Poetry

Spring 2009

 

 

Peter Schwartz

capsules and curses

may these playground serenades
seep into your grandchildren
like milk into their bones
since you have exiled me
in favor of your weather reports
and maps

because I will not describe the sky,
the hills, the snow, not sober
not here, not now
when there are notes to be sung
that can lift the dust
off climbing bars, slides
and swings

a hero? no.
you have killed such pretensions
but perhaps a foot taller than my shadow
as I set off a chorus of giggles
like fireworks, during your deepest opera
bang bang, you're dead.

you, the desperately aged
control the volume, but
that's no longer the applause
I seek, see: little hands grow
into big hands. perhaps
ones that will write poems
like capsules

like skyways
high enough to break your neck
until you look with respect.
for this there are no parachutes
but in fairness, I had
no tissues in MY playground —

just a small radio screaming
"rain"

(Previously published in the Taj Mahal Review)

 

rain myth

with deadlines
and a reverence for fountains
he waited for his difference
in the old way

dwindling out of necessity
into position

determined by idolatry and marvels
advancing towards the dispensary
like a germ

for another examination of the fiddlehead
another assent
by the unburied

he referred to this stage as
"fieldwork"

his last occupancy
pressed and navigated
stunned and decided

his twinges darkened
his hardships became a supplement message
a cachet

his world nullified
by a delicate sill
made capsular

a rift of the same

the drainage of octaves
applications and notices
into the lacuna

he was forever indebted to his love
of fountains, his hatred
of deadlines

(Previously published in Poetry Superhighway)

 

 

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