3 Poems by Damian Fisher

whip-poor-will


Moon soaked sands lap the cooing water’s
                                                                          edge

Staring down the abyss - stumbling
        Slipping to the river bed.
The masquerade’s flailing dance, unseen,
like the unctuously tragic comedy
of a Pennsylvania interstate
             That gorges fluorite peaks,
while naive prisoners rush peacefully

                          beneath

that scattered hue that appears missing anew.
Sun scorched sands reposingly trickle
like the Other, into that river bed.

 

 

Reprise of October MMXV


In Texas a languid morning
is bigger, still
a runway demands a departure
demands the seat be filled;
I too am leaving view
only a trace
of your hospital room

 

 

(no title)

 

The kerosene steel makes a ricochet sound oft’
that rubber grip imprints the hands like Babylon
Clay: calloused and dreaming
of parental mornings with maple and butter raising wisps
for shapes of new life, pressed from flour and water whisked
Clay Or the gray grit lined hospital walls wear
their air sterile with hands
forcing remission of absolutes:


l’essence precede l’existence or it continually presents
Exi(s)t(ence) from that Clay crusades of essence comes

                                        Still-born
the perceiver of Mont Blanc
a camel that shivers at the sight of serpentine scales
raze raining old-new :
                                      a child

slaying starving shackled to the boulder eternally
pushing prying playing with the new construct of god


human, any Other rambling maddening useless delusions
that build castles against the frothing surf that churns
all stone to clay