Jan Sand Poems
|122.||The Sea Of Night||5/19/2013|
|124.||The Speed Of Light||5/21/2013|
|127.||The World Awry||5/19/2013|
|128.||The Young Pheasant||5/21/2013|
|135.||Up There, Down Here||5/21/2013|
Split me in two
And spread the gash.
There, between the pillows
Of my lungs, tangled
In my intestines, buried
In the gory gelatine,
You will find my dead son.
Blue eyes like punched out sky.
His mind could cut patterns
From the world more intricate
Than the fretting in a Muslim temple.
At age two, his angers
Could shred the air
With black knives.
At three, an idiot Israeli
Tossed him fifteen feet
With the snout of a red sports car.
He lived thirty years
With a machine for lungs.
His body, twisted and confused,
The Funny Old Man
There was an old man who was lonely and grim
And excessively technically minded.
He lived with a cat and an owl that was fat
And a fancy new clock. He=d designed it.
Every hour it rang with a click and a bang
And was good for cooking up noodles.
While down deep inside it secretly fried
Sardines for wandering poodles.
Now poodles can be, as you really can see,