Sam Rasnake

The wind is steady, taking away

the work we’ve just finished, leaving

no end to the afternoon’s collage

of yard and sky. 

                                                In the pause,

I lift the rake to my shoulder,

let it dangle, while Billy speaks:

What used to be mounds

of birch & pear & cherry

are scattered like lost battalions

in some forgotten European village war.

I’ll have to remember that, he says.

Who are we in this? I say.

Why, we are Sisyphus, Billy says.

Who else could we be?

Deciding we could fare better

on another day, we walk the yard

back to the house, wipe our shoes,

then disappear behind the door

to our bowls of chicken soup,

steaming with broth and pepper,

the sky behind us, cracked

by blackbirds, all the way to the ridge.

Museum of Useless Things

A cup filled with pencils, un-

sharpened.  Gifts stacked in the closet.

The door is off its hinges.

And here are three words

that rhyme with blue:

gold, tobacco, oil.

The only death I know is

the guitarist with his string.

Steel is lonely business,

and nylon lasts forever

Place your ear against the cold

wall-and-feel of the earth.

The stars have no names –

blinded, homeless, drifting,

like a herd of goats in patchwork

over a far slant of meadow.

Sam Rasnake’s poetry, widely published, has appeared in journals such as Literal Latté, Portland Review, Snow Monkey, MiPOesias, nycBigCityLit, Three Candles, and Pebble Lake Review.  He is the author of one chapbook, Religions of the Blood (Pudding House) and one full length collection, Necessary Motions (Sow’s Ear Press).  When not trying to master the subtle connections between Nick Drake, Yasujiro Ozu, and Elizabeth Bishop, he edits Blue Fifth Review, an online poetry journal: http://www.angelfire.com/zine/bluefifth/index.html