A Fence

Here is the last poem #5 published here for your comments and feedback. Thanks!

A Fence
by Paul Warloski

I drove past the cemetery too late
to visit Grandpa. The gate is locked now.

Grandma, now 93, takes me to mass
for Thanksgiving, and ancient cantors

lead droning decades of hail marys.
Later, great aunt Virginia, who shared

the guarded family secrets, lays
dying in a hospital bed. Then Friday mass

performed for more dying ancients
in wheelchairs, heads nodding off

in naps interrupted by whispered
and warbled singing, and a final

visit to a nursing home and another
great aunt, whose body has failed her.

On my way home
I visit Grandpa again.
But the gates are still

locked, and I stand
outside the fence,
listening for his silence.

copyright 2009 by Paul Warloski

Messages

Here is draft poem #4 included here for your feedback and comments. I'm not sure I like this one. What do you think?

Messages
by Paul Warloski

He drank from the paper
cup of coffee until
the message

at the bottom of the cup
told him to stop. Otherwise,
he’d drink coffee until

the bottom of that cup
dissolved into stares
of disbelief. But still

he writes in his leather-bound
notebook about the bugs
hovering over the cup.

copyright 2009 by Paul Warloski

Winters

This is draft poem #3, published here for your comments and feedback.

Winters
by Paul Warloski

I.
She breathed
frozen air through
a blue scarf

stuffing mail
into metal boxes
held tight by

nails on
ice-covered
walls.

II.
She pulled
her gloves off
to smile

and greet
the stranger she
came to meet

to talk
drink coffee,
and sip soup.

III.
Fingers shake
in cold caffeine
waiting until

morning warms
the frozen sidewalks
bathed with black ice

that melts into
puddles of chocolate
morning mud.

IV.
Being a poet
is no worse
than delivering

mail on a Monday
in rain, snow,
and, and sometimes,

hails of words
showering the morning
in coffee cups.

copyright 2009 by Paul Warloski

Presents

Here is new draft poem #2. Again, please offer feedback.

Presents
by Paul Warloski

The easy presents come
under tables
freshened by estuaries

only heard in hums. Easy
deaths limp past coping nerves
now pacified. Your

telephone can lose
dads, and presents can
contaminate suns.

Brothers now vivid and violent.
Now there is nothing but
vibrating air in time to irritate

the deities that pass judgement
on easy moments that lay
down in arenas of comment.

Put quarters in your library
with a fragrant delicious. Why
then be hasty? Silly

trends create disrespect. And
the hum is probably only the sound
of bees and escalators.

copyright 2009 by Paul Warloski

Space For Jesus

Here is a new poem, still in draft form. Please offer feedback!

Space for Jesus
by Paul Warloski

God loves a terrier
and wants to say

yes after failing the exam
three times in a row. As
a dedicated single, strange

occurrences and a great dancing
celebration bring friendships

into ambiguous circumstances.

He is a rising star afflicted
with memories of
something missing.

We want to know before
it breaks the original killer.

She is attracted to others
in withdrawal, disillusioned
by feeling special.

Finally, she falls in love
and climbs the ladder in a
surprise ending.

copyright 2009 by Paul Warloski