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Joan Pond Poem
I look for a sign.
If I could see His footprints,
or some honest to God relics,
like a lock of His hair
or the ring He wore.
If the LaBrae Tar pit were filled
with haloes and harps
perhaps,
I could believe.
If there was a place like Graceland
where I could
touch His bathrobe and bedroom slippers,
Then,
my faith
wouldn’t have to be
so blind.
Copyright © Joan Pond | Year Posted 2014
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Details |
Joan Pond Poem
Men in her life were like the hamsters
she’d had as a child.
Left too long by a radiator,
they cooked.
Or, as the one she took,
limp,
from his shoe-box house;
he’d given up the ghost
when he couldn’t breathe.
It wasn’t easy remembering to give them
water and rodent feed.
Returning from school,
their bodies as lumps of clay;
where she’d left them in cages
to play with sharp objects.
Leslie would say,
“Men left to their own devices,
were like the hamsters
she’d had as a child.”
Copyright © Joan Pond | Year Posted 2015
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Details |
Joan Pond Poem
I wanted to write a poem
with such music and guitars, strumming.
I tried at the teeth of the sound
to draw up legions of noise.
I tried at the breakwater
to catch the star off each ship,
and at the closing of my hands
I looked for their homes;
I looked for their silences.
I found just one.
I look for uncomplicated hymns, now,
but love has none.
Copyright © Joan Pond | Year Posted 2018
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