My son is sitting next to me
in a pile of stuffed animals,
stuffys he calls them.
He is showing me his poetry
in a bright colored slide deck.
The poems are mostlysome form of haiku
with themes about nature.
They are coupled with
images of lightning,
or something that looks like it.
He is reading them to me,
for the beauty of nature.
His voice rises and falls,
and I cannot get over
how astonishingly beautiful he is.
The scope of the thing,
escape the bounds of the
They play downstairs,
then in the backyard,
pull the dog around
and make forts.
Then, once in a while
look up, look around,
hear the relative quiet,
almost conceive of the thing
and then go back to running.
Morgan D. Bazilian is a professor of physics and also write poems.
I am well worn, thumbed through, creased at the edges
Always stuck on the same page, always mid-sentence
I can neither avert my eyes, turn thoughts, nor paper
For it is my life’ s work, knowing something of what’s gone before
But no clarity as to what comes next
I live in the now of uncertainty
No future, beyond skittish dreams
My imprint is not a doer, but a fence sitter
Who cannot jump till all the jumbled pieces are boxed
But life is liquid, ebbing and flowing
Formless, seamless, perhaps meaningless
Favouring the page turners who run blindly to the next staging post
Whilst visionaries awaiting the grand vision
Are left wanting - wanting to know
Does God give us patterns?
Glimpses of the eternal to send us on our merry way
Or are we just sleepwalking into nothingness?
Weighty questions, light on answers I fear
For the doomed among us, the poor dogeared
Mark is a professional composer and lyricist, which helps bring rhythm and musicality to his poetry. Lyric writing may pave the way for penning poetry, but Mark is well aware of the key difference; song lyrics are written to be sung. whereas poetry is written to be read. From the UK, Mark lives just outside Brighton and often takes inspiration from this colourful, seaside city. Poetry is a relatively new venture for Mark and with that comes the usual insecurity about whether or not his poems are any good, but publication does wonders for self-doubt.