This week on our travels around the world through the words of poet’s, we bring you two voices from the United States. Michael Yost and Sheri L Wright.
Michael lives inLong Beach,Californiaand became serious about poetry last year. He hopes through poetry to keep the important parts of life alive that so many of us walk by without observing. Michaels poetry can be found at Michael’s Lair.
“Poetry is a lot of things to a lot of people, but it’s definitely not for wimps.”
Senryu Thirty Three
In this new journey
Being steadfast and harmonious
May blessings fall full
© 2011 Michael Yost
Freeing the Verse
Freeing the verses of the stoic man;
Should enliven the tongue and be a gift to the fingers.
Instead it’s a box forcing the untethered voice from conformity.
No longer bound by the restraint of the rhyme it generates confusion.
Should I break lines at the quatrain or simply continue the thought.
This reads like an undisciplined sonnet caught in a selfish voice;
Trying to justify its end’s by its means or is it?
Alas poor Yorick laughs from his grave.
© 2011 Michael Yost
Sheri L Wright
Sheri lives in Kentucky and is a published poet of four books. Her poetry has been seen in numerous literary journals across the country. She has a local radio show called Inkwell and loves gardening. Sheri’s poetry can be found at Scribblings and Such
Did I tell you the dirt of East Texas
is made of cattle bones ground to dust
by the ghosts of cowboys long dead in their saddles?
That I once saw so much green in Louisiana,
I thought I would drown on the color.
But then I learned how to float,
thought I could hold myself there,
me and Bonnie above the surface
in between sky and swallowed up
and no one would notice.
and the swamp rose up so fast
I didn’t have time to know I was dead,
not until I saw those men charging through the bushes,
our car pocked with one hundred fifty-seven bullets.
How I knew was a mystery, but I did,
a shotgun pointed at my head and
me not doing a thing about it.
Of course, I had to be dead
not reaching for Bonnie
slumped over, face leaking out her stolen time
in three places, saucing up the ham sandwich in her hand.
I couldn’t even kiss her goodbye,
goodbye was all I had that was mine to give,
what I should have given her
back when she was too moon-eyed
to want the sun.
Sheri L. Wright