by Bonnie Maurer
The Poet at Breakfast
sits down to his oatmeal
and looks outside at rain.
The rain, he tells me,
has no hands
no feet
no mouth
no cheeks
no eyebrows.
I look up from my bowl.
Rain falls fast
and faceless
down our windows.
by David B. McCoy
Every day I read the obits and the classifieds
What causes so many in their 50s to die
Why are there so many burial plots for sale
The mathematic possibilities simple don’t add up
…
A bird flies through the open window
I whack it with a killing blow
After flailing a bit, it again takes to flight
Everyone in the house is shocked silent
…
The Chinese poet Lin Pu never married—
never sought an official career
With his wife—the plum—he taught
their children—the cranes—how to dance
…
A table rests on a manicured lawn
On the table rests a tall glass of water
Cautiously above the table hovers a cloud
In the distance, a solitary bell rings