Fivers

Wow, the clever numbered titles are starting to fail me. I can't wait till I get to like, 34. These were for a prompt about writing a political poem and a non-political poem. I like my political poems to be subtle, which I think is an underrated trait in writing.


Sometimes I Hear the Creek, But Mostly I Hear The Freeway
from my window, in the night.
They sing
and mutter
though I can never quite translate.
I wonder what this language sounded like one hundred years ago,
they told me there were salmon here
one hundred years ago.
　
　
My Pleasure are Small, and Private
the unbroken skin of apples. the old reds, the young greens.
the wool of the sweater of my father and how it collapses across my shoulders like a cat
the voice of the girl I nearly drowned with, her laugh
the rain on the pond. the turtle, watching reproachfully from under the lily pad.
I do not regret any of this, my world so small and shallow.