Contents
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Doug Draime, US
 

 

 

 

Free Verse

 

The Fateful Summer A Young Poetry Editor Became
George M. Cohan Singing “Yankee Doodle”

 

he said he was
singing about war
up and down
the streets
of the college town
singing about war
on his bicycle
weaving through
summer traffic
past bottled
suntans and
palm trees
singing about war
pretending
to talk on
his cell phone
hustling
an old poet
out of
a greasy lunch
singing about war
simply because
war could be
sung
any ordinary
numb nuts
knows the
melody
but only a
few
singing about war
know
the lyrics

 

 

Spider Wisdom

 

I know the
spider walking
around on
my bare foot
    right now
knows more
about
the universe
than I do.
I can sense
it has
  more
  knowledge
in its
  tiny
pin-like
body
than in
my
190 pound
mass.
Here I am
  with my huge old
  melon head
and all these books
and the
internet
which can
access
all the
data accumulated
since the
ancestors of
this anglo blood


in my
veins
came storming
out
  from the
            caves and
jungles,
murdering

                      life.
While
the ancestors of
my other
   blood
( what is called )
the American
  Indian,
thousands of tribes
many
nations
  living together
with relatively
few
conflicts
peacefully
for
centuries,
honoring
all of creation
by their
gentle
gleaning
of the
earth.
Yet at
this
moment
  in my
body
  inside
  my head
it is
        brutal
and full of fear
the white man’s
blood
his dilemma
overwhelms me once again.
But the spider is alert
being a wise and resourceful
old arachnid
radar on
  swiftly jumps
off
my foot like a Swan Lake ballerina
and
disappears
under my
desk
before
I can
  murder
  it.

 

 

Silent Beats Of Me

 

The wonder of
my pulse,
the amazement
of every
beat of me.
All these
silent beats
of me.


Two fingers
on my wrist, the
silent beats
of me.
Marking
time for
the inevitable
facts of life,
which are
in reality,
facts of death


My every
breath
a gift
as I count the
silent beats
of me.

 

 

Watching The Pine To Fall

 

Am I the one to ask the question
Or the guy across the street
With a chain saw biting deep into a pine tree?
Words very often appear on wood
A highly refined bleached wood
Maybe this paper was once a pine?

Never mind, no words can compare to a tree
But any idiot can operate a chain saw

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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