The following Duane Locke poems all appeared in my old print mag Yellow Bat Review.
SANIBEL NOTES #2
Small drops of rain fall
On the white mud
That circles alligator's eye.
The drops fall, spread,
Form gray fuzzy flowers
Around the eye.
On this gray day,
The alligator's eye
Shines out of
A garden of gray flowers
- YBR #2
JANUARY POEMS, NO. 94
All things are gone,
All things if seen without illusions are ashes,
Has been burned by the human mind.
The roach is not a roach, but an ash.
The bird is not a bird, but an ash.
The butterfly is not a butterfly, but an ash.
There are fires in the human brain,
By the words people speak,
Words that burn all reality.
All that people know is ashes.
All that people kiss is ashes.
- YBR #3
JANUARY POEMS, NO. 96
Summer waters thawed her mind of winter.
My sweater pulled off, spread over the grass of the bank.
It is warm,
But I have a mind of winter.
The spot where she jumped is smooth now.
Under the surface the gold twists that were her hair,
Whose color could not be classified.
What color were these eyes?
I gazed towards her eyes again,
But now her eye lids are shut tight.
I only see minnows swim in front of her eyelids.
I have a mind of winter.
- YBR #3
JANUARY POEMS, NO. 97
I hold my hand out the car window to signal a turn.
A man gets up from the corner bench and steals my wristwatch.
I park the car, chase him.
He runs towards me, passes me, steals my car.
I go to a booth to phone the police.
As I dial, the man returns, pickpockets my wallet.
I see the man standing a few feet from me,
Counting how much money I had.
I recognize the man. It is my father.
I strip myself naked, hand him all my clothes.
I rename myself Francis, but my father
Refuses to call me "Francis," calls me "George, Jr."
I do not know what to think when hearing him call me,
"George, Jr." His name is Henry.
- YBR #4