Poems by Stan

Guitar

And the strings rusting now,
Cutting fingers,
But love all the same.

Scratched love in spruce,
My life this moment,
breathe with me.

Subjects

Tennis: waking swung
To a newspaper bleating
At cornflakes sans raisons.
What a day.

Speak not of yourself, you,
But look at what is else
For the story of the day.
What a day.

True

Good is the obverse of evil.
It is the same coin.
But flip it and watch:
And who sees the gleam
And who sees the glitter
And whose coins are hidden?

At Home with the Ideal

So all things have a measure,
A series of cubes, functional:
The cycle of plants, wet and dry
Growth and degeneration,
Are tested and known.

We grant the fault of the doors,
But nailing them is too abrupt.

One morning while living in a two-room walk up apartment in Muncie, I got up and said to myself, “I’m going to write some poetry today!” This was the result, possibly one of the most productive two hours I’ve ever had.