Winter Light
The bread scattered for the ducks had been devoured by others. I wanted to say something to the old couple out for a walk, but there were so many youngsters around, and more coming all the time, and most of them in need of a philosophy of life. Days later, the families that had been skating on the pond were still feeling the effects of female Viagra in the water. I never did find an answer to your question, “Does an apple move?” Have you? All I know is that I can’t see where the light is coming in, I can only see that it is.
Philosophy for the Shallow
Despite getting
only three hours sleep,
this is not so bad,
drinking coffee
from a thick mug
at the kitchen table
while scratching
the dog’s head
and watching out
the back window
a big woodpecker
creep up the tree trunk
and the sunrise
turn the tree trunk
to a pillar of gold.
Another Visit from the Muse
A creepy older man with a greasy comb-over says,
“Everything is art, everything is rubbish,” as he
viciously kicks a violin along the gutter. The street
is lined two deep with the sort of spotty people
who charge a fee just to read your poems. And I
don’t need that. The frontier is everywhere. Ever
stumble upon a flock of ten or twelve wild turkeys
while taking a dim path through the woods, the green
leaves almost too green? Happiness guaranteed.
Howie Good’s latest poetry collections are Bad for the Heart (Prolific Press) and Dark Specks in a Blue Sky (Another New Calligraphy). He is recipient of the 2015 Press Americana Prize for Poetry for his forthcoming collection Dangerous Acts Starring Unstable Elements.
