by Warren Gaston | Nov 7, 2022
A day before the mid-election, I sit in my garden enjoying late warmth, as the last brittle leaves drift down. Suddenly a strong gust blows through the yard. A civic maple tree, bare of withered opinions, pitches toward the house, stays, then corrects, returns to...
by Warren Gaston | Oct 31, 2022
The rain cloud says to the river, you too need to be filled. The river says to the sea, you too need to be filled. The sea says to the rain cloud, you too need to be filled. The human says to the earth I need to be filled....
by Warren Gaston | Oct 27, 2022
A poet is one for whom the universe has waived its right to remain silent.
by Warren Gaston | Oct 23, 2022
This poem begins with licking a postage stamp which implies I wrote the letter before 1989, my moist tongue tasting the last postal glue, The friend I was writing to thirty-three years ago died ten years ago. The letter expressed the pleasure we took in the range and...
by Warren Gaston | Oct 22, 2022
Sitting in the steam room of the Chicago Athletic Club the Spirit of Calculation wafted through wet thick heat. Vapor enshrouded faces with sodden voices discussed the countable dimensions of the world. The earth is storage, want creating need, supply creating demand....
by Warren Gaston | Oct 15, 2022
We live in an age of expectancy, a hammer flung in a room of windows and mirrors.
by Warren Gaston | Oct 10, 2022
Now there are many big things, so many very really big things. You know them. I’ll list just a few: invasive wars, nuclear options, the Florida engulfing sea, hell’s heat in Tucson, fired western forests, waterless cities, dismantling winds. So many I hesitate to pet...
by Warren Gaston | Oct 4, 2022
In the afternoon, late, you slept in the trunk of a well-rooted dream. I tore apart time looking for a memory, found it, dropped it; a fish back in water, a seed on a sidewalk. During supper, we forgot what we were after, some kind of history we were expected to make....
by Warren Gaston | Oct 3, 2022
At the corner, I was ten, and my dog was waiting. I whistled a trilling call. An emotional muscular eruption, my dog raced across lawns, ears flying to leap a greeting into my lexicon arms. Since then, many times greeted, an ecstatic god or friend or tree wrangling...
by Warren Gaston | Sep 29, 2022
Through childhood I thought it was God’s imperceptibly caring hand: the close calls, the car skidding to a stop before the crossing train, the ladder tipping, then righting against the wall, the snarling dog turning inches from the rambling child, the tornado...
