JELLY

a floating plant
or
headless animal

a living negative
or
free x-ray

a cool night light
or
small spaceship

a mind
with an
idea

a barely
visible
apple

a flexible
picture
frame

a clear
napkin in
wet wind

a TV
sans
screen

an inverted
vase, flowers
upside down

a pastry
made of the
lightest flour

a half
moon
in water

a hooped
skirt
undulating

a ghost baseball
trying to lose
its cords

a flowered hat
with ribbons to
tie around the neck

look at this
crystal ball,
see the past

like a great
comma looking
for a sentence

it doesn't
see beauty,
it feels

an organic
machine like
a heart

a blue
window to
our beginning

an almost
empty
backpack

a balloon
that got
away

I DIED AND WENT TO HECK

When I went down the short chute
it wasn't what I expected
I thought there would be fire
It was just perpetual day
with Santa Ana conditions
And the ground I was anticipating,
brimstone, was merely pebbled dirt
When I got to the information desk
I took a number (665) and only
had to wait for half an hour
My advisor turned out to be
a dead girlfriend who dumped
me years previously, so I felt
simply a little sad
She said my job for eternity would be
to write poems and try to publish
them in the locally prestigious periodical,
the Hell Exists Quarterly (HEQ)
I knew then that I could tolerate
perpetuity without a scream or tear

TOP OF THE NEWS

Scientists have cracked
the DNA code of rice,
but I'm still figuring how
you found me attractive

Discovery's astronauts
braved the unknown,
I simply wish to add onto
our many years of memories

Gunmen kidnapped a
senior Iraqi official,
you captured me
a long time ago for good

Fire crews worried
about Western Montana,
I don't have to worry about
the sparks we always make

Israeli troops prepare
for Gaza pullout,
you better believe I hope to
never live in a Laura-free zone

Best-selling author
Judith Rossner has died,
yet you may rest assured
you are my immortal muse

Bear opens garage door,
enters Alaska home; reminds me
of the joy I get when I walk
into our apartment every day

POETS, WHERE DO THEY HIDE?

In an apartment or house they'll dwell
Depending on their day or night job
Some, I must admit, are in the street
Others hang inside cafes or libraries

If you look in a window you might see
A man or woman stand or sit in a chair
Looking out a window or not, with or
Without self-consciousness or clothing

In front of them will be a sheet of paper
Or possibly a recording device, maybe
Even a computer, which could be a lap
Is there a need for a light bulb? No,

Their thoughts are flowing
Through a pen or fingertips
With tears or smiles adjoining
Onto a flat or curved surface

Why? To be read and read again
Silently or out loud, inventions
Discoveries, illusions, naked feelings
In another semi-secret place

Likely a dank coffeehouse or room
Filled with their own kind kind
They might speak in someone's home
Or find a very public corner

But watch out for car poets
They're the most dangerous by far
Swerving to scrawl a line...unless
You count supplicants to power
 

© 2005 Don Campbell