Poetry for People
Who Don't Read Poetry. Also, Other Stuff.
Chris Spark
"You definitely have something going here: the quick take, unexpected turn-arounds, lots of playfulness... delightful in many instances." —Billy Collins, former US Poet Laureate
Three Haiku
Pelicans traverse
the gray expanse, like covered
wagons moving west.
The moon fell into
the brook behind our cabin
where its pieces shine.
You can be the wind
today. I'll be the brook—that
small one most walk by.
Dream Mink
He owns the house.
He keeps the women.
I sneak inside
and meet them.
They like fun
and they like me
but we must not
be caught.
One is in
the form of a mink.
She and I
fall in love.
As we make
our escape, she tells me
I’ll sleep with you
only once
we’re married.
That’s not the way
I normally roll
but I’ll roll
that way now.
I don’t even know
what she’ll look like
when she turns into a woman.
We make it out.
I run down
a small hill on the lawn.
She’s at the top, behind,
when suddenly I turn.
Wait, I say.
If you come with me
will you let God
do everything?
I mean,
take care of it all?
She pauses.
(Most women
wouldn’t agree.)
I wait
for her reply.
‘Yes,’ she says,
‘I love you,’
then comes
bounding down the hill.
Hindu + Buddhist =
She’s a waitress
in New Delhi.
Her t-shirt says
IMPERFECTLY PERFECT.
She was Hindu.
He was Buddhist.
They married
not by arrangement,
but for love.
No big wedding. No gifts. No family.
Two friends
witnessed.
Sometime later, feeling low,
she finds peace
with a friend
in a church.
Her family disapproves.
She becomes confused.
She prays for guidance.
In the church
with her friend
she finds peace again.
Something
inside
feels right
for her.
Why are you a Christian now?
“Because I am in love with Jesus.”
Her English is imperfect.
You’re supposed to say,
“Because I love Jesus.”
But I swear she says it
perfectly:
Her smile could split
the clouds apart.
Her eyes are dark
with diamonds inside.
The Authentic Voice
I wrote, “Great to hear from you,”
but it wasn’t, so I deleted that.
Then I wondered whether it was wonderful.
No. That would also be a stretch.
There were no sparkling lights,
no soaring feeling in the chest.
This person deserved the truth.
Perhaps it was cool.
“Cool to hear from you.”
What does that even mean?
One thing I knew for sure:
It wasn’t awesome.
They were not God or the Grand Canyon.
It was good to get that one off the table.
I briefly considered “swell,”
thinking it might be endearingly quirky,
or ironic, or something like that.
But “swell” would require either an explanation,
or yet further, more overt quirkiness
to make sure they didn’t just think I was weird.
Finally, I settled on “good.”
Surely it was plain old good to hear from them.
But by then, it no longer was.
rain gathers, softens
rain gathers, softens
and spills, while
truck drivers sing
in their lonely cabs
and you,
bending down now
to gather it all
in a mason jar
what if we treated
everything
as extra—
as if our souls
had come to earth
the way
you and I
would go to a fair.