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National Poetry Month: “When the Future was Real”
When the future was real when warm ocean breezes blew around the Cape in late afternoon giant spaceships trundled through the sand to find harbor in the rust-red arms of home. When and how were questions for the scientists why was the assignment for the writers. Bottled energies in liquid oxygen in machined chambers of…
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National Poetry Month: “Franklin Dies”
He is dead. And bells are rung. Who rings the bell? That upside down bronze cup clanging back and forth. It rings on the hour and for the moments prayers are needed or expected. It rings out in celebration and in sorrow. This thing come free of chains rings freedom for his soul. Mortal once,…
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National Poetry Month: “Fire”
The Normandie was burning in New York harbor. It was a nebulous sensation the question of fire and the man who watched the cork life vests bloom how fascinating, how pure to see the ignition of plasma and watch its growth from birth to groaning metal collapse into the harbor, the water sprays now floes…
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National Poetry Month: “Marina”
There are things I do not know. I do not know why the waves of the sea brought you to me. I do not know what you are here for. Is it for liberation? Or is it treasure hoards you seek? I do not know why you stand there tall and fair and look upon…
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National Poetry Month: “E.P.C.O.T.”
Uncle Walt takes a deep breath as deep as his remaining lung will allow. “There are things undone of course, but I linger along the shores of the living. The power is going out. The ego will give way to the Id the barest aspect of my nature will lie revealed as the vital force…
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National Poetry Month: “Neil Young Goes on a Trip”
Neil Young falls through a crack in the asphalt. It opens wider than a chasm. Each second he falls, time regresses. He sees the aperture of God’s eye experiences 10,000 lifetimes; some human some not. He dies and is reborn, ages and dies again. The infinity throws him up on a street somewhere in London,…
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National Poetry Month: “Black and Light”
Boundless black. Stars falling into a pit so deep that their light can’t find its way back once it streams in. The tremendous the cataclysmic voracious gravitational anomaly – yet we call it a “hole.” At the center of our galaxy sits one of these, feasting for what might be an eternity. A collapsar, an…
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National Poetry Month: “Bede Time”
Bede prays with folded hands, his tonsured pate shines like a glass goblet in front of a fire. She didn’t quite understand the Latin, but she got the flavor. His love for God was no doubt greater than his love for her. But what could a woman do? I married a monastic philosopher. Finally he…
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National Poetry Month: “Sack”
The barbarians are at the gate – except there are no more gates. The child emperor has failed the Eternal City sitting and playing with his cock while Alaric and his vandals prepare to rob us blind. We are blind. I called for the bishops to meet me here. The great bronze doors opened just…
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National Poetry Month: “Scribe”
I was told that these were dark times. How? I scratch all day long upon my parchment. All day long my hand cramps and burns. I read in the ancient codex I copy about the marble columns that held up the architraves of pagan Greek buildings. Whole treatises on their temples to fallen gods. But…
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National Poetry Month: “Circles”
The crow flies approximately 15 miles from her nest. Her universe is over the land. From here she sees the nature of man. His clusters of huts, the small winding paths between the trees, the smith working bellows to make bright objects to reflect the light of the sun. She sees forests being cut down,…
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National Poetry Month: “Archimedes Talks about Wind”
The elements still stand at four. We’ve exhausted earth. Fire. Water. Now the wind begs for our leash. One can hear it shushing through leaves in tall birch trees. Branches bending gently on a warm evening in Sextilis. Can you feel it on your skin? Conscript the breeze. Make it work like a donkey walking…
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National Poetry Month: “Iron II”
For the eager guard and the staunch commander, in a wooden crate it knows its fate. Rusted, black a blunted point its sits and waits for a human joint. Like hungry chicks tossed some feed the hammer-bearer feels the need. To pound with clank the flattened head into flesh, into bone the heavy nail driven…
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National Poetry Month: “Iron”
As an experiment this year, I am going to write one poem a day in honor of National Poetry Month (many of them may follow a common theme). My first poem is titled “Iron.” The red turns wine-colored upon exposure to the air. The joint’s crack, the marrow leaks, and bruises form. Roman…
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We’re Rushing
We’re rushing headlong to revisit past glories To reconfigure the memories of classical stories Corporations hope comic book characters will replace Zeus or Athena or Hermes – A green monster Now plays Hercules for swooning geeks who Don’t know a damn thing about ancient Greeks. This current batch of heroes is defective They’re all bloated,…
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NEW BOOK: Neutron Cowboys
Please buy a copy of my newest poetry chapbook, “Neutron Cowboys: Poems about the Manhattan Project.” Its available here at Amazon: Neutron Cowboys From the back-of-the-book summary: The men who worked, who wracked their brains to create new atomic elements, who risked death to unleash the power of the sun, were dazzled by achievement and blinded…
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Juan Romero
The right place, the right time? To hold the frame in perfect synch to bleach the crystals of the camera and hold out your hands, both cup and cradle for the sacrificial wine for the bone-shard disk counting out an infinity of wooden beads between heartbeats where the glistening red pools into a bed for…
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Exiles from the Light – Now Available
Exiles from the Light My new book “Exiles from the Light” is now available from Amazon. A whole bunch of great poems about war and peace, freedom, exploration, St. Peter, aliens, science-fiction writers, and exiles of all stripes. Fully illustrated by me, in color!
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Easter
The sparrowhawk sees The extreme angle Of the most extreme The iron nails The bloody stream In darkening sky Amongst the thieves The cross stood high A tree bereft of leaves. Hung now upon to die One called teacher, rabbi No crime convicted in his youth Nailed here for speaking Truth. Before, in the…
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Waterhouse’s Women
Canvas has teeth to catch the smear of pigment that comes off a brush it has a fighting spirit that resists assault, that provides firm backing as long as its stretched tight and nailed to a frame like Christ to his cross. It takes some time to warm his hands up, to dip and…
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The Numinous Cosmos 