Maxwell’s Poetry Corner

February 9th, 2017  |  Published in January/February 2017



My wife is expecting

me to be the man I promised to be

when I told her

“even when we return to dust,

I am certain our molecules will be holding hands

creating something solid

like we always have.”


My wife is expecting

a sober husband soon. One

who tears through expectations

like a bullet through glass, shattering

them to the pieces which hold them.

Using uninhibited talent to destroy

mummified ambition.


My wife is expecting

a father like a feather, connected

to a body to give flight

and graceful to the wind when time

relieves the entity by fight or maturity.

A father who remains

protector through living’s muck.


My wife is expecting

our first baby soon. A soulful daughter.

A mystical soldier. A moon-drop gypsy.

A baby raised by infinite hands and claws

and paws. A rhapsody marching

against revulsion. And damnit,

I hope she glides.


My wife is expecting

our daughter to grow like a magnolia,

blossom like a lily,

and gleam like a rainbow. And when we relax

blushing our cheeks with wine,

we’ll accept her as tree eating soil;

breathing miraculous air.


My wife and I are expecting

our daughter to chisel her way

through the mine, to appreciate each chip

as a sacrifice for her continuation.

We expect ourselves to gradually recoil,

as independence consumes her movements,

like grease to water.



Today as the only Today


When I walk on eggshells

they crush beneath my feet-

I move forward.

The swimming pool never ends,

endless laps- infinite arms.

Beneath the floors:

all the miracles which hold us up.

Beyond the roofs:

soft velvety spasms

occurring as frequent as vibration-

calculated movements of time.


I skate on fine ice; quality,

like the reclusive heart of glacier.

When I’m thrown under a bus,

I relax my muscles and accept life

as a fearless whirlpool

grabbing it’s surrounding, forcing

them to the unidentified end;

the wheels bounce from my soft cavities,

I leap up and ensure the passengers

walk unharmed.


I push my rock to the top

of the mountain. When it rolls

to the bottom of the other side, I remain,

sit and meditate upon the apex.

There are only two options

until you laugh,

only two eyes until you see,

only two you and me

until we break down

what we’re built of, realizing

our souls ramble like Louis’s trumpet,

the rest: becoming.



Ash Cliff


We all sprinkled a little ash

over the cliff. Illegality is only relevant

without a watchman.


I sat on Deadman’s Leap.

It was peaceful. The ashes covered

the cliff like ground chalk.


Our circle was peculiar,

thus is Open-Invitation.

But death is peculiar.


There he was, smothered against the face.

There he was held to his special place.

There he was; what was.


There I was in a meditative pose

unaware I would see him spread

against that rock.


Wind plays tricks. So do fiddles.

So do ponies, as they say.

So does sight.


When the wind lifted bits,

I remembered an old prayer

then descended.



–Maxwell Redder

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