Poetry: Selections from Allen Seward

brown bottled beer

 

the rain starts to come down outside

and I look out the window

as I grab my brown bottled beer

and find that the bottle is empty.

 

I’ll need another.

 

that’s just the way it goes,

isn’t it?

 

if you want to take this

for what it is

then it’s nothing, or

nearly nothing.

 

the clouds are nothing.

 

the rain is nothing.

 

but as the rain starts to come down

outside, I look out the window

and reach for my brown bottled beer

and find that the bottle is empty.

 

I’ll need another.

my poetry

 

the poems are getting shorter.

 

the short fiction is getting shorter.

 

the minds are getting shorter, too,

maybe…

 

if we were not technological beasts

a few years ago, ten years ago maybe,

then we are now…

 

word limits, line limits,

I don’t want to write an epic

but I’d like a page or two, or three.

 

I suppose I can’t blame them though:

 

I don’t think I’d want to read

two or three or more pages

of my poetry either.

#talkallnight

  

everyone wants to talk

or no one wants to

 

talk too much,

talk too loud,

say nothing at all

 

talk to gods and saints

talk to lovers

talk to ourselves

 

say what you want

to the other end of

the phone

 

but we are not in

conversation,

not really

 

we enjoy the sounds

of meaning

much more

than we enjoy

the meaning itself

 

everyone wants to talk

and we’ve forgotten

what silence is really

like, the tinnitus

doesn’t help

 

and on it goes like this

until it doesn’t go on

anymore, one day

preferably far off,

at all times

far off

 

we’ll wake up in the dark

of the next life,

hear nothing,

and start to scream.

while listening to Tom Waits

 

words cut the stone

and

the children all grab

their knives

 

blood blood blood, out out out,

 

trees worry out the sunlight

waiting for

a

rain

 

but rain won’t come for

three-

or-

four days.

 

the wind blows. it’s chill.

 

the TV’s

there

talking in the other room

 

a draft

comes in through

one

of the windows

 

I look out the window

and

see a brood of

those children

swinging their knives in

the

white sunlight

all of them wearing

red

shirts by now

 

and they’re coming

my

way.

zone of empty

 

for all your visits to the dentist

and all the gold

in your mouth,

 

how could your smile be so cheap?

 

you have entered a zone

of

empty

 

and found that you like the way

it makes your voice sound,

 

you like the look of being

the tallest

person there,

 

and the only voice, too.

 

now to find something

to

prop your

foot on…

the atheists

  

there are no atheists

in

foxholes,

 

smugly

say

those who

cry

 

catch for us the foxes!

the little foxes!

 

the foxes must

be

put to death

for the

sake of

our

wine!

 

catch for us the poets,

they should

say,

 

for we will drain

your

vineyards dry.

Allen Seward is a poet from the Eastern Panhandle of West Virginia. His work has appeared in Scapegoat Review, DEDpoetry, JAKE, and Buffalo (x8), and his chapbook sway condor is available on Amazon thanks to Alien Buddha Press. He currently resides in WV with his partner and four cats.