Martin Willitts Jr
I have been offering a local poetry and art contest, and the winners will be displayed inside local buses. It is getting closer to be finished. The displays are being printed, and I offer a free booklet of all the winners.
Geese join in convergence —
an arrow pointing the way
over immense distances,
announcing their parting
or their triumphant return —
when two rivers merge
into a narrowing, into
oneness, this is a convergence
like a marriage can be —
when the sun is molded onto the horizon
before separating, and before then,
the universe was converged
into a zero-countdown,
then exploded outward
and eventually will contract
back into a singularity.
Until then, geese switch leads,
rivers and the sun bring what is next,
and my wife converges into my arms.
No one knew where he lived,
but he’d come into town, greeting everyone
like he’d knew them his entire life,
telling jokes as old as sin
and laughed loud enough, it’d echo off the verandas.
No one could guess his age,
but his beard could have tripped him up.
He looked like a tramp.
His loose pants had more holes than swiss cheese.
He never looked like he ate anything
except his own shadow.
He knew the short-cut to invisible,
and he only appeared when no one expected him.
You’d have better luck holding mist than finding him.
Just when we’d thought we’d seen the last of him,
there he was, laughing like a crow.
Just when we thought we’d had enough of him,
he was gone, and we noticed we missed him.
There is such a concept as not having enough.
My foot says it is a pomegranate; foolish toes.
It is almost human, wanting to conjure the impossible.
I can’t talk sense into them; I’ve tried,
but they just wiggle at me.
They lamented the by-gone days
when my parents played “this little piggy.”
My feet regret the time, prehistorically,
when they were webbed like a duck.
My feet protest whenever they are enclosed in shoes.
They get strange notions that go to my brain.
Now, my head claims it is a watermelon.
© 2017 Martin Willitts Jr
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