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Best Poems Written by Greg Easley

Below are the all-time best Greg Easley poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

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Divina

postmodern means
of men, machines
faint vestiges
aimless to behold

that, Divina, we could leave tonight
we could leave tonight

to questions lost
in the meantime
your tongueful of answers
fall hollow and abhorred

tread no further
where further love
could be untrue
unknown to you

that, Divina, we could leave tonight
we could leave tonight

so here is to youth
here is to our own
sacred voice of will
tasting dissolution
in every given moment
we refuse to believe

that, Divina, we could leave tonight
we could leave tonight
would you want to?

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Pass the Plate

ever wonder
who's to blame?
everybody's god, the same
honey and novocaine
everybody's god, the same

the oath rests bedded in blood
the sun sets swollen this eve
stand tall, my son
pass the plate and think of me

ever wonder
what's been lost?
nail your checkbook to the cross
cash in and up the cost
nail your checkbook to the cross

and as the old song is sung
the deacons seem to agree
kneel down, my son
pass the plate and think of me

ever wonder
where'd it start?
cast your arrows through my heart
awfully sweet and shapened sharp
cast your arrows through my heart

what i give unto myself
shall i not ten-fold receive?
sweetdreams, my son
pass the plate and think of me
pass the plate and think of me

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Little City

Sprawled over grasslands yellow and desolate
Peppered across the breadth of ancient mesa
Who hides her creeks as they pass obscurely along
Subtle like cracks in an egg

With the first hint of dawn she is yawning, stretching her arms
Lights dispatching here and there as the morning fog descends
Plenty of days have crossed her over
Summer and winters come and go unnoticed heartbeats

The same streets we ran with untied shoes
And sped down hoarse of reckless dreams
Lead us by the hands to old brick homes
Where as always we are held by our little city

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Fable

in your memories
ebbing, white-capped
look upon me in enduring favor

one moment plucked
from the rest
still crisply descriptive
when most is lost

these abandoned cells
bide in hope
of being revisited
begged to tell their fable
one last time

in your mirror
an unfamiliar girl
let me remind you

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Oh, Low Art

Icarus climbs to spite the sun;
marveling now at his own reaches
daring leer for daunting heights he
spat in the face of God

On a cave wall and in the cathedrals
pigment proof that myth is miracle--
masters of their time;
each a soulful servant

Such shame if they glimpsed today
spattered modern, careless splashes
might Caravaggio curse the lot
and poor old Rembrandt faint

Oh, low art and the analogue vein
stumbling brushstrokes stenciled in
who are you, creator
but were you not created

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Stepsister

Exchanged for the plates they made
and painted with colors representing
springtimes I hardly remember
was the sidewalk way too warm
to walk upon with barefeet
I hardly remember

Scratched through entire lines
of the notes you wrote to me
lines I could never see
which must not be for me to read
imaginably the most precious words
I could never see

The ghost of our old dreams
when he sometimes visits
asks if I still care
for love sung in folk songs
and blue tragic chapters
I still care

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The Day I Fought Levi

In the sixth grade
Levi shoved me down
and insulted my mother
by the code of those days
a fight was assured

We met after school
to fight in the park
each brought friends
to stand in our corners
and offer advice

As this was my first
I readily listened
while they suggested
where to punch Levi
and when

We circled one another
Levi called me names
and dared me to hit him
chuckling that he felt guilty
to be fighting with a girl

I let my fists go
wanting them to kill
his blood felt warm
almost scalding
between my knuckles

He punched so wildly
with a wolf-like snarl
I was shocked at the pain
stinging nerves beneath layers
of the will to endure

Still shuffling in circles
vying to take damage
and return it
something peculiar arrived
moving in me

As I struck at Levi
teeth buckling in blows
I began to feel sorry
my hate for him slipped
and was gone

Along with every jab
came silent apologies
Levi did not look himself
so bloodied and swollen
he could have been my brother

At that I stepped back
admitting surrender
asking for a truce
but little Levi called me a coward
and turned to limp home

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Form One Line, Left

In the evenings
was the rooftop,
swisher sweets and sometimes
something in particular.

say we were young
say we both knew better
play the saint, its O.K.
say that you felt it too

Was it not
the grooviest thing;
our outrageously shameless,
fist-shaking dream for two?

say we were dumb
say our heads were on backwards
kick it likewise to the curb
say you never let it go

Yes, we gazed with eyeless faces
off into the new blue,
embers ageless in an unborn sea;
exhaustedly raging against the hour.

say you went numb
say it with conviction
to an expatriate heart, surrender
say everything, say nothing

Details | Greg Easley Poem

Subsequence, Part I

I

Our coalescent bodies,
align as gravestones in
mother's spacious palms;
she remains within the grove
nurturing bastard children
in her arms of oaken branches.

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Ogallala

where our great fields lie
stretched vast to the sky in rows
grain and grass grows
higher than our hats and far away
from lake or river

Ogallala
wet our tongues
let our harvest rise

tales were told to parties
passing through these parts
God hid a sacred sea
within His planet's belly
reached and deeply yearned for

Ogallala
wet our tongues
let our harvest rise

underneath fiery sun
and rainless summer sky
we do not starve, we do not thirst
for the miraculous place
of our subterranean waters