, through cloud rain. Do not build thick windowed walls against wind. Do not turn your back on the sun. Do not hide in Edison’s light from night’s shadow....
by Warren Gaston | Sep 21, 2016
Harold Sawkill wondered of the time. Not what time is, time’s very nature, not what causes time and why, but what time it is now, here, the hour, the minute, the seconds between meridians in this place. Harold looked at his watch. The time was noon exactly, sun high...
