Feb 2014
Whatever the cost I pay up at the minnow pools.
I don't know anything of the misery of these trapped fish,
or the failure of the marsh I'm so hidden.
Up above is the island with its few houses facing
the ocean God walks with anyone there. I often
slosh through the low tide to a sister
unattached to causeways.
It's where deer mate then lead their young
by my house to fields, again up above me.
Pray for me. Like myself be lost.
An amulet under your chest, a green sign of the first
rose you ever saw, the first shore.
Then I wash my horse, dogs, me behind the barn.
Only the narrow way leads home.
I don't know anything of the misery of these trapped fish,
or the failure of the marsh I'm so hidden.
Up above is the island with its few houses facing
the ocean God walks with anyone there. I often
slosh through the low tide to a sister
unattached to causeways.
It's where deer mate then lead their young
by my house to fields, again up above me.
Pray for me. Like myself be lost.
An amulet under your chest, a green sign of the first
rose you ever saw, the first shore.
Then I wash my horse, dogs, me behind the barn.
Only the narrow way leads home.
Ray Amorosi is the author of three books of poems, including In Praise (Lost Horse Press, 2009).
sub-entry: Wizard (Ray Amorosi)
All this havoc
just means I’m a poor wizard.
Once, I lit three twigs and fanned the smoke,
from miles away,
into the girl who jumbled scales through my spine.
As she vanished I clapped a delighted tune.
But not without aches of my own.
Did the sack of no echoes fail me?
Now, on such a mild curse—
boils, sewn eyes, a shrew
in the **** my ankle reddens up and eyes me
with disdain. Toenails fall off.
How far will this go?
Poor wizard. Poorly done in.
These pangs are power are power as both
knees lock up
ashamed to move under me.
sub-entry: Wizard (Ray Amorosi)
All this havoc
just means I’m a poor wizard.
Once, I lit three twigs and fanned the smoke,
from miles away,
into the girl who jumbled scales through my spine.
As she vanished I clapped a delighted tune.
But not without aches of my own.
Did the sack of no echoes fail me?
Now, on such a mild curse—
boils, sewn eyes, a shrew
in the **** my ankle reddens up and eyes me
with disdain. Toenails fall off.
How far will this go?
Poor wizard. Poorly done in.
These pangs are power are power as both
knees lock up
ashamed to move under me.
