Maxwell’s Poetry Corner

September 21st, 2015  |  Published in September 2015

Folds of Paper


A workman’s glove

trampled, tattered

abandoned on the sidewalk.


Pointing to the sky.
The index finger

signals: look up.


The great blue,

A half moon between wires,

A plane inching.


Why reveal the obvious

to a wandering man seeking

answers?  Are they there


hidden like words beneath

the folds of paper?  Hidden in

the air, or from that beyond?


Does the glove point to the flow

pushing clouds and guiding

flapless birds in search of meat,


or to the tale of a God

massaging our spirits

through sparking universes?


Does it point suggesting

that Myles may be skating

atop the O-ZONE,


or as a reminder that emptiness

is a benign escape

as gentle as the breath to whisper it.



How Not Talking Talks



Arcing… a continuous firefly tunnel

while riding the nighttime river trail.


Bullfrogs vibrating the air in musing croaks.


Moths making suicide attempts at our bike lamps.


The moon playing hide-and-seek

between cloud and canopy breaks.


Slipping passed the humid air,

greasy, like two bullfrogs fighting

with their restricted bubble throats,


it cooled my scalp like the fan

my father’s parents had above their bed…

always blowing fierce.


A bell tower performing a classic…


the half/hour striking

thick like dried oil paints…

music breaking silent beauties.



Winter Break



Summer nears its end.


Laying in the cubbyhole

of Cincinnati’s first water-

treatment facility,


those active at lunch

run and walk the river trail,


his head propped

against historic stone.


Aged evergreens

cast a thick shadow.


As leaves and grasses

dry to crunchier foods,


the frequenting grasshoppers

grasp coarse building bricks…


I forgot their emergence

signifies Autumn’s jaw

stirring to growl.


The man in the cubby

poked at one

wishing he had wing

enough to find shelter

before Winter breaks him.

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