Tuesday, January 11, 2011

Three Pieces By Joseph M. Gant

End Of The Chain

am I the only moments that you
make yourself of?

take back the watch
rewound to better hours. gears
bent ticking hearts;

the minute of dismay, the hour of intent,
the days of stained regret stamped hard on faces

bent into the morning’s break.
second hand sentiments passed
into me from where you hang.

did you speak so easy to yourself
in darkness of the falling noon?

was it pain or love or hand-in-hand;
head-in-heart, arms around
the thistle bush—

am I the only moments that you
pass the time into?


scarecrow in the fields I make,
unwholesome crops watched over by;
you pull your duties well.

I’d raise an acre in the name of
fortitude, if such soils did allow.

the sowing of the harvest,
the reaping of the seed
is all this planter knows to do

and fertilize the feet that sink in mud
becoming home to impasse toiling.

scarecrow watching me here rot,
calling buzzards to the feast laid well
I am no crow and shall remain.

The Wash

she cried beside the laundry.
the sound of change that hit
the floor was amplified by
flannel blue, piled high and needing.

the orphaned gaze of tired eyes,
fixed onto their shattered lids
and hapless in the afternoon.

the broken heart, phantasmagoric

play upon the reaching hands;
no clothes could hide nor even
touch the wounds of make-believe.

and ghosts pretend to see us
in the shades of our disquietudes.

--Joseph M. Gant is a scientific glassblower by trade but a writer by passion. His work has appeared widely in the independent, academic, and commercial press. Joseph lives in the Philadelphia area where he edits poetry for a Sex And Murder Magazine and writes reviews for Outsider Writers Collective. His first full-length collection of poetry, Zero Division, is forthcoming with Rebel Satori Press.

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