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  April 2015
volume 12 number 1
-table of contents-
  home   (archived)
  contributing poets
  Adeolu Emmanuel Adesanya
  Lynn Albanese
  Steven Alvarez
  Jonathan Beale
  Stefanie Bennett
  Jack G. Bowman
  Jennifer Bradpiece
  Don Kingfisher Campbell
  Michael Aaron Casares
  Beverly M. Collins
  William Crawford
  Pijush Kanti Deb
  Elisabeth Adwin Edwards
  John Elison
  Emily Fernandez
  Jeanie Greensfelder
  John Grey
  David Herrle
  Sonika Jaggi
  Strider Marcus Jones
  Phillip Larrea
  Emma Lee
  Marieta Maglas
  Matt McGee
  Christopher Mulrooney
  Dave Nordling
  Toti O'Brien
  Greg Patrick
  James G Piatt
  Frank Praeger
  April Salzano
  David Scriven
  LB Sedlacek
  Danielle Smith
  Jan Steckel
  Carl Stillwell
  Tim Tipton
  Philomena van Rijswijk
  Wanda Vanhoy Smith
  mailing list
Frank Praeger
April 2015



art by paradoxius

    Frank Praeger is a retired research biologist who has had poetry published in both the American, and UK literary journals.



No Longer

Or, or, or smashed clam shells,
broken pots
do not preclude nor
pressure despots
watchful for fissures
that I no longer can account for.
Configuring a racoon overhead, backing off from a skunk,
trying to match thing to thing;
a night's predilection for a
twilight's sanctuary. Forbidden games for
violated sites or giggling in the back room.
All to be swept away on falling further than sleep
that I no longer can account for.
A succulent restores the holder of testy remembrances,
who hoards the grains of peace,
who is saboteur of grace,
who is the entity that walks and walks
and will not be named,
who is continually in the way
rendering completely congested empty streets
that I no longer can account for.
Nothing to be made clearer,
not even thimblefuls of dust
to champion necessary heralds, corral high-heeled ladies,
assay each mouthful of water,
caught up in a greater vastness,
in night's lone vigil,
in sundowned paths to starry visitations,
that I no longer can account for.
My yeses pass my reach.
A diatom's message suspended,
turned off by a centipede's march.
Where was I?
Being paraded past playing cards,
their papered padded petulant ways
subsumed in a largeness of the outer air
about which there is so much to be sorry
that I no longer can account for.

copyright 2015 Frank Praeger