четвер, 16 листопада 2017 р.

L.G. Corey - Three Poems


L.G. COREY is the author of four books of poetry -- Sausalito Poems, Rats' Alley Poems, The Kalidas Verses and Shards of Glass -- all brought out over the past years by the British book publisher, Platypus Press, Ltd. (Larry just finished a fifth collection, 85 Meaningless Poems, currently looking for a publisher.)

His works also have appeared in Right Hand Pointing, Rogue Poetry Review 2015, Kairos, RAUM, FUG.UES, Chaffey Review, Empty Sink, Unlost : A Found Poetry Review, Dead Snakes, Corvus Review, The Literary Commune, Danse Macabre (France) , Kalyna Review (Ukraine), Hot Tub Astronaut (Scotland), California Journal of Poetics, Red Savina Review, Chaffey Review, Poetry Pacific, Empty Sink, Snapping Twig, Screech Owl and others.



***
1. BLANK PAGE

what the hell is?
what the hell?


what the hell is
what?


that.
this.
these.
those.


(dat dis dese dose)


rapping tapping on
my bedroom door,
my kitchen door,
the closet door,
the cellar door,


anybody home?! anybody home?!”
it says it says.


just the wind it says,
just the wind.


nothing more.
.

***
2. TRINITIES
by lgcorey

three on a match
sidewalk crack
broken mirror

shadow, lost.
reflection, lost

also soul,
lost lost lost

in threes.

three shards of glass,
three sidewalk cracks,
three lighting the match

one two three
three two one.

now leave this place;
the work is done

*** 
3. THE UNMOVED MOVER

The shadow in the woodshed
sees without being seen,
hears without being heard,
touches without being touched.

The shadow at the top of the stairs,
the shadow in the closet,
the shadow gathering dust in the attic

scratch at doors,
snuffle behind closed doors,
spy through keyholes of locked doors.

They smell our thoughts,
taste our feelings,
suck our eyes.

“Bring out your dead!”

they cry from the woodshed,
from the top of the stairs,
from behind the locked doors.

“Bring out your dead!”

they call from the attic.
(Gathering dust in the attic.)

And they write on the mirrors,
they write on the walls,
they write on our foreheads,

while we smile in our sleep

and the cracked egg falls.

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