Poems
Original Poetry by Warren GastonAfternoon Stillheat
late afternoon stillheat gathers on the underside of grass leaves stillheat sinks in oak roots lingers in the labial folds of roses stillheat hides in bits of silicate shining quartz the ant carries the burden of stillheat on its back stillheat cools in the wake of...
BOXES
We live in BOXES. We BOX the earth, we BOX each other. We even BOX our bodies. We build a world of BOXES to contain - restrain – maintain – and then refrain – from climbing out of BOXES even when our BOXES BOX us in. Sometimes we think outside our BOX only to...
Vulnerable
The wren, nervous at the feeder, pecks looks pecks looks picks a seed of life and looks for lurking jays. feeding feeling not safe a jitter of glances.
Coming to Our Senses
“When coming to our senses, what senselessness do we leave behind.” Flavian Forte (1327-1242) The world of sense is nonsense, so the metaphysicians say. Yet when Plato felt a chill in the academy, he did not unroll a scroll. He put on a sweater.
DEEP
Everywhere you look is deep, the stone and flower are deep, as are the rambling ant and the menacing mosquito. On the corner of Elm and Main crossing traffic forces you to wait. You notice hands on a steering wheel of a car passing by another occasion for deep, seams...
In the Beginning
In the first chapter of Genesis, the Bible’s book of beginnings, God did nothing but wait. God lingered. God stayed alert for emergency. (God was curious to see what would emerge.) God noticed the stirrings of urgency, something needed to be released, unconstrainted,...
The Picnic
Friends on a lawn, in a woods, on a sandy seaside beach, in spite of roots, stony ground, irritating ants, itches, and scrap-thieving gulls, blankets are spread and a Rorschach of conviviality plops down, unfurls, expands. Friends, both old and young, each one both...
At Least a Trinity
To be yourself, you must be one. But which one? There are many. To be yourself, one must be two. Or more. Like God.
Righting History
Poets do not let history’s wounds heal too quickly or too soon. Those cavalier with historical facts only reinjure the wound. . Poets use no bandages, no casts or slings, no gels, unguents, or ointments, they pull scabs, scratch irritations, they use salt, not salve,...