Poems, part 2

Here are some more poems that were read at our recent poetry reading. Enjoy!Sidewalk Impressionist-From Fall 2016 Pasque Petalsby Brooklyn GrossKids stampede over my slender fingers,But they don't break my bones.Bicyclists roll over my palms,Their tires leaving no imprint on my skin.My invisible hands lie on the sidewalk,Enduring the summer's scorching sunAnd freezing under winter's ice and snow.The concrete disguises me.Its dusty surface camouflages my fingerprintsLike a mask concealing a face.Day after day, ten fingers stretch beside the road.My handprints wave to the people traveling by.They will always be etched in my sidewalk,Acting as a reminder that making an impactIs as simple as slapping two handsOnto a slab of wet cement.Proof of Life-From Spring 2017 Pasque Petalsby Bruce RoselandIn the 70's, local youthsclimbed an iron rung ladderup the cement-sided grain elevatorof my small upper mid-western town.In the near shadowy darkness,lit as much by stars and moonas by the town's illuminations,they would reach a flat, guardrail-less roof top.There they would sit back from the edgeand inhale locally procured weed in silence,daring not to talksince their voices would travel farin the clear windless night air to a townwhose good citizens were in bed after the 10'o clock news.The town's cop would be keeping his usual lonesome watchdown by the gas station,sitting in his car, engine off, windowsrolled down, police radio squawking.From the elevator's rooftop the view was magnificent;above them all the Universe blazed mystical,below the streetlight ran crisscross,checker boarded to the very edgeof where town met farmland.Further out on the blue-black horizon,night sky met earth, broken onlyby the isolated pin pricks of solitary farmyard lights.Way further off, glows from towns miles and miles away,where other souls,other lives, Homo sapiens sapiens, had to be,just had to be stirring, moving toward something greater. 

Blood Graffiti- From Spring 2017 Pasque Petalsby Jason Kurtz

When I see the rainbow paint of the citytagged on rail cars and brick wallsdribbled down, fading, a confusion of color with rust --I imagine the young artist simply thinking,"I was here"

and it is reminiscent of farm graffiti--arcs of black blood on whitewashed barn wallsa mesmerizing arcane symbology of bovine sprayfrom the spring clipping of horns,and I recall the young farm hand thinking,"I wish I was somewhere else."

But maybe . . .maybe they were thinkingthe sameexactthing.

Featured image by Pam Broviak under the creative commons license on Flickr.