November 2, 2011 Poetry , POETRY / FICTION







Poet: Ken Pobo






Ice carries a gun.

Civilization carries a bigger one.

Visit Keweenaw Peninsula,


236 inches of snow a year,

Lake Superior’s way of saying

I love you.  Spring comes,


A friend we thought had died

we see from the kitchen window,

carrying trilliums.






I walk past WashingtonSchool,

my old grade school,

now a retirement home.


Closed curtains hide

where we put construction

paper pumpkins on windows.

In kindergarten,

when the teacher gave me an easel,

I fingerpainted our house,

other kids, stuffed animals.


What would those

who live here now paint?


Death’s face?


Or their houses,

kids, and animals

from an earlier life?

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  1. Rivenrod November 04, at 10:09

    Multidimensional, intriguing and brilliant. As usual. RR


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