marine dream

the creature thrashed
a seal

or a dolphin

thrashed again

raised a spray
that stopped him
in his tracks
to close his eyes

opened to a new scene

a line of guardian penguins
waddle-ambling formally
around the guard-line
of a dream

he closed his eyes

do not fear

a voice

a thrum

a resonation

you are the whale

I am
inside you

you swallow mw
and swallow me

I am

thrashing before you
a creature
foolish without
my element

and you
my old

will you dive now

thrust yourself
into the waters

the march
of swimming penguins
waiting the tables
on the perimeter

from their menu

this is your dream

am inside you

© Frank Prem, 2017

July 2017 Poem #35: tba


he knew the way
that the stone would fall
how far
how high
the trajectory
from the moment
he fore-saw it

he knew the sound
the note would make
the tone
the volume
the feeling of
from the first brush
of his finger
against the string
when he fore-heard it

and in an instant
he made the future
stretch itself out
before him

a time of vision
and of sound
before they happened

in a moment he could enter

for just
a second

© Frank Prem, 2017

July 2017 Poem #34: marine dream

the hunt for the wild arancini

the wild arancini
across the driving range

the Golf Club chef
so close behind him
holds his implements
up high

his cook’s knife

the roasting fork

a sharpening steel
held to his wrist
by a shortened length
of cord

the apron flies
around his knees

his moustache
holds beaded sweat
while his jowls
are in full motion
and broad wobble

but he runs
full stretch
as a lion

the prey
leaps and bounds
more like
a gazelle

across the 10th
over the light undulations
of a two shot
to fairway
from tee

out of a rough lie
the chef emerges suddenly
but the arancini is

the chef seeks
only a small cut

a smallest cut
the Club President
will dine today
with guests

the gallop
a sustained chasse
of the arancini

will brook no trade

no portion mutilated
be it large
or small

he will remain uncut
until the pennant

the chef sits
across the 11th green

the only ball available
in the cup

mere batter
poor rice and filling
will have to serve
for this entrée

there is a bray
from the woods
that run alongside
the 14th

the arancini
a-prance with the strut
of freedom
now stops to graze

no backward glance
no moment
so wasted

the magnificent aperitif
almost vanishing
the back nine

© Frank Prem, 2017

July 2017 Poem #33: forever

faux song in the city

he awakened
to the rain
steady rain
falling and falling
a constant

only with the slow rise
of awareness
came the realization
he was not
at home
beneath a tin roof
but in a hotel
in the city

on the first floor

through the window
he saw the source
of his not-rain

air conditioners
in a constant patter
of sound

an auditory imitation
of home

© Frank Prem, 2017

July 2017 Poem #32: the hunt for the wild arancini

should I need a light

the sun does not shine
inside a dream

the light there
comes from
inner glow

it comes from
a presumption
of vision

of sight

how about that?

I see a dream
I am
the dream

I can see myself there

the sun does not shine

its rays
are too hard

its rays
too fierce

they would burn up
the imagery
they would spear through
the dream
into my wakefulness

keep a torch
at my bedside

I keep it filled
with soft light
in case

just in case
there is a time

a night

in case there is
a dream
filled entirely
with my darknesses

no inner glow

no sun

I keep a lamp
beside my bed
for when I
am sleeping

in the event
(just in case)
I dream

© Frank Prem, 2017

July 2017 Poem #31: faux song in the city

let’s call it sailing

let’s call that
an Ocean

call this
a Boat

you rise up
to catch Wind

we’ll name the iron

set it there
in kitty-corner
of the Bow

the bubbles
behind Stern
let’s name
a Wake

and put the Blue
into the Ocean
before the Prow
of our sailing Boat

rise up
catch the Wind

batten the Anchor
against the Bow

Bubbles rise
along our Wake

the Bubbles rise
as our Wake

© Frank Prem, 2017

July 2017 Poem #30: should I need a light


the ristorante
shuts down
in the early hours

tables and chairs
taken in from the street
overhead gas fires
turned down
turned out

all that remains
is a sidewalk corral
and the stiff plastic sheeting
that keeps away
the road
stops the weather

in the morning light
there’s a body
in a swag
with a letter
on the beg
beside it

life treasures
in a supermarket trolley
in the inside corner

a good long sleep
restores the body

from the storm

another day begins
fending off
the street

© Frank Prem, 2017

July 2017 Poem #29: let’s call it sailing

the serious work

he took his work
very seriously

he knew
the dependence that attached
to each verse

he poured a cup
placed paper
and his pen
sat down
at the desk beneath the window
where the warm of the sun
might find him

and he wrote
the scene he saw
on the other side
of the glass

he wrote
the light
of the day

he wrote the love affair
of his neighbor
with her garden

of the few folk
attending chapel
these days

of their prayers

his pen
drew the picture
in words
of everything he could imagine
around him

on the paper
he rewrote
his little world
for the entirety
of a day

when he’d finished
job done
he leaned back
in the chair
and stretched

so tired

the work of the poet
he took
quite seriously

for if he failed
just once
to imagine the unfolding
of a day
what might the world
come to be

would his world

© Frank Prem, 2017

July 2017 Poem #28: fending

collage – frost

Frost - Leaf

an oak leaf
cold serrated
on the ground

in cold crystal
until sun
burns the frost

and chill
like a breath
melts away

Frost - Grass

is impatient
for the sun

the ice
is impermanent

a temporary cell

sun kiss
the day start

2 frosty

raggle taggle
no longer
or reaching high

the cold white
is too strong
it bends them

they lean

the sun
may come too late

if it comes
at all

1 frosty

the white
of the day
is almost blue

the shadow
hues the crystal

the diamond

it looks so pretty

it’s so cold

© Frank Prem, 2017

July 2017 Poem #27: the serious work

sog descending

there’s a mist
from the west
blowing over the fence
in fine waves

abandoning the neighbor’s house

it drives
like the wind is behind it
though it’s still

a dampened quiet

last night
I lay awake
to the sound of rain
in downpour

in droplets

like wet blows
struck upon the tin
by a tympanic hammer

with all asleep
struck specially
for my ear

it’s turned
to fog now

a sog
is closing in
taking the tall trees
out of my sight

though I know
they’re still there
I believe
they’re still

cling-wrap the day

there is nothing
to do

© Frank Prem, 2017

July 2017 Poem #26: collage – frost