johnmarkeberhart.com
Kansas City, MO
jme
Broken Time excerpts
Title poem: Broken Time
The couch, cigarette-scarred.
The ivy is taking the windows.
A flickering bulb, an empty
stein, a scattering of ashes.
But the music plays on, slow
jazz, counterpoint to the war
on the silent TV. The cannabis
burns, the beer goes down.
I'm going to get up in a while.
I'm going to clean this house
from end to end. I'm going
to get zealous tomorrow.
Tomorrow, it's rock 'n' roll.
Brooms, mops, bass drums.
Give me a backbeat and
I can conquer the world.
But this is the night, the time
for broken time. The bassist
lays out. The drummer loses
the beat. A piano note
lingers, curls into smoke.
I look at the clock as the
second-hand sticks -- and you
bare your neck for a kiss.
Ruts
The land rears up
out of the Blue River
and the cars on Red Bridge Road
snick past the little park
where the ruts are preserved.
I see no ghosts, but hear them:
The wagon masters, whips in hand.
"Faster," they bellow, and the sun
races up the dirty trail
to burn down their lives.
Saints and Witches
The arrogance
of a blessing,
the madness
of a curse.
So we burn them
both at the stake
and let time
tell the difference.
All poems copyright 2008 by John Mark Eberhart.
- "In part because the language of the poems is our language, (they) read quickly, and one is tempted to race on without considering the sophisticated observations being made in simple words. This reminded me of William Stafford's 'Thinking About Being Called Simple by a Critic': 'I went to the fridge and opened it -- / sure enough the light was on. / I reached in and got the plums.' John Mark Eberhart has got some plums ... and they are plainly labeled."
G.W. Clift, author of Mustaches, on John Mark Eberhart's poetry
Kansas City, MO
jme
