Tuesday, August 21, 2018

Poetry By Luke Welch

Luke Welch is currently incarnated as a nerdy, middle-aged, white guy in Rochelle, IL. If he behaves he's sure he can incarnate as someone or something cooler in his next life. Some of his poems will be appearing in the upcoming premier issue of Gemstone Piano Review.

Learning to Fly

If it's meant to be 
it will happen.  
If it's not
then the universe has other plans.

The girl doesn't call you back.
Someone else gets the job.
The hurt bird you found in your path
is supposed to tell you something.

Take it home and learn to care for it.
It may be your own wing that needs to heal.
And someday the bird may teach you to fly.
You would have missed that opportunity
working under a mountain.

And your soul love waits,
soaring in the clouds
in the sky over the sea.


Corpse Eaters

When the paper pyramid of capitalism
burns at last
and the richest among us
have fled to their bunkers

then we are free.

Stores empty. 
Gas tanks.

It will be hard at first.
We think we need these things.
But they are addictions.

All around us the Earth
provides all we need.
All we have to do is say 


The once-rich, shivering under ground,
will imagine us eating each-other up here.
They'll send up drones and watch

and be astonished to see us
working together in gardens,
gathering at night to sing

of the dark times,
when we lived as zombies
in the thrall of vampires.


It's Over Now
I've broken the last heart.
Left the last house burning.
I'm alone in the world.

I'm the main character in a story
that no-one wants to read.
The crow laughs in the tree.
The clouds pass over
like empty pages.
The days go by like an old man
walking circles in the park.

I stop for a moment,
feel the sun kiss my face.
Is that it, finally?
The love I've been looking for
all these long years?


Once everyone knows
you're a liar and a cheat,
and you've lost your job
and your spouse or girlfriend or boyfriend
or all of them at once.
When everyone knows your degrees are just paper
and even your smiles are photo-shopped,
then there's nothing to do but be yourself,
as wretched as that is.
You could haul your worthless ass
to the curb with the garbage
or you could start over,
admit you're shit
and see where it takes you.
There are a lot of people
the world has given up on.
Maybe you can organize them,
demand equal rights for fuck-ups.
You can form your own voting block
and get political candidates
to drive down in their fancy cars
to give speeches to win your votes.
They'll fit in well.  Hell,
every one of them
is just a liar and a cheat
waiting to be discovered.



At the Garden of the Gods National Park,
where gods are planted,
grown, pruned, and brought to fruit,
I am sitting atop a cliff
watching the sun go down
over three thousand acres of pristine forest.
I'm in ecstatic reverie
when some younger people take the next rock over.
Pretty soon they're talking, quite seriously,
about bungholes,
how no two are alike,
how they pucker like a mouth,
like a flower, waiting to open,
and I can't help but listen with great interest.

Each of us stretches
from the mud beneath our feet
to the heavens, just above our heads.
Only we can recognize
the divinity in a neighbors' asshole
while the sun sets in glorious display,
as around us, young gods
bloom like flowers on the rocks.

No comments:

Post a Comment