Understanding the void

We will not meet in blackness,
all bony and unzipped of self.
Rather, an endless green pool
will greet us.
The more we stare, the more
the color will slide
to a thin, veiled yellow.

Rising at the edge of the water,
delicate trees engulfed at their tips
in white budding blossoms of flame.

We will glide down to meet them.
The trees will shrink and grow giant.
The fire will not burn.
The water will not drown.

Mystery

Raising her rolling pin high, she dances,
unaware of the man with thick glasses,
sitting perfectly straight
in the kitchen chair.

The baby in his lap bats at the smoke
spilling from his nearly done cigarette.
She swings her hips, sings as she swings,
she dances. Unaware.

Reject pile

I do not see a lofty
university affiliation
attached to your bio;
I never wandered the halls
of your institution
making drunken mistakes.

Your writing is not
witty and enticing enough
to share at a fundraiser.
It certainly does not follow
a mode perfected in the '60s.

What makes you think
you belong in our pantheon
of arthritic professors,
dozing legends
and dear friends
who need the warmth
of a burnished flame?

Go start your own movement.
Twenty years down the line,
I hope we can talk.

Welcome to my poetry blog (The oldest game)

I'm 34, almost 35, and have written poems since the early '90s. Many of them were terrible. Many of the ones I write now are probably still terrible, but we don't need to go there. I will use this site to share my latest poems as I write them. If any of these poems interest you or resonate with you in some way, feel free to say hi. I'll say it first. Hi.

The oldest game

I hear the intellectuals
in the dim, brilliant room
clap with hungry abandon
at the sound the self-crowned poet
makes with silence.