Posted by ideomancer on Feb 18th, 2010 in poetry, Vol. 9, Vol. 9 Issue 1 | 0 comments
When the logarithms failed
to correlate boys hearts to
the moon. Mothers’ breaths
clenched taut in their chests.
Bobby I’s blues, when waxing
reflect gulls on the pond
flashing trout in scythe beaks
However, the calculations
won’t permit that the tides
seize eddies swirling
in young boys’ minds.
When full, boys do not ride high from depths
grasping sea-foam stolen from Stella on high.
They give no solace to the poet, rather
shaking and cracked, creviced veins burst along
asteroid pocked mouth, lips peeled and stretched
blackened around sickly pallor of their faces.
James D. Oliver will not leave his bed.
Any shade punctured with sunlight raises angry blisters
that burst and scab and burst and stitch and emit
dolorous sounds of orbit.
Despite this, astronomers claim through both stardust
and telescopes that stolid moon does not shift
when young Henry slips, falls, and on impact,
When philosophers failed
To disprove the moon
And to disprove boys’ hearts,
Cold weight of mothers’ terror
Waning in empty
yawn, a young Yehuda
or Pietro slips vacant
in brush outside
his father’s garage.
Curled there, bits of
apple in hair,
orange peel hands
Little swaddled Boys
rest on Mothers’ bellies
until they turn
Shef Reynolds is a Rhode Island native. He has been in a car accident, bike race, and staring contest. He has never been skydiving. Shef can be contacted at firstname.lastname@example.org. He says:
“Lunar Parable” was written to appease the harsh moonlight that streams over my bed. I’ve always considered the moon to be a vast primal entity better left in the canon of gods than diminished by scientific explanation.
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