Photography © Glenn Bowie

 

Vesper

The dots of day hang lightly together,
and a tender rain leaves a purple dew.

The air is thick, with the deep fragrance,
of a million tiny homeless pets,

as unconceived pools and voids
lose their membrane of death.

Surfaces that lightly mingled, erotically
twinged at finity, warp, wither,

decompose, succumb to twilight’s legacy.
The tides of evening forfeit gold,

no longer beam a revelation.
The fetal pose of concentration

seeks an infinite hibernation, demands,
spontaneous generation.

 

Craig Kirchner has written poetry all his life, is now retired, and thinks of poetry as hobo art. He loves storytelling and the aesthetics of the paper and pen. The parallel, horizontal, blue lines on white legal, staring left to right, knowing that the ink, when it meets the resistance of the page will feel extroverted, set free, at liberty to jump, the two skinny, vertical red lines to get past the margin. He houses 500 books in his playroom and about 400 poems on a laptop. These words tend to keep him straight.

Glenn Bowie is a published poet, lyricist, musician and photographer from the Boston area. He also owns and operates an elevator company that supplies custom-built elevators for clients from New England to Hollywood. The author of two poetry and photograph collections (Under the Weight of Whispers and Into the Thorns and Honey) from Big Table Publishing, he donates all profits from his books to various charities for the homeless and local animal shelters.