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Stan Petrovich

Off to Maine to Live in the Land

No stopping now:
Interdiction pricks.
One more poem for all,
Read about chopsticks.

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Freefall

the bouncing
of garbage
in a too-warm wind
slave of the street
i collect it
it is ugly either way
boxes bottles plastic bags

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Seascape Dream

It is not the moon I know;
So it is a false lunar bridge
Above my nose;
Dreams are the sad loafings of time
And entity, identity.

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Starstuff I

We are starstuff,
That supernova deriving my being, my feeling,
Will remain long enough
For me to wander wood and shore;
Then I will die,
And be no more.

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I, Morphed

It IS growing hotter;
The sheets are soaked,
Feeding feathers.
I awake,
Go to the mirror
And peer therein.
A mass of foliage,
Wild and white,
Blooming eyes.

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Bury The Night

sense it coming under the door
the feelers of icy night
running lascivious fingers through short hair
like little winds and breaths
my cranium their catscan
my eyeballs but glowing targets

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Greed, the Common Factor

All that you clutch
You will lose:
You have to.
All that you think you own
Is not yours:
It must be lost
For it is a mere vision.
And then your hurt
-Yours-
Is real, is it not?
No decision.

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Wonders of the World

And why do you suppose
The World so plainly deposed
Its so-called wonders?
I say it was because they
Predisposed the Earth for betrayal,
Like the husband who cheats
Predicts his own divorce.

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Dead of the Day

The palo verde bugs screeching
In some unseen green tree
Near a dry wash
The heat simmers the air at 112 degrees
Sand hovers in a man's shoes
And his death looms like the little
Green worm crawling up his bare leg

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Jason and the Stony Argonauts

Jason was one with the Ram,
Who took his Argonauts to sea,
From Colchis,
To seek the Golden Fleece,
The perfection of sunlight
Streaming off the waves.
Funny, today I can find it easily:
We have come a long way.

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