Martin H. Levinson
I write poetry because it helps me make sense of the world around and inside me. It piques my interest in the past and prods me to think more about the present and the future. I find the act of writing poetry joyful and self-reinforcing, even when the content of my poems is about sad or traumatic events. Please visit my website: martinlevinson.com.
A Butter-Side Down Day
A butterfly flutters by a guy playing
a flugelhorn in Fribourg, gets trapped
in its conical bore. Sixty-seven Shia,
are car bombed, Anwar Province. A
dog bites me, upper thigh, walking trail,
Forest Park. If a tree falls in the
forest and hits you on the head
does it make a sound after you
crash unconscious to the ground?
The Department of Love’s Labor’s
Lost says alliteration can be
dangerous to your health.
Round and round and round
we go where we stop, oh no,
rear ended, Long Island Expressway,
not my fault. An untouchable is
gang raped, Indian subcontinent,
as cows look on from the road
less traveled, tourists head out
of New Delhi. A bird overhead poops
on my last nerve. I hope the dog that
bit me was vaccinated for rabies.
©2016 Martin H. Levinson