Poems
by JD
DeHart
Reaching Now
I keep reaching down, but
Not for baby rabbit fur.
I keep reaching down into the creek
Flow, clouds of mud
Pluming up,
Careful not to catch myself
On the creature pinchers, the crawdads
My dad and I would wrap
Our fingers around. You catch them
Behind the claws.
That way, they can’t get you –
Which is probably good advice.
We put them in coffee cans with writhing
Worms.
Ready to catch shimmering fish,
A stringer full.
How Do You Measure Poetry?
by rhyme scheme,
by trope?
by the way a line
tacks onto a line?
a child following
behind?
by placement?
by pulse,
the tapping of emotion,
spilling out,
well spring of the moment?
remembered, captured,
reworked?
or else
at all?
why measure and subscribe
to the fickle nature
of opinion, flaming,
juxtaposing, changing
with time?
why place tape around
the edges of a reflection?
Planned
Born in this universe,
born for this universe,
same world as you, dear
reader, but perhaps another range
of experiences,
my parents always told me
I was planned,
that there was a plan
for me.
I’ve gripped it as often as
I have been able.
I Break
one moment at a time,
all the ties that wrap so
closely,
an aged gear decorated
with rust, shakes,
another moment, a fleck,
another twist, seconds later,
a sudden loosing, spinning now
wildly, a freed beast from a thousand-
year cage, bursting, loosing
freedom as the dial, all my doubts,
my tensions, turn with abandon.
I fly and yet remain on earth.
Pencil Marks
I am (suddenly) the Pencil,
tracing a line.
What I will make, once
sharpened to a fine point?
A flickering screen tells me
I need to mix it up,
images of inspiring authors,
young and old.
I want to try, even if it's difficult,
even if it's rejected.
I need a new mix, worry it might
not come off exactly right, in the lines,
break the lines.
Working toward being a brave
creator.
