A Primer of the Daily Round
Howard Nemerov
A peels an apple, while B kneels to God,
C telephones to D, who has a hand
On E's knee, F coughs, G turns up the sod
For H's grave, I do not understand
But J is bringing one clay pigeon down
While K brings down a nightstick on L's head,
And M takes mustard, N drives into town,
O goes to bed with P, and Q drops dead,
R lies to S, but happens to be heard
By T, who tells U not to fire V
For having to give W the word
That X is now deceiving Y with Z,
Who happens just now to remember A
Peeling an apple somewhere far away.
I've read this poem many times and still find it amusing. I'll try my own version, but be warned, the weather has had an effect on my mood, so the poem is a little on the strident side and morose side.
Divorcing Winter
Danna
Alabaster is the color of your coward heart.
Burn the love letters I have written, burn the thatch
Carapace of this structure over our heads.
Dead are the silent years spent listening to
Echoes reverberate through the cave of this union.
Forgotten are the memories of sun and cool shade, now only a
Grief-laden sky spits frozen ice to the
Hard, malevolent ground.
I am lost, it is cold, I say to your profile,
Just as you remove your glasses. I think to
Kiss your lips, but see the glass of your eyes, the anger
Limning the pale blue irises, and the
Mocking black of your pupils. Sorry, you say. Sorry.
Now it will be a long season spent digging through ashes
Of what once was, what will never be, what has
Passed and will never return, knowing that the sweet and
Quiet memories are buried in a shroud of earth and
Rendered useless by this present season we inhabit.
Sorry is such a sorry little word.
There is no excuse for it. None.
Unlike, I apologize, sorry is the palest imitation of
Veracity. It is the last slap, the last shout, the last sob.
What is the point of all this sorrow? I ask.
X it out, you reply. X is always your axis of the equation.
Y is my linear function that will make this sadness less than
Zero.
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