JD DeHart- Three Poems

Human Spoon

 

Resting her head, high above

other trappings of ancient and future

cultures, the carving peers at me,

peels at me,

resembles me and does not.

Asks my name without asking.

A face I have seen before.

Ebony, eyes streaking down, mouth

torn, body sloping into a shovel,

never planted, always digging,

now cast aside with other wares.

Some neighbors:  An old house once

loved, now tiny, shrunk down; elegant

uniforms and umbrellas filed under U,

so delicate in form they could never

be used by our planet’s hands,

as if our ancestors were the ants.

I could attempt to buy her freedom,

lift her from this dust, but the price tag

is far above what I am able to pay,

the look of the shop owner declaring

No other deals are to be made today.

 

Ever Beach

 

Stretched and angular,

feet and hands can feel the beginning

of time, a monkish creature, sitting

in robes that do not seem to touch

earth, an expression that suggests,

Forget your television dreams, your

useless celluloid gods whose names

and titles you collect on the shelves

of your mind, leave behind scrawled

signatures, the many images you

have stowed away, and watch as my

hand stretches to the time of pharaohs

(and even before)

making curls in the dust of time,

forming loops in the beach of ever

when creatures first loped, the glanced

up at the overshadowing sky.

Monk being whose paper-thin face promises

answers to questions I don’t even know.

 

The Snow-Beast

You can still see him hanging out

after hours - soliciting, they call it.

The police come and addle him.

When the scientists first found him, 

everyone

was excited and clamored around,

the photographs, movie of the week,

the book deals, the crying faces, 

streaming tears:  I never thought

I would see anything like this in my 

life-time.

Then interest fell.  The books stopped

selling.  The movie of the week was 

extended into a television series deal,

eventually cancelled.

Now he just shuffles around,

hits on women, begs for bags of chips,

and wonders why

he ever made his presence known.

 

 

 JD DeHart is a writer and teacher.  His chapbook, The Truth About Snails, is available on Amazon.