I was in Ohio during Kent State and my poem, "The Misfit Generation: In Memory of the Kent State Four" was a reflection and historical over-glaze of the tragedy, Sixties, an uncertain youth and questioning individual, I was always trying to find out who I am. My first book, Looking for an Eye, should explain my searching. My moniker is “red brick poet.” The city is in my skin. . Someone was associating themselves with an animal; I did the same and decided on “a caring owl,“ My book, Wounded World deals with the hurt in the city and my place in it all. I have been editor of the Schuylkill Valley Journal since 2001.
FACES WITHOUT NAMES
Getting off the el
they come here
to the darkness slipping
In and out of cars
No one knows them by their names
Names without faces
Faces without names
Strangers eyeing strangers
looking to get a fix
They get what
they are looking for
Then they fade
to rooms and alleys
Many fall and can’t
get up The siren comes
Their heartbeat a flatline
The fire and the ashes
The ashes and the dust
JANUARY 1
The first day is a burden. I cannot celebrate this day.
Three years, my son lay on the floor
lost to the world of breath. Now he lives only in my mind.
Some say if they had to do it all over again,
they would have done nothing different.
I am not one of those.
If only …the cruelest words. I cannot explain
The continuum that is our breath.
Regret hangs on me like a leash.
The New Year always has it own reckoning.
The loss and silence speak too loudly.
I’ve brooded this and won’t stop brooding.
The summer and heat. The sweat and bees and praying mantis
that keeps staring on the fence. I do not know why this thing
is always there. The dust .
My son lies on the floor.
Both poems are from Wounded World.
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Cover art by Rob Kaniuk |
