#ed ochester

[bibliomancyoracle]

Crows, crows, crows, crows

. . .

from "Fall" by Ed Ochester

[feral-ballad]

Ed Ochester, from Dancing on the Edges of Knives: Poems

[contremineur]

A crown of handmade nails, as though there were a house here once, burned, where we’ve gardened for fifteen years; the ceramic top of an ancient fuse; this spring the tiny head of a plastic doll – not much compared to what they find in England, where every now and then a coin of the Roman emperors, Severus or Constantius, works its way up, but something, as though nothing we’ve ever touched wants to stay in the earth, the patient artefacts waiting, having been lost or cast away, as though they couldn’t bear the parting, or because they are the only messengers from lives that were important once, waiting for the power of the frost to move them to the mercy of our hands.

Ed Ochester, What the frost casts up

source: https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/50759/what-the-frost-casts-up

[mythologyofblue]

Crows, crows, crows, crows then the slow flapaway over the hill and the dead oak is naked

-Ed Ochester, “Fall” +

Poem copyright ©2015 by Ed Ochester

[imafathousecat]

[loudlylovingreview]

Jimmy Pappas: Invitation to join Michael Simms on Zoom, Monday, Dec. 15, 7pm ET

Join Zoom Meetinghttps://us06web.zoom.us/j/82798401678?pwd=y0TfbA9Y8MCm6xm21MFbbZQQ7AubJ2.1 Hello Everyone,  Join us when Michael Simms presents DIRTY REALISM IN POETRY on Monday, December 15 at 7 PM ET. We will be discussing poems by Charles Bukowski, Julia Alvarez, Kristopher Collins, Michael Simms, Jan Beatty, Ed Ochester, and the poet who writes under the name The Dirty Poet. Dirty realism…

Jimmy Pappas: Invitation to join Michael Simms on Zoom, Monday, Dec. 15, 7pm ET

[bibliomancyoracle]

No doubt arrogance will produce submission; and there are men who take other men at the price those other men put upon themselves

. . .

from "Trump in the 19th Century" by Ed Ochester

[hapanese]

Note for Door

Today when I woke

you were gone

and I

was like a salesman

in a small-town hotel room

drunk on loneliness

and listening to laughter

next door

and I was

a boy scout marooned

in a dry-rotted cabin

by the greatest snowstorm

ever seen in northern Vermont

listening to strange birds

scratching the roof

and I was

a man coming home

to his house full of children

and finding nothing there

but the echoes of his scream.

I am going out now

to look at

the green ducks

paddle nowhere

on the river

but if you should return

while I’m out marking time

this is to tell you

I’m home.

Ed Ochester