Submissions by jimhowe
POEMS AND SHORT STORIES
Poet Introduction
Keep knocking, and the joy inside will eventually open a window and look out to see who's there. from A Sunrise Ruby by Rumi
STORY POEM
Published
31st Jan 2018 10:02pm
31st Jan 2018 10:02pm
Iowa Town 1957
He snaps the metal flip-over buckles
on his golashes.
They squeak across the kitchen linoleum.
Hearty winds sway maple branches.
Thunder rumbles in from the fields,
riding the permeating odor of cow manure.
Water begins to run along the curbs.
The plastic slicker smells foreign
to the murky morning. He licks the back
of his hand to taste the sky.
A bus bringing the farm kids pulls up to the curb.
The flurry of yellow and black
bounces down to the pavement,
scurries into the school.
It can attend...
on his golashes.
They squeak across the kitchen linoleum.
Hearty winds sway maple branches.
Thunder rumbles in from the fields,
riding the permeating odor of cow manure.
Water begins to run along the curbs.
The plastic slicker smells foreign
to the murky morning. He licks the back
of his hand to taste the sky.
A bus bringing the farm kids pulls up to the curb.
The flurry of yellow and black
bounces down to the pavement,
scurries into the school.
It can attend...
507 reads
2 Comments
SELF POEM
Published
25th Jan 2018 7:01pm
25th Jan 2018 7:01pm
Well Sprung
In my seventh year I felt the urge
to capture the rustic acrobat.
I caught him in gentle grasses near the well.
He waited, cupped in my hands.
Antennae gathered signals from distant worlds,
cold eyes measured the texture of my skin,
armor glittered in the shadows of my fingers,
unanchored tent-poles twitched.
One like him leapt
from the open well
into the tall grass.
I held out my hand
straight as a diving board. He sprang
into a green arc. A parabolic escape,
cool to things left behind:
the...
to capture the rustic acrobat.
I caught him in gentle grasses near the well.
He waited, cupped in my hands.
Antennae gathered signals from distant worlds,
cold eyes measured the texture of my skin,
armor glittered in the shadows of my fingers,
unanchored tent-poles twitched.
One like him leapt
from the open well
into the tall grass.
I held out my hand
straight as a diving board. He sprang
into a green arc. A parabolic escape,
cool to things left behind:
the...
418 reads
3 Comments
STORY POEM
Published
25th Jan 2018 1:22am
25th Jan 2018 1:22am
The Empty Bird Feeder
At three o'clock in the morning the bodhisattva
tiptoes through the kitchen. He treads
on crumbs from his supper.
Ants roam in the pantry.
Thunder flutters in from the Dakotas,
tangos with the whirlpool of thirst:
angel wings tremble and flicker on the black horizon.
He hears the ants roaring. He spreads
butter on a piece of bread,
tastes the enzymes mixing with proteins,
turns into the wren outside the window -
He pecks at the small seeds, expecting rain.
tiptoes through the kitchen. He treads
on crumbs from his supper.
Ants roam in the pantry.
Thunder flutters in from the Dakotas,
tangos with the whirlpool of thirst:
angel wings tremble and flicker on the black horizon.
He hears the ants roaring. He spreads
butter on a piece of bread,
tastes the enzymes mixing with proteins,
turns into the wren outside the window -
He pecks at the small seeds, expecting rain.
372 reads
0 Comments
STORY POEM
Published
23rd Jan 2018 2:13am
23rd Jan 2018 2:13am
First Steps
Babysitting my granddaughter.
Wednesday. Three o’clock. I'm on the couch,
back of my head on the arm,
my feet point upward at the end.
My granddaughter stands at the couch near my head.
She takes three steps toward the toy box,
falls on her butt and gets up without a glance back.
She does this again and, at the toy box,
picks out a plastic giraffe to chew on. I fall
into a trance. It's 1969 and I'm watching TV
with the planet.
A foot, then another, procedes from the capsule.
A bloated suit floats onto the...
Wednesday. Three o’clock. I'm on the couch,
back of my head on the arm,
my feet point upward at the end.
My granddaughter stands at the couch near my head.
She takes three steps toward the toy box,
falls on her butt and gets up without a glance back.
She does this again and, at the toy box,
picks out a plastic giraffe to chew on. I fall
into a trance. It's 1969 and I'm watching TV
with the planet.
A foot, then another, procedes from the capsule.
A bloated suit floats onto the...
406 reads
2 Comments
STORY POEM
Published
22nd Jan 2018 1:34pm
22nd Jan 2018 1:34pm
Bitsy
small strider on a fine filament
barely wider than a thought
graceful glider dropping to the floor
she prides herself in catching all her friends
and eating them forthwith
their bitter taste is what she craves
the local fly saloon cuts short its hours
when tough Brown Bitsy comes to town
the thuds of windows slamming
jars her nerves in the gray afternoon
her bite inflames the human ankle
it burns a vivid red
without her friends
and with a useless girdle
the lonely spider hides herself again
barely wider than a thought
graceful glider dropping to the floor
she prides herself in catching all her friends
and eating them forthwith
their bitter taste is what she craves
the local fly saloon cuts short its hours
when tough Brown Bitsy comes to town
the thuds of windows slamming
jars her nerves in the gray afternoon
her bite inflames the human ankle
it burns a vivid red
without her friends
and with a useless girdle
the lonely spider hides herself again
413 reads
0 Comments
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