Kenneth Pobo
Du Fu Fleeing
We’d have lost many of his poems
had he not escaped armed men
to live as a refugee.
Like kids up from Honduras,
Guatemala and El Salvador,
running, on the look-out,
risking rape and starvation,
many not making it,
their poems, stories and songs lost.
Rewarded, then exiled,
by the Emperor, Du Fu’s poems
came in motion, pulled
from a tiny sparkle on a deep pool
of words
where he could hide
when he heard footsteps.
Medusa and Men
From the tops of stairs
in a mall, nabbing me in
a rearview mirror, or
at the gym when I’m riding
a stationary bike--they think
I don’t catch them staring.
I am a scene seen.
When they turn to stone,
what else to do but laugh?
How boring they are,
like colorless pebbles.
Housewarming Party
Our new neighbors invite us
to a party. Colored lights
and a piñata for the kids—War,
the guest of honor.
Many people light his cigar,
make his drink.
He reclines on a chaise lounge.
We sneak out the back door,
but War catches us--
the party never ends. Still
the cigar getting lit, still
the drink served
despite bombs going off
far away, loud
against a dead baby.
