May 23-29, 2016: Poetry from Richard Rensberry and Darren C. Demaree

​Richard Rensberry and ⁣Darren C. Demaree

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​Richard Rensberry

Bio (auto)

Richard Rensberry is the author of the recently published poetry book; The Wolf Pack Moon. This is his first book of poetry since 1992, at which time he exited the writing field to delve into other pursuits. Upon his return to writing in 2012 Richard has also authored several children’s books as author at QuickTurtle Books®. Richard’s home is in Fairview, Michigan. His writing blog can be found at

The following work is Copyright © 2016, and owned by ​Richard Rensberry and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.

Mother and Father

If I were the rain,
I would be less begrudging.
I’d teach Heaven how to beat
a rhythmical drum. I would
speak fluent and decisive electricity. I‘d strike up
a conversation with the wind
and babble with the trees and roofs. If I were the rain,
I’d hammer away as if I could play
the piano like Jerry Lee.
I’d fill large buckets. I’d gorge the streams.
I’d purge the skies with claps of thunder
If I were the rain. I’d be anxious to please.
I’d be the crescendo in a symphony choir.
I’d be mother and father to the land and seas.

The Rock

If I were a rock,
I’d be el capitan. I’d dominate
the landscape with a stone face
and intimidation. I could
hurl men like sacks into submission. I could
catch your breath and push you to the edge
of adrenalin. If I were a rock,
I’d scrape the sky in Philadelphia. I’d echo
the proclamations of Benjamin Franklin,
Thomas Paine and the constitution. I’d raise a monument
to common sense and confine the Fed
to a dank cell in Alcatraz prison. If I were a rock,
I’d fit in your pocket, I’d be smooth in your hand
and fly in abundance when the socialists come
with teargas, bullets and handcuffs. If I were a rock,
I’d tumble from the walls of the fortresses built
too big to fail, and crumble
to dust.

Dirty Words

If I were a toothbrush,
I’d know my way
around your tongue.
I’d have knowledge
of how to avoid its deceit
and all your trash-
talking ways. I’d know
the ups and downs
of your teeth, how
their vulgar bite
involves your own
misdeeds. I’d seethe
and find reasons
for your obscenities with girls.
I’d remember how
to get my bristles up.
I wouldn’t hide in the drawer
or idle around the sink.
If I were a toothbrush, I’d leap
off the counter and clean
your bleeping teeth.

The Big House

If I were San Quentin,
I would hold the key
to everything evil.
My heart would beat
with the tattooed fists
of men sentenced
into my keep, boys gone
crazy as their crimes.
I’d feel like guilt
most of the time. I’d be a maze
of whispers and lies. Truth,
if it existed at all, would arrive
in shackles, whimper and fold
on death row.
I’d have rats for eyes.
I would hold you close
and gnaw on your will. Time
would stagger, stumble and fall
still as their victims.
If I were San Quentin,
I’d have an IQ
of ten. I’d clatter and clank
the whole night through.
I’d hone my shank
and lower my pants.
I’d show you the sorriest
crack of an ass
if I were San Quentin.




⁣Darren C. Demaree

Bio (auto)

My poems have appeared, or are scheduled to appear in numerous magazines/journals, including the South Dakota Review, Meridian, The Louisville Review, Diagram, and the Colorado Review. I am the author of "As We Refer To Our Bodies" (2013, 8th House), "Temporary Champions" (2014, Main Street Rag), "The Pony Governor" (2015, After the Pause Press), and "Not For Art Nor Prayer"(2015, 8th House). I am the Managing Editor of the Best of the Net Anthology. I am currently living and writing in Columbus, Ohio with my wife and children. Visit him on the web here.

The following work is Copyright © 2016, and owned by ⁣Darren C. Demaree and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.

A Letter to Auguste Rodin
About Other Parts of Ohio

There are so many needs

with this structure
of waterways

& blind-drawer

of artistic want
& if we could level

the fields to watch
your son watch us back,

I think, maybe,
he would roll

his shoulders
behind his chest

& lead the rest of us
for one fallow season.

A Letter to Auguste Rodin About
Cold Drinks in Cold Weather

A full bottle groans
& the idea of the season
cracks before

the explosion
& the shards land
again where shards land

when a gradient
& a frozen man
are left to gravity’s will

& wonderfully
terrible wind
from the lake

that first thought
of giving alcohol
to a scarred statue.


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