Poems
Original Poetry by Warren GastonMore or Less
Already there was nothing, then more, much more. Then there will be less plenty less, even less, nothing again. The world wobbles its way through time, more or less, time after time, until the time comes when time is more than less, not even next to nothing, nothing....
All Day Long
In the morning the sun stretches in through the eastern window. All day long, the future becomes the present, the present becomes the past, all day long. In the evening, the sun slips out through the western window.
My Poem Is Underway
My poem is underway. It moves toward unknown destinations, in search of eyes, in search of ears. Like a message in a bottle adrift on the wavewide sea, my poem desires to be discovered. Trembling in a stranger’s hands, my poem works to shake loose a stubborn yet...
Repair
The house is falling down. Let’s paint the walls. There are termites in the attic which explains water in the basement. Let us decorate with pictures of sound houses, hanging blueprints and architectural renderings. The nails pound easily. Think of the strength of...
Horse & Bee
A horse grazes in a field among blossoms as a bee alights on a sun seed bloom. The horse sees a blur of translucent wings pass the brown window of her dreamy eye. The horse considers the way of the bee, its lightness, its floral life, its honeyed household in the...
Visual Plunder
Paris, France - October 2016 Looking through the window of a Paris tour bus, I see you you don’t see me as we weave our way through traffic around the Arc de Triomphe in opposite directions, west to east, east to west. I filch radiance flicked from your chin, pull...
Flowers of Evil
A Prose Poem While reading Charles Baudelaire's The Flowers of Evil in my garden, a tiny spider walked across a poem titled ‘The Jinx,’ I slammed the book shut. When I opened it, there was a miniscule red stain between “vita brevis" and "ars longa.”...
Lost Innocence
A Prose Poem I was three years old. It was spring. I was playing in the garden. I startled a mud toad under a green leaf. The toad leapt away. I wanted him to play. I hurled a stone and hit the toad, killing it. I ran to tell my mother. My mother cried. She was no...
Temptations R & D
A Prose Poem The devil is exhausted. He works hard. Mostly mental, but it is still hard work. He must produce new and more alluring temptations each and every day. He tests them out on his underlings. Some are tossed as ineffective and irreparable . Most are good...