Dave from Bohozone is a great guy, and I thanked him for giving me my first featured poet showcase by dropping the ball on getting him these two poems in any sort of timely fashion.
Here they are, Dave, and World, I hope you like them:
Position Filled
They can’t even fit half of you on your resume.
Where do they list your irreverence?
How can they possibly squeeze in your humor—along with your laugh,
that written would echo off the page the same way it rings throughout the living room?
Among your certifications and degrees, where is the beating of your loving heart?
Your lively feeling and cascades of emotion go unevaluated
though they elevate you among loved ones to the place of muse;
the cool wind shaft of relief that passes through
when a heavy glass window is thrown up to escape the stifling summer heat
in a home with no A/C.
Do not give them your tears love,
they are unconscious to the regret that should plague them from passing your talents along.
It is the lore of champions to go unrecognized in their toils and talents.
Believe in your granite, your foundations could hold castles that pierce the sky,
and turn the faithful into skeptics.
When they tell you that the position is filled
what they mean to say is that their box cannot encompass all of your greatness.
(This poem was written by Christian Stock for Allison Rickert, the artwork is an original of her’s. She is missed every damn day, but she’d want this message to go out to everyone that is struggling to find a job after college that is as fulfilling as their field of study promised.)
Pennsylvania Winters
I lived here long enough to know
that you can curse the North Winter Pennsylvania wind
that nics like razors at your exposed knuckles,
nose tips, and ear lobes.
Or you can crinkle your eyes and smile indignantly into the gusts,
knowing you look good with a little red in your face.
The cold is sharp and unceasing with nails jagged like steak knives
and teeth that draw blood from my cracked lips left cold.
When I was young I wore shorts and my mom’s,
‘Chris, aren’t you freezing?’ like a gold medal around my neck.
I will walk through blizzard squalls exposed and raw
because I’m a wood-furnace nerve when vulnerable,
and I stoke a great fire on the inside.
Word Slurpee 