At the Hospital Entrance
by ROBERT A. DAVIES
The chunky dark haired man
old from work and worry
how to live on next to nothing
sits by a tiny dog
caresses it, whispers
He sits outside the hospital entrance.
His wife is dying
as he waits to hear
whether she has days or months to live.
This patient dog is all he will have
and that is something.
He will have bills,
they can confiscate nothing more
the bankers and other big-time criminals.
Maybe he will find that pot of gold
at the edge of the American horizon
find the city housing they promised
and, yes, the social security check.
If he can’t take the dog he will live in the forest.
For years he has seen others,
wondered how they came to that.
Robert A. Davies lives in Portland, Oregon. He can be reached at email@example.com.
Hung Out to Dry
by KEMMER ANDERSON
I hang out laundry on the line to dry.
Women at Damascus Gate sell clothes pins.
At home the unmatched sock distorts the eye.
Spread-winged hawks spy our chickens from the sky.
Their binocular eye needs no man’s lens.
The laundry on the line may now be dry.
Hungry red shouldered hawks begin their cry.
Rooster and chickens scatter through their pens.
At Homs artillery distorts the eye.
Olive skin children clothed in shrapnel die.
Russian tanks clank out martial disciplines.
The doctors need towels and sheets to dry
Up blood, cover wounds, expose a sad lie
How tyrants grip their power in lions’ dens
And growl out orders that distort the eye.
Through undivided air MIG’s dive and fly
On targets picked by a rule of villains
Who hang out their country to dry and die
With suicide bombs that distort the eye.
Kemmer Anderson can be reached at firstname.lastname@example.org.
The Death of Shelley
by MAXWELL CLARK
“for ecstacy is a kind of death.”
–W.B. Yeats, The Philosophy of Shelley’s Poetry
Death, life, death,
Death alive, and dead
Life in death,
Death in life, in living
Deathly, and alive,
But for death,
Its own death, dying
Of life dying, dying
So life lives, alive,
Dying, to die,
Dying to death,
To be death, as
Too alive, life dies,
So too life,
After life, after life,
Lives alone, alone living,
Life to life, life as life,
Dead to death.
Maxwell Clark is a poet, musician and painter living life alive in New Haven, CT, USA.
Editorial Note: (Please Read Closely Before Submitting)
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To submit to Poets Basement, send an e-mail to CounterPunch’s poetry editor, Marc Beaudin at email@example.com with your name, the titles being submitted, and your website url or e-mail address (if you’d like this to appear with your work). Also indicate whether or not your poems have been previously published and where. For translations, include poem in original language and documentation of granted reprint/translation rights. Attach up to 5 poems and a short bio, written in 3rd person, as a single Word Document (.doc or .rtf attachments only; no .docx – use “Save As” to change docx or odt files to “.doc”). Expect a response within two months (occasionally longer during periods of heavy submissions).
Poems accepted for online publication will be considered for possible inclusion of an upcoming print anthology.
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