Three Poems by Dan Provost

Sit a Spell

–John Dorsey
enlightened me to
the fact that dilapidated
houses in northern New
England can be worshipped

while listening to Gimme Shelter

was not just a
convenient irony.

Did We Ever Dance?

I always feared the devil
but did succumb to his
dances with the orchestra

many times.

Maybe you
were with me?

Statement from a Syllabus

Classic Literature is
insanity feeling good at the
moment of its conception.

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Two Poems by Mike James

Wind & Those Afterthoughts

There are windy days where we think a lot about our hair
This is more likely if our hair is long
Even if it doesn’t catch sunlight burning downward
Or doesn’t hold darkness in place
The wind likes long hair
Though long hair is not an instrument for the wind to play
Long hair is something to feel and feel
So every stylist loved Rapunzel and the joy she gave
For days after leaving her tower, they forgot the world of tears

____________

Once In A While

A chicken egg aspires to be a tumbleweed.
A tumbleweed tires of being mistaken for a roving bird’s nest.
A bird’s nest has an everyday wish for travel.
A grey heron prefers shadowed fresh water to sky.

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Two Poems by Michael Estabrook

Flattered

I’m flattered my wife
told her girlfriends
I was a Renaissance man,
that I would know whether
a black bear or a brown bear
is the more dangerous of the two.
I nod, “It’s the black bear,
the black bear is more dangerous.”
“Why?” she asks, sipping her coffee.
“I thought brown bears were grizzly bears.”

“No, no, they’re two different species.
And because the brown bear
has been closer to people, to humanity,
for so many years, they’ve become
more familiar with people, and subsequently
less aggressive. Whereas
the black bear’s range is higher up
and more secluded in the mountains
of North America, making them much
more dangerous when they do
come into contact with people.”

She smiles and says,
“I also told my friends
you would make something up
if you didn’t know the answer.”

_________________________

Passion Pink Polish

She drops her sewing box
on her big toe,
turning the nail black,
but it’s not at the nail base
so she won’t lose it,
it’s only turned black.
“I’m going to cover it up
with 2 coats of Passion Pink polish,”
she says. And she does,
leaving only a faint shadow
of black beneath, like a bat
against the night sky.
“Maybe I better use
a darker color,” she says,
“To be sure no one can see
the black color.”
I kneel down
like Lancelot before
the beautiful Guinevere.
“If anyone gets close enough
to actually see
that faint black shadow lurking
beneath your Passion Pink toenail,
I need to know about it,” I respond.

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The lady in the front seat is getting restless.

Call for submissions

send your 3 best poems pasted in an email to (bio optional)

deucecoupepoetry@gmail.com

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