[Who is Eli Lampwick, and why is he sending me poems? Any clues from fellow Silverbacks? SB SM]
A Polished Stone
A poem is just a polished stone,
Something molten and original,
Before the spinning gathered thought
Circling a vagrant center,
Before the turning of a mind,
Before a word was spoken,
Sedimented in the pressure of silence,
Fragmented in the blow of insight,
Countlessly punished by sea and sand,
Ten thousand times rounding the heart,
(which seemed eternal)
Stranded in the sun, gleaming.
A Week in Sturgis
So pissed off, she makes me nervous!
You’d think I’d spent a week in Sturgis.
All I did was wash my car.
Her fear of virus travels far.
The silent treatment’s what I got,
Hours in doghouse, tempers hot.
A siren wails. She wakes to ask
(Finally, speech!) “You hear that?”
“Yes,” I answer, partly true,
“I wondered if it would bother you.
It came to me as no surprise,
A husband jumped to his demise.”