Poetry

A poem begins as a lump in the throat, a sense of wrong, a homesickness, a lovesickness.—Robert Frost


HAY IN WINTER                                                                           

February driving the 401 between
Kingston and Toronto, rows
of barrel-shaped bales of hay
the size of Volkswagens
line the deeply snowed fields
like white tombstones in
a white graveyard guarding
relics below, generations old.
Moguls on an Olympic ski run
leveled by some mysterious hand.
Geological oddities like
rock outcroppings
in the Colorado Rocky foothills.
Or maybe just breakfast
for Holstein heifers come
spring, just after early
morning-hour milking.

(Poetry Quarterly, 2016)


GIRL IN AIRPORT IN THE BROWN SWEATER

Moist eyes gaze past
fast food kiosks,
past milling chldren flying
paper airplanes, playing
paper-scissors-rock,
her ears deaf
to the din that drives
most to distraction.
Her nose
is slightly rosy
and her eyes
she blots with her napkin,
and like a lab
emerging from a lake
she tosses her head
to shake off sadness like water.

(Poetic Hours, 2007)

NEXT

© Greg Stidham  2016