Poems
Original Poetry by Warren Gastona sunny day
a sunny day is incomplete without morning fog without noon sirens blaring the riskiness of time without six o’clock news declaring unoriginal sins without earth’s rotation sending the sun toward night without the moon reminding us there is light still
What Is Poetry?
What’s the difference, let’s say, between a poem and a recipe. Both feed. Or a brochure on cool spots in Cleveland some funky local thinks visitors should see. Poets suggest different ways of seeing. How is Dr. William’s red wheelbarrow scribbled on a grabbed...
Absolute
I do not utter the word ‘absolute.’ Don’t like it. Don’t use it. Don't dream it. Nothing is absolute. Absolutely nothing~ -nothing without limitation -nothing unbounded -nothing unrestricted -nothing absolutely absolute Facts are absolute but need interpretation....
A Short List
A short list of people who were never born, not conceived, not dreamed up, not a gleam in someone's eye. Romulus Baird Laurel Frankenstar Bertram Bacardus Willy Simgrip Ivor Pollingham Missy Darman Hans Harlow Renee Tussore Tuzla Niderstill Rosa Effel They will never...
Mother Lode
July 5, 1955 11:30 p.m. The house was hot. I couldn't sleep. I got out of bed. My father was in his study with the fan on. My mother was nowhere to be found. She was sitting on the steps of our front porch. I came out and sat down. No clouds. No moon. A blazing...
Loving Cat
The cat was loved. She did not know the verb love. Nor the 4 letters including 'v' & ‘l’. She was unfamiliar with the concept of affection. As a concept. Tactility was her medium of exchange. A touch. A tone. Food in her bowl. She rubbed against my leg....
Truth be Told
You’re not going to believe a word of this, not a word, although it’s true, sort of. I was told this by a man who sometimes lies. We all lie a little, sometimes. We say what’s true is false. We say what’s false is true. Not always. Sometimes. What I’m telling you is...
In Praise of Nouns
All the verbs in the world could not eliminate the need for nouns. Nouns sit, stubborn in their meanings, bricked up against the winds of change. They are not what they are but the names of what they are not. They are words. Not cars. Not bowling balls. Always, Nouns...
Stacked Stones
In my garden there is a stack of stones. I worked to balance them weeks ago, steady handed, one upon the other. On the apex, a piece of blue glass crowned with a gold painted pebble. I expected to restack the stones each day, assuming the poise would not survive night...