August 19-25, 2019: Poetry from Michael H. Brownstein and EG Ted Davis

Michael H. Brownstein and EG Ted Davis

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Michael H. Brownstein
mhbrownstein@ymail.com

Bio (auto)

Michael H. Brownstein’s poetry volume, A Slipknot Into Somewhere Else: A Poet’s Journey To The Borderlands Of Dementia, was recently published by Cholla Needles Press (2018). Visit Michael on the web here.

The following work is Copyright © 2019, and owned by Michael H. Brownstein and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.


The Water of the Seasons

And, yes, I learned how to squeeze winter from slate and agate,
let the wind chills boil down deep into quartz, flounder within a shell
of sleet and calcite, drunk and seasick, off balanced and ready
to let go of all of its calcium and grit, icicles and magnesium
until the fields were covered with snow, the ponds frozen,
every roadway bundled thick obstructions, slush and black ice,
snowmen and snowballs, every window crystal and frost,

When spring filled the air with honey and apples, dew and silver,
I wrapped my hands around the think pampas grass,
wrung the wetness into buckets of shell and fossil,
let moisture fill the air in early April for May rains
and June’s puddle baths. The cottonwood in the back forty
and the great beech trees and paper birches opened their hands
gathering everything I breathed into the universe and woke
hungry for green and shamrock, litters of light, sage and emerald.

Summer drought and brown leaf, slow growing crabgrass,
hot sand and melting asphalt, blue skies and humid nights,
and I teach my friends how to grab river rocks and skip them
one, two, three, four bounces across wave and current
until they cannot hold their place any longer and vanish
below the surface. Then we gather more, smooth skinned
and dull, and place them in our garden beds. In the morning
they are full of dew and river water and the thirsty plants are satisfied.

As the leaves fall away from the great oak and mulberry tree,
I rake large piles and stir them with my hands and long rakes
not to burn and not to turn to mulch, but to churn the end of summer
into the beginning of autumn. The leaves crack and fall into edges,
slip into the wind, form foothills against fences and brush
and the soil transforms into muddy browns and dark rich blacks
full of off colored gold, copper and a thick underlayment of seed.

 


EG Ted Davis
edgargteddavis@gmail.com

Bio (auto)

EG Ted Davis is a poet residing in Boise, ID with work that has appeared in various online and print literary journals both in the US and the UK.

The following work is Copyright © 2019, and owned by EG Ted Davis and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.


Autumn Caskets

Autumns come, pass into winters.
Golden leaves upon moistened ground.
Peaceful slumber, darkness comes earlier,
as afternoon’s coffins are lowered into the ground,
to be shortly covered by laborers
with the richness of leafy soils,
where grass will soon again cover-
an autumn death in springs to come.

 

 



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