At big box, books slouch voiceless
from Petri dish shelves
sullen, refusing eye contact.
Give me indie
where Emily and Pablo
whisper together, Beats snap
Shel yells and Buk
delights in ripe beer farts.
Here even the dust murmurs
and you are welcome
to sit on the floor
and yield to Whitman’s whisper:
contribute a verse.
3/13/14 Marge Merrill
Ten days ago we blazed
guzzled water by the gallon, limp
from the effort of staying cool.
Early corn, blueberries, tomatoes
zucchini–the bounty of the field
fills the table.
On Payne Avenue northbound
before the curve
a lone tree samples Autumn
We’ve only just begun
to commit poetry postcards.
For the August postcard poetry fest
(c) Marge Merrill 8/1/13
For the Ghosts
Revenant remnant, come
be warmed by candles
our confusion sets as touchstones,
unifying signals of grief unresolved.
Dear snuffed souls, walk with us,
while bells in honor toll. Understand
our blind eyes to colors flown,
deaf ears to martial bugle calls.
Your soundless questions scream for an answer:
Nothing has changed!
Hatred pours poisoned semen upon the world still.
Minds warp, twist and close–
the reason why we will choose
not to learn what history comes to teach.
Children of the ashes,
you are the fruit of a hatred sewn long ago;
eye for an eye,
genocide for genocide,
incineration for incineration,
snatched from hope, dreams and love
by the mindless power of Hate.
(c) 9/11/2002 Marge Merrill
“Weck” is a Kimmelweck roll.
“Beef on weck” is a hot roast beef sandwich. ummm, tasty!
(c) Marge Merrill
“And many standing round the waterfall
See one bow each, yet not the same at all.” — Gerald Manley Hopkins
Three Sisters Islands
Upstream, away from the rainbows
and water intent on that one great leap,
the three sisters
stripped down to boulders and moss–
in the machinery of silence
there is jazz.
for the Postcard Poetry fest
(c) 8/2013 Marge Merrill
I say nothing, there is nothing
to be said, not today.
Tomorrow I shutter my eyes
against the glare
accept you think me snow,
all recalcitrant womb.
Watch now, my clever hands,
crochet pen and ink thread
tapestries of winter,
For the August Postcard Poetry Fest
(c) Marge Merrill 7/22/13
“The first one is for the clock and its song
which is the song’s name.” — Another Beer by William Matthew
Beer had no answers only questions
a lamp, a tiny light to fight
the unquiet night.
Beer launched editorials
over euchre, hamburger
cold salmon; beer battered
verbal punches I learned not to incite.
India pale, work booted lagers,
occasional two fingers
defunct brand analgesia on the front porch
with Mel Allen and the boys of summer.
beneath street lights.
for the August Postcard poems~
(c) M. Merrill 7/25/13