Saturday, July 6, 2013

A Poem by Thomas Piekarski


The tide dribbles out,
seabirds practically inert.
A lone tugboat
moored in darkness.
That tide replenishes
its every essence
reflected by a brilliant
abalone moon.
The finger-rolled basketball
dipped inside the hoop
then Englished out
just as the buzzer
ended the game.
This unfortunate twist
resulted in a prolonged
losing streak.
The pulse that requires
a neutron powered stethoscope
to detect it just may
contain only scant traces
of hints that anything moves.
You bet I despise those
incredibly crude impostors,
surly sorcerers
sorely lacking pathos.
I mean the bourgeois
leeches who preach
that money begets freedom.
And I can’t help but abhor
those sometimes skittish,
overwhelmingly scandalous
internet coquettes
who slather blogs all day
with their copious photos,
fodder for the curious octopus.
In endless effort
to promote their personas
they pound pylons deep
into slithery quicksand.
No terra firma for them.
No need, they think,
totally convinced
they’re dynamos
on a roll, champions
of the system
or captains of luxurious
ocean liners.
What they eventually construct
are bully pulpits, launching pads
from which to pitch the innocent,
bilk them of their heritage.
They feverishly seek
any means by which
to propel rampant
and insipid pomposity
that bans credibility.
Thomas Piekarski is a former editor of the California State Poetry Quarterly. His theater and restaurant reviews have been published in various newspapers, with poetry and interviews appearing in numerous national journals, among them Portland Review, Main Street Rag, Kestrel, Scarlet Literary Magazine, Cream City Review, Nimrod, Penny Ante Feud, New Plains Review, Poetry Quarterly, The Muse-an International Journal of Poetry, and Clockhouse Review. He has published a travel guide, Best Choices In Northern California, and Time Lines, a book of poems. He lives in Marina, California.

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