More+Poems

The Bird
1. Fluffed and still as snow, the white, 2. bird lay in a crumpled of death 3. far, far below he flock which, sailing, heard 4. but did not see the shot.

5. And the lonely boy suddenly grew afraid 6. as from his feet the doubt took wing and rose 7. up from the feathered hurt like a black bird 8. darkening the whole sky in the empty land.

F.R. Scott

The Adversary
A mother's hardest to forgive. Life is the fruit she longs to hand you, Ripe on the plate. And while you live, Relentlessly she understands you.

Phyllis McGinley

=Foul Shot = by Edwin A. Hoey  With two 60s stuck on the scoreboard And two seconds hanging on the clock, The solemn boy in the center of eyes, Squeezed by silence, Seeks out the line with his feet, **5** Soothes his hands along his uniform, Gently drums the ball against the floor, Then measures the waiting net, Raises the ball on his right hand, Balances it with his left, **10** Calms it with fingertips, Breathes, Crouches, Waits, And then through a stretching of stillness, **15** Nudges it upward. The ball Slides up and out, Lands, Leans, **20** Wobbles, Wavers, Hesitates, Exasperates, Plays it coy **25** Until every face begs with unsounding screams— And then And then And then, Right before ROAR-UP, **30** Dives down and through. 