Old Crow
old crow
papery
wings
no song
to sing
wind-
reckoning
oncoming
winter
as old crows
with papery
wings and
no song
to sing
must
poem by Paul Bamberger
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The Patriarch
as a boy he knew never to laugh on an island that never wept
an island whipped hard by the southern sun
where shepherds herded flocks to high pastures
and fishermen turned open boats to open sea
mornings he climbed the cliffs above the village
to where the sea birds wait out the night
from there listened to the splintered lyric of things such as they are
poem by Paul Bamberger
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N) Shadow Girl
shadow bent to machine among the many other working shadows is all she is
this girl
this shadow girl
and the prudent men at sundown pull their fedoras low and head home
midnight still at her machine
3 a.m. still at her machine
this girl
this shadow girl
bent to machine as we mean her to be
abandoned to the machinery of our new world order
this girl
this shadow girl
poem by Paul Bamberger
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What Of It
for want of it you never knew what sent so many to their death
what of it
for want of it you were never wounded by dream
what of it
for want of it you never screamed out into the night
what of it
for want of it you never walked among brutal silhouettes
what of it
for want of it you never heard the junkyard dog howl
what of it
for want of it you never dare round a corner never to return
what of it
poem by Paul Bamberger
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John Wednesday' Fatal Flaw
he was a man so possessed by a lack of meaning of
it brought him years of good fortune as poet of
an age that he could taste the nothing of
the secret being in the misdirecting of
the it of a thing so mysterious the people's misunderstanding of
became the metaphor for an age he had by the balls of
its lack of connotation of
so that he could spellbind simply by reputation of
but in the end this was John Wednesday's fatal flaw
poem by Paul Bamberger
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The Horse Cutter's Dream
like a meanness racing around an incongruity's slow burn the horse cutter's day ends
nothing but the slow dance of the swizzle stick makes for evening's fast times
where the drawn shade rattles whisper's whistle sweeps across a dream
one of these days i'll go home
down to where white haired men sit around warming their meanings on no meaning at all
where what is said is easy as crossing the eye of a storm
and so the horse cutter passes each day keeping to himself
keeping the teeth of his saw sharp
hambone hambone where you been
round the world and back again
poem by Paul Bamberger
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Mothers And Their Daughters
they struck him down hard early in life
he slaps me around plenty
i cannot leave
my daughter never cries
to feed my daughter
i will take on the whole lot of you
the young men howl
i am a mother in time of famine
my daughter dying at my breast
my husband wants a son
my first child a love child a daughter
a wedding to make it right
a family joke to keep me honest
they have a one child policy here
he took my first child my daughter
sold her to the americans
[...] Read more
poem by Paul Bamberger
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Grassroots
wars are rushed to conclusion to stay the people
where war's tragedy struggles not to be fools dance large among the miniatures
and call for peace
the beggar patiently suns in the light of those who once basked in their own
the circle tightens
boys are told they were born to the murder their fathers to take their mothers
become restless lovers
good soldiers
duck children duck and cover this could save your life one day
in this country by god we learn to read from left to right
you there in the back row
yes you
get your hand out of there
this very instant
a tiger enters a hut drags off a child to feed her litter
[...] Read more
poem by Paul Bamberger
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Cross Currents
in the beginning there was i'll show you mine if you show me yours
and she gave birth to a son who could sight read in any direction
the old huckster saw that her son and she had become as one of them
the arrow that flies in only the one direction crossed the sky above the garden
she took her son and by morning they were gone south into a land where the old
huckster dare not follow
the old huckster tipped his hat with a smile and moved on to other projects
but for her the days were long the nights not pretty
don't worry dearie the honeysuckle will soon be in bloom
then you will forget such garden dreams ever came to you
and her son became famous travelling the flat lands selling the notorious notions
from which the language of destiny flows
evenings found the two of them drinking in the park
poem by Paul Bamberger
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