written in the mountain region of Beipu outside Hsinchu
Water drip from drop to rock
fallen bridges in its path
no way but now but through the brush
to be eaten by the darkening trail.
Lush a slink of slim beam of light
on the clear of stream below
cuts deep into and through dead rock
slick with moss and growth.
Thomas Pescatore is a poet in Secane, PA & can sometimes be seen wandering along the Walt Whitman bridge or down the sidewalks of Philadelphia’s old Skid Row. He might have left a poem or two behind to mark his trail. He maintains a poetry blog: amagicalmistake.blogspot.com. some of his poems shall be printed by Green Panda Press this spring.
Starting off at dusk—
on car piled, metal snake
slinging cement gray road
plied by mass of commuter transit
nightmares, all hands headed to opposite
shores, quiet homes, small
pleasures, lonely hours,
ovens cold, fast food on table top,
missing children, barking dogs, hungry
cat, snow shifting madness, waiting tolls—
I get those sad groaning butterflies
of driving east, driving toward the old
shore, the thick waves of brown Atlantic—
away from the great western stretch,
pioneers and new lands, fabled
journeys long etched into memory—
those sad eastern butterflies of
going home, of timelessness, and long
lost childhoods reaching out to me,
speaking in languages
I can no longer comprehend.
can sometimes be seen wandering along the Walt Whitman bridge or down the sidewalks of Philadelphia’s old Skid Row. He might have left a poem or two behind to mark his trail. He maintains a poetry blog: amagicalmistake.blogspot.com