Two Poems

Poetry
Bill Yarrow


Photo Credit: J.A. Alcaide/Flickr (CC-by-nc-nd)

Collect Enough Fragments, You’ve Got Yourself A Poem

1.

The sun’s corona. Empty boxes
near the firehouse.

Red birth.
A bird’s lost wing.

2.

The bitterness of littleness.
Apples in a pile.

Early love.
A spider, swinging.

3.

A father’s harshness.
Twelve bills unpaid.

Leaves in a crevice.
A dream unwrapped.

4.

The future.
Its dizziness.

Christmas cookies.
A dollhouse all alone

 

Thirteen Syllable Poem Ending With A Line From K. Balmont

I attended a college where fauna was worshipped.
There I studied Biology of Mysteries II.
I had written twelves pages re: mountains near Venice
after I practiced devices I learned from bad men.
I rehearsed a short play about demons and pirates,
once assembled an army of recalcitrant prigs.
Forsaking the reward for returning the holy,
I visited the outskirts of a village of thugs.
When I lived with a group of itinerant schmoozers,
I strangled my impulse to incinerate tinder.
I have traveled to cities emissionless, suspect,
where I started at laws of strict carnal compunction.
I predicted weather that interrogates safety.
I organized committees for the reuse of tin.
I once taught classes in repudiation of bosh.
I led dead seminars in The Reduction of Soul.
I saw in government a lacuna of talent.
I arranged for the drug that will parry emotion.
I opened a fissure in the magma of thinking.
I had learned to ensnare the vague shadows far straying.

pencil

Bill Yarrow, Professor of English at Joliet Junior College and an editor at Blue Fifth Review, is the author of Against Prompts, The Vig of Love, Blasphemer, Pointed Sentences, and five chapbooks. He has been nominated eight times for a Pushcart Prize. Email: bill.yarrow[at]gmail.com