Although I’m No Geologist
Hiking high in the glacial mountains
to the places of black streams and black pools,
no vegetation
obsidian or shale, gray as dry-black as wet
round freshwater bowls offering
pure black
red dust whirling on the surface,
such a deep basin
you may crawl carefully down the steep polished sides
then slide in easily, even dive if you dare
the water feels so good
for there’s no way out
when you’re all wet
you can’t climb back up the smooth rock
just slip back down constantly
and the never-ending rain
starts to fall.
Here I am
stuck forever, baby,
in your teary basalt eyes.
Blackout Lust
bad storm outside
crash and blam, static
electric breaking glass
I’m cranky and chilled
don’t want babies or women around me
don’t want singers or frightened people
is it okay if I just don’t
watch anything
But I’m inside
they’re banging the big pans
in the kitchen
the onion and garlic pans
march ever onwards
the recipes all mistaken
taste like rot with bile
sauce and nobody cares
But I’m hidden in my bedroom
under the covers finally
like a turtle victorious
peace draws my head
out of this world
into its own place
where I’m bothered
by the storm
But dry.
Crossing a Bridge
down in the mountain stream
the rubble and rumble
of boulders and logs
run-off time:
a boar’s head
a huge fish, bones and head
a bicycle tire
someone’s dirty underwear
ducks that cannot swim and tip
through such caramel flow
in lewd slow-mo
my eyes closed
I grasped at the slick
plastic wand for a handhold
such a stagnant tangy odor
over a harsh growl
strange young men came in
naked, grinning
calling my wife’s name
later we left the wooden bridge behind and walked
into a safe and new town elsewhere.
Fugitive
I was given a room at the religious retreat center, one of many many rooms
I’ll show you the way, it’s down here, on this floor, through the kitchen, through these other rooms
it’s at the end of the hall, on the right, it’s mine, the last room on the right
at the end of the long hall, past all the other meditators and whatever, I don’t mind
my study, visit me if you like
you can come in from outside too, it’s small but adequate, almost empty
last room on the right
among the monks and burnt-out theologians.
I Feel a Tremendous Peace
You have not said the words yet, you may never will
But you have snipped the puppet strings
The white doves storm over Saint Peter’s square
Clouds shoot spotlights where lovers ought to stand
The universe wants more lovers and says so with odors
I’ll take my tea so slowly today with chestnut honey
Write you two lines then cross them both out
The sun on my hair will make me look younger
And more handsome than I’ve ever been
As if my life, everything good, begins today.
E. Martin Pedersen, originally from San Francisco, has lived for over 35 years in eastern Sicily where he teaches English at the local university. His poetry has appeared most recently in Ginosko Literary Journal, Abstract Magazine, Neologism Poetry Journal, Poesis, Thirteen Myna Birds. Martin is an alum of the Squaw Valley Community of Writers. His collection of haiku, Bitter Pills, has just come out. He blogs at: https://emartinpedersenwriter.blogspot.com
