Archive for the ‘Poetry’ Category

Light Being

You sit next to me, dishabille, with

the curve swelling


Dressed in the patterns of Sunday paper

afternoons (airplanes crashing)

Looking at your hair

blown by wind over the pillow. Lipstick. Sun

comes through the ocean screen ‑ a wet calm

from juniper trees outside.


The cat plays in a blue light camisole

We threw off the bed. Tweesers

next to a hair. Rarebit in

the stewpot. Kinch. Rind.


I felt your own hot tears on the

back of my neck last night ‑


You didn’t even ask me what was wrong.


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A Poem About Cars


Cars, cars, cars

Cars, cars, cars, cars

Cars, cars, cars, cars, cars

Cars, cars, cars, cars, cars, cars.


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Paradise for Umbrage

Offense as sweet

As a box of raisins

You didn’t call me.

To offend a wizened grape

Is to offend me

Your hand as empty as a box

Of juice; I take the rain

Like I take the noise of children


Every nickel lies so forlorn on the tray

Bitterly remembering every grudge hugged

Come let us transact coffee and steam

Let us make a league of the offended

Dividing the milk of kindness

Until we are all even


–Eric Rasmussen

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“The Ice Divorce”

A Poem

By Eric Rasmussen


Hoar ice splinters rattle,

Around the turkey warrens

Off the saltbox barn

In the Green Mountain, pumpkin vines

Smashed reds and yellows

Under the tongue

Of new frost


An alert nostril

Discerns the paper birch trees

The city dweller

Cold on his ice chains

Searching to find the brazen keys

A finger snaps against the icy thumb

Bone fraternal snow flakes

You pantomime old age

And slowly go inside,

make a cup,

vermouth, Old Tom gin and rye.


His wife removes his boots.

While outside the window

A marten fighting for bread with a weasel.

Cheap doggerel growls

A comic burlesque

Across the wood tableau

and the coffee on his desk


Spring doesn’t come early

Nature never shows its pettifrock too soon

No pout of cleavage, no flash of gam


Man walks in

Logs alight,

Effervesced and drinking,

Popping from the gold and green splits

While fast green grouses and big hearted tits

Remember how segmented ants bullied the tree

Sea, air and land,

Grass, grove and lea


Remember when she walked these halls

And rolled the cat mint into balls

Washed your ears and skimmed the soup

for winter’s necessity


Would the wood come


And open her yet again

Would she be a five or an eight or a ten

How many yards of night

Do you walk

To reach yourself again?


Her damp you will inherit tonight

But not ever keep;

Without the softness to fight

Or the strength to weep


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By Eric Rasmussen


Love like accidental planets that crossed

Thick with mezzotinted atmospheres, moirés of

Opposing dusks

Life in a mere 80 years, like 80 minutes winked shut

For a few chiasmus-soaked cross-hatching lines of verse

To dote and fawn away, to fall in love but only for a day

Each time; mixed with mixolydian verses

That chink with the ice in lemon gin reverses

Seething with thoughts born only in momentary extremes

Then in words poured out with the mildness of cream

Thought (and life) lived only from the black to the white

Life breathed through a dilating glade

Slithering to the thought with the pallor of jade

But to think again, to love again, to live again

In the extremities; how does it like us, these?

If all that is thought is chemistry, if all we do is think

Then this thought will live again on a thin aired gloaming

Until there’s nothing left of it to drink

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A Poem


by Eric Rasmussen


The planes had autumn in them

Like a rose,

Shed its thorns in fury

They had in their bellies harvest

Reapers with shaggy trotting horses

To bruise and knuckle corn

Forlorn tanks of ambrosia, white under

The supple blue storm

Sheaves and tow and kindling wood

A lock of blonde hair pushed under a snood

Buckling coats and leather and boots

To knees high

A man walks between two full towers

Where the bees with industry multiply

Amid thickening motes of sour apples,

Pumpkins and melons that dapple

A small Pennsylvania meadow yard.

A spider like a cross

Hangs between the silos,

Below, two little red hands,

Smashed in child grip, the plane

Falls before it can transmogrify,

Like the sport of doves wherever

In dovecotes they linger

A child that sees the world’s bones

In the bones inside his fingers

And a man sprog is born

In an old woman’s labor.

When she cries, it cries

And like music from the

Jawing instrument of the ass

His noisome vapor promises retribution tonight

That God himself will rattle the cities

And gorge himself on the empire of glass

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The Coffee Golem

Her face is dappled in the window
Mottled reflection of the morning:
Pointillist noses, crisp burned curls
Of cat tail lip, coxcomb eyebrows
Until, lying again
She pours for me a pungent cup of her inspiration
Sallying, tart in the window
A recipe for breath, tongue, eye and nostril …
Soon a new face is brewing

Together we pull down the muslin corners
The sheet falls, a spirit rises within it
Last anesthetized night, the walls were furry with
Lilies and dried musk roses
Her blown skirt was to balloon–
Not afraid of what would be blushed into it, and
Was held down until we’d chased sleep.
It found us again at morning
Erupting from the bubble of what is indifferent
It crawled to the top of dawn, where every color
Is a different breath;
Every truth a little death

Last evening’s muse,
Now trimmed for flight
And I’m left heavy in the bed
as she flies away with her nectar,
No longer made of night

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