Poems
Original Poetry by Warren GastonThe Bruise
A fist of words, gloves off, sock the eyes of the ear & the ears of the eye. The punched mind jerks not deflecting to safety but reflecting on what can be learned from the bruise.
My World War
Something was over. The war, I was told. People were happy, and I was two. Seventy nine years later, I look through family photographs, one, me on my grandfather’s porch, ringing a bell in a black and white world. Whatever war was, it was good it was over. I was right...
A Sort of Psalm for Our Time
Can we sing a familiar song in a time we have made unfamiliar? I. insidious pudding melded merge blend vanilla bland soft to taste sweet too not toothy luxuriously smooth no bite II. food fast chains overarching arches meat as king ichthus sandwiches sacrificial...
What I Noticed on the Beach
the earth - dense enough to bear the sea the sea - dense enough to bear the sky the sky - dense enough to bear the bird the bird - complex enough to bear earth, sea, and sky
Talk to Me
A poem is a voice in search of a conversation.
Words Working (7)
A fist of words, gloves off, sock the eyes of the ear & the ears of the eye. The punched mind jerks not deflecting harm but reflecting on what can be learned from the bruise.
Sunset
The fiery sun drops without sizzle into the Western sea, the end of another illusion called day.
Shores
The ocean is full of rain. The rain is full of ocean. Yet, I can distinguish one from the other. rain falls, waves roll, toward vertical or horizontal shores.
The Poet
At age twelve, I wanted to be a poet. What does it take, I wondered? To be a poet. A real poet, I mean. One with dirt on his shovel to dig. Uncovering.