November 10–16, 2008: Clay A. Burt and Joel Fry

week of November 10-16, 2008

Clay A Burt and Joel Fry

BECOME A POET OF THE WEEK
click here for submission guidelines

Clay A Burt
burt1@optonline.net

Bio (auto)

I live on Eastern Long Island with my wife and two children My church is the great outdoors I work, I sail, I backpack and scribble these poems when I feel the muse.

The following work is Copyright © 2008, and owned by burt1@optonline.net and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.


Departure

My idea was first to rise with the warming air-
Clouds in my hair, vapors & visions I doubt I can return to the world
On the spine of this warm granite, a soft core of ridgeline,
Cautis of rib stone heated at Vulcan’s hearth,
Is a footpath I walk to a mountain home
Wabanakiyik, people of the dawn land, ran bareassed
Over these hills and were happy I am happy too We call them Abenaki and if I told them what I see they would understand
If I wanted to disappear into the mountains
To chase shadows that change into memories
And build my house of trees

I would leave this tent and walk naked
Into the green forest and never turn back, bareassed
Like the Abenaki My wife would not understand.

Joel Fry
fryj@pclnet.net

Bio (auto)

My name is Joel Fry I live in Athens, Alabama My poems have previously appeared in POEM, The Melic Review, Stirring, Acorn, Eclectica, and Poetrysz.

The following work is Copyright © 2008, and owned by Joel Fry and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.

Barn

I long for the time
I found you in the barn
beside what was left
of that year’s hay It rained and howled,
reminding the world
God sheds blood.

Now I am back Days and nights and times
between have deserted me Only your picture shows me
what I know.

I am old My words
are issued from a deathbed The farm is gone, making room
for a suburb Stumps measure
every step through dusk.

We have come to place
our hands in darkness,
to pay each other all
we share, to forgive a life
that leaves us when we speak
and teaches us our ruin.

For months I have slept
with rumors of pain My back
feels like a staircase My voice
is a makeshift habit that sometimes
tells a friend how your eyes descend
from my memory, how they always
find me young.