Poems
by Diane Webster

 

 

Pocket Bulge

 

The bulging pocket

demands

all eyes stare at it

and imagine

what the shape suggests.

 

Cell phone?

Chewing tobacco?

Wallet?

Keys?

 

Like Braille fingers

the brain puzzles over

images similar but not,

contours disguised,

outlines jumbled

like a mugger’s face

to a herd of witnesses

they all see something

different.

 

 

 

 

 

Snowman Cousins

 

The sand snowman crumbles

onto the shoreline like a cousin

made of snow under sunshine.

 

Grain by grain it erodes,

flakes off, rejoins its family

baking beneath the sun,

particles run back and forth

with frothy waves

blowing in like snow,

rolling out like melt.

 

 

 

 

 

The Wake

 

After my life passes

across yours, my wake

calms and disappears

back into the waters

from which I came

as if I never existed.

 

 

 

 

 

Cemetery Everyone

 

Tombstones line up on both sides

of the dirt road like empty chairs

set around the dining room table

awaiting the call that all is ready.

 

People dash forward to pull

chairs back and occupy their place

at the long table winding

through the cemetery with everyone

seated in anticipation.

 

 

 

 

 

Naughty

 

Knot never

unties

or not a knot

it would be

naught.

 

 

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