If she changes
the name, she believes
she can be transported
from the gated community
of this poem
into a field
of flowers
she’ll call
wild—not weeds
Author: Arambler
Wind Sock
No matter how
he bends, he doesn’t forget
to smile. I wonder
what you would think
of him—but you won’t tell
because you’re dead.
You wouldn’t dance—just nodded
your head. That lilt. The music
was what mattered most to you,
then nothing
but the bottle
beside your bed.
Then there was only one way
out of the ICU. No more
going in either direction
on a boulevard with car dealership
wind socks to draw you in.
Circular Function
Freedom is
solitude by choice is
a walk through
a sculpture garden
on the way
into the woods is
art trails off
into nature in a hum
is a sustained container
that tickles
the soul
is freedom.
Loopers
Hairless brown ones
drop from urban tree branches
to clutter the sidewalk
with warning signs. Nowhere
near the Jersey Shore,
memories fall harder
and evaporate to become
invisible sagas
no one wants
to repeat. I would give
anything to see that condensation
on bark again.
Arch
A no loitering sign hidden
from view makes as much
sense as laughter
on demand. Linger
long enough and face
muscles begin to twitch.
That young man
wears his hair like a prohibition
era starlet—or
is it harlot he dreams of
becoming? She could not
pencil in her own
brows if her essence
depended on it.
Mills—No Barns
No part of this story begins
in a barn. Stalks
of rhubarb become
site non-specific
art in the right
urban hands. A brand
name that uses the color
green may harm
more than tired eyes. Plato
was a man
before a town. The river
will flow with or without
its name spelled
out in blue
on a map
with mills—no barns.
Small Rain
It spits
as it sings
of spring. She could start
the season over. Forget
the loud neighbor’s death
threats (sarcastic or not),
a father’s descent
into absolute silence,
a coworker’s suicide
that stings
the skin of all who knew
of him
but never got to know
who he was.
Nothing Green about the Gold She Sees
Who digs deepest doesn’t always get
to keep the gifts. It helps
for the poet to be
beautiful. Does she believe the homeless
man who shouts
“those are gorgeous legs”? What does she have to lose
now in this 49th year? Maybe earrings—but
nothing else. Jewelry
makes her anxious. When
will the wanting stop?
She had a yellow dress once—
it was too much.
Lyric Lingers
If she could hide
at the back
table in an alley
café, listening
to “Brandy” piped in
from somewhere
behind a bar, she would be
no closer to reaching
you and your unspoken beauty
in paint. Would still not know how
to say hang straight.
No Back Pocket
She makes it hard—purse
strap worn across the chest
NYC style. Jacket to camouflage
it when hung on the back
of a café chair. To admit to the grief
of knowing one who has chosen
to check out. What choice? Practice
makes perfect as she drifts
back and forth
between stages once again. No two
alike—no prediction
when acceptance might spill
onto the round table with change.
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 