Two Poems

​Tundra Melts 70 Years Ahead of Schedule

Fringes of rain populate another day as
summer is again banished to dull clouds.
The resident hummingbird does not care
if her back is wet
or the feeder overflows with weather.
I’m tired of the wet deck, boards
forever slick with floating seeds of late spring
ready to litter the kitchen floor.

Deep underfoot and mercators north,
ice blocks melt decades before their time.
Against its will, Earth shows 
its ragged teeth, rocks once packed
with winter claim new spring.
Water runs off their backs, new paths
cut unknown centuries off human timelines,
toxic warmth breaching old borders.

Lincoln and Darwin Were Born on the Same Day

Abe could buy candy, ante a card game,
send a postcard to Mom in New York,
five of him got a cigar.

When copper turned to bullets,
Abe was coated in steel
that would bend but not break.

Time can tarnish a king’s bust.
The fittest of rail splitters
can fail to survive inflation.

Abe evolved into less than nothing
but a silhouette tailed by sheaf of wheat,
nickel and silver ascendant.

Fate left him in circulatory limbo,
abandoned in glass jars
trapped with bigger change,

Face ignored on grimy sidewalks
dropped and buried
in modern primordial ooze.

DAVID WALSH grew up in rural upstate New York and spent his career working for local and state government. His interests include history; the impact of technology on society; and baseball. His poetry has appeared in Spitball, NINE, museum of americana, Manhattanville Review, and Haibun Today. David and his wife, Pam, live in the capital region of New York.

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ISSN: 1533 2063
FALL 2019