Posts from the ‘Poetry’ Category

  • The Question

    January 10th, 2018 | Poetry | journalpulp | 4 Comments

    Wide awake at 4:00am and unable to sleep for the booming silence and the deep damage this silence has done to everyone, the duplicitousness all the way around — himself included — he rises naked from the floor on which his bed is made and sits down at the kitchen table. The pewter moonlight casts […]

    Read More

  • Autumn

    September 9th, 2017 | Poetry | journalpulp | No Comments

    Summer dies. The long days wane away. The heat in the sky melts like lead to liquid pools. The hills beyond are baked as white as clay. Now creep in the gentle autumn ghouls Trailing their silken shawls of a Lethe- an mist. Shadows warp, gourds enlarge. And now what is always there but not […]

    Read More

  • The Sudsbuster

    The Sudsbuster

    April 25th, 2016 | Poetry | journalpulp | 4 Comments

    He was one of the mellow, the soft-spoken, the tawny-haired — one who preferred to be alone. His name was Mark, a dishwasher at age 45. He was a drifter, a loner. He valued his freedom above all; dishwashing jobs he could always find. Our paths crossed and re-crossed at the Café Claire, where I […]

    Read More

  • Sweet William

    Sweet William

    January 25th, 2016 | Americana, Poetry | journalpulp | 1 Comment

    I My father laid-out flat on the mortician’s slab Looks purple and peaceless. He’s buried To the chin in starchy sheets. A small frown Is stitched into the middle of his brow, And his eyeballs are contoured roundly on each Eyelid. The floor crunches under our restless feet, As if the ground is eating, as […]

    Read More

  • The Grasshopper and the Cricket

    September 17th, 2014 | Poetry | journalpulp | 9 Comments

    On December 30th, 1816, the English poet Leigh Hunt challenged his twenty-one-year-old friend John Keats to a sonnet-writing contest. The subject-matter, they both agreed, would be “the grasshopper and cricket.” They gave each other fifteen minutes to complete their poems, and this is what they came up with: On the Grasshopper and Cricket — by […]

    Read More

  • Early Winter

    November 7th, 2013 | Poetry | journalpulp | 4 Comments

    The crystal blades of winter frost Have snipped the leaves that dot the field. The trees leak iron-black across The sky where evening swallows wheeled. A knifey light cuts deep and shows Leaves with their intricate designs Half sodden in the drifted snows, Beneath the moaning, deathless pines. And wind like water softly pours Over […]

    Read More

  • Autumnal

    October 12th, 2013 | Poetry | journalpulp | 7 Comments

    Summer dies, the long days wane away. The heat in the sky melts like lead to liquid pools. The hills beyond are as white as clay. Now creep in the gentle autumn ghouls, Trailing behind their silken shawls of Lethe- an mist. Shadows warp, gourds enlarge. And now what is always there but not Quite […]

    Read More

  • Kevin

    Kevin

    March 4th, 2013 | Poetry | journalpulp | 7 Comments

    My name is Kevin. I’m Kevin Mathew Haas. My last name does not rhyme with moss. It does not rhyme with floss. To say so makes me cross. Many regard me as the motherfucking boss. I enjoy a little of the sauce. In fact, my last name — Haas — rhymes with gauze. (This should […]

    Read More

  • View Of A Pig

    View Of A Pig

    November 28th, 2012 | Poetry | journalpulp | 1 Comment

    This was written by the late Ted Hughes, most famous, I think, for being the husband of Sylvia Plath: The pig lay on a barrow dead. It weighed, they said, as much as three men. Its eyes closed, pink white eyelashes. Its trotters stuck straight out. Such weight and thick pink bulk Set in death […]

    Read More

  • Autumn

    Autumn

    October 4th, 2012 | Poetry | journalpulp | No Comments

    Summer dies, the long days wane away. The heat in the sky melts like lead to liquid pools. The hills beyond are as white as clay. Now creep in the gentle autumn ghouls, Trailing behind their silken shawls of Lethe- an mist. Shadows warp, gourds enlarge. And now what is always there but not Quite […]

    Read More

  • Detail

    Detail

    July 13th, 2012 | Poetry | journalpulp | No Comments

    The cat eats the praying mantis By punching it to death, Pushing it with her paws, Playing soccer with it, Tossing it in the air, Carrying it around in her jaws And finally, when the insect Has no more motion or flutter, Chewing its green head off. — Karl Shapiro

    Read More

  • Boy At A Bridge: Spring And Fall

    Boy At A Bridge: Spring And Fall

    May 31st, 2012 | Poetry | journalpulp | 6 Comments

    Spring Watching the wind unwind off the river’s face Creates in him a feeling he can’t quite name. Intently he stared into a corrugated Pool of jade, hearing (but not) its musical Slop and heave, the sousing waves. On either side Of him, a corridor of cottonwoods flank the river Into its bight: like lime-green […]

    Read More

  • View Of A Cow

    View Of A Cow

    May 21st, 2012 | Poetry | journalpulp | 5 Comments

    Among Robert Graves’s best and most famous poems, “Dead Cow Farm” is in essence a war poem (Robert Graves served in WWI and saw heavy fighting) wherein his gentle cow symbolizes peace and calm. It is, I think, a strange and lovely little poem. Dead Cow Farm An ancient saga tells us how In the […]

    Read More

  • Forever Yours

    Forever Yours

    March 27th, 2012 | Poetry | journalpulp | 2 Comments

    He trudged into the desert, taking almost nothing with him but water and a ghost- ly old photo of a lady beside the ocean. That first night, he lay above a dry creek bed. Below, he heard vipers moving through the sand with a side-winding motion, and he did not sleep. He’d grown obsessed with […]

    Read More

  • The Truckdriver

    The Truckdriver

    December 26th, 2011 | Poetry | journalpulp | 8 Comments

    The trucker who lives next door is seldom home. He’s a long-haul trucker, he’s over-the-road. He earns good money and does not spend. There’s something ascetical about him, something well read and wise. He’s forty. His hair is long. He wears jeans and combat boots. Sallow and haggard, his face is handsome nevertheless. His willowy […]

    Read More