Poems
by Terry Brinkman

 

Sonnet CCLXXV

 

He had no guts in it

Her cream gown with a tear from a crow

Corpse rising salt white from the under-toe

Like a burr stuck in a horse’s Bit

Wiping his eyes with her dirty finger tip

Bristles shining wirily in the moon’s glow

Bended knee nudging her ski’s over the snow

Cemetery gates to saloon kitchen

Found my hat hanging on the floor

The sun was nearing the steeple of the house

Fresh printed rag-paper bar in Baltimore

Cheerful eyes same color as a sea mouse

Toad’s belly with a fluent snore

Stained with dirt and tears her alabaster blouse

 

 

 

 

 

Sleepy Whale 468

 

Occupants of the grave left last evening

Ghost-Lady of the land on her quest

Gury brightness of the stained glass

Haunting expression girlish shyness drinking beer

Terrific instantaneous smoking Grass

Proceeding down the sage she heard a Deer

Ghost-Lady and fair man seated together at Mass

Her witchy bluest Irish blue lustrous volunteer

 

 

 

 

 

Sleepy Whale 461

 

Juices of the Olive Press still the best

Lighthouse shines on everything

Clock is on the stroke of twelve we sing

Many broken hearts she broke in the west

Beautiful eyes of witchery crest

Devil broke the hasp of her wing

Drinking like the Devil, weak evening

Toad’s belly croak at her guest

 

 

 

 

 

Cast Shadows

 

Susan have mercy he’s lost in the Zodiac

Embers gazing out the ghost-woman’s Bra

Dancing in admonition flash

Her eyes unshed tears on her face

Holiday old time Christmas, Outhouse bash

Heart worth its weight in Gold embrace

Unmentionables full of sand, then a rash

Cast shadows over her childhood’s grace

 

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