Tagged: john ashberry

Poem: Life Sculptor

We don’t author our biographies. We sculpt them, chipping and chiseling, peeling back the onionskin strata accretions of time, calcified history. The layers of remaindered remnants. What’s been piled on previous to our arrival taunts just beyond our reach, like the inscrutable object of desire who can’t and will not ever requite our boundless love....

Poem: Self-Addressed Stamped Envelope

We returned to each other, after a protracted absence of voluntary volubleness. We picked up the thread where it had been dropped, enmeshed in other narratives. The bicycle dance has not yet begun. The delectable debate over all that matters most or least will come. Maybe it has already begun without us talking heads fully...

Poem: Big Surprise

Didn’t he warn you? Didn’t she scorn you? Hadn’t they found you? Wouldn’t they astound you? You who couldn’t differentiate between abiding love and aberrant hate?   Time will obviate the degradation of your sensate mind and accelerate the assignation of honorifics, burrowing within the fissures of tissue held together by gravity.   Were you...

Poem: All the Others

The 2015 MK Spring Poetry Festival, April 20-30   Mother protector, father provider. Brother who helped the elderly. Sister who held children when they cried. Potential saints, condemned sinners. The heretic and the ignorant. The past-tense blasphemous visitors gone before He arrived to save them.   What of them? All the others. The ones who lived...

Poem: Lonely Girl

Splayed on her sofa like a hastily disposed corpse haphazardly stashed out of the way of more important harbingers of Life, she watches the screens, the big one on the wall and the little one in her demure hand, waiting for the next plot point, the next map point, the point of all her affluent solitude,...

Poem: If One Could Add the Entirety

If one could add the entirety of what we can see and what we can’t — the supplicant on a rant, the matter dark, unknowable, a bitterness that’s stowable – what we would have to examine are children wrenched by famine, a panoply of catastrophes, like man-made war, and disease.   We would also deign...

Poem: How Can it Be?

How can it be You might wonder in a quiet moment set aside willfully to focus on will, on what you will do and what you won’t and how it always is what you will it to be – yes, during one of those appointments with your soul you might wonder How can it be?...

Poem: The Most Marvelous Thought

The most marvelous thought occurred to me, an occurrence in and through the hollow reed we choose to be.   How preposterously inconsequential you are! Irreducibly irrelevant speck of cosmic flotsam.   Now! (Like the B&B lady in Sheepland). Somehow you feel better. Knowing this. Having this thought occur.

Poem: The Fine Line

Between a reason and excuse A fine line, a filament, a dilettante rope Unfurls and hides. We might not see yet can’t refuse The shades of meaning found in joy and hope. Choose words carefully – That’s the lesson, the lemon, the luminosity. Should you be charged with loquacious verbosity, Sentenced to the slammer, Annealed...

Poem: The Silliest Most Comforting Thought

How terribly awfully blatantly and, one might emphasize, preposterously naïve to envision even for a frivolous moment a world, or a set of circumstances, alternating laws and chances, in which wherein and also everything else you can dream, human beings, people decide to make love the reason for living.   Slilly thought yes. Even sillier,...