Poetry

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Blankly we stare, nightly
at glowing screens
scrolling text and convenient images
frankly waiting
patiently, impatient and full of unspeakable suffrage,
the intolerable numbness of our time
is relieved by floods of pithy quotations and
bitter comments
these glowing eyes see into the lives of others
more interesting and satisfied
on the other side.
We are separated by panes of glass and miles of wires.

© 2005 Anthony Sell

 
 
 
It's a good thing to be drunk on Sundays
 
 
It's a good thing to be drunk on Sundays
because the cat is out of the house
and the car is fixed
for once the cold has missed this city
this month
the lamplights breathe, sigh
a gentle exhale
to the summer swells
smog and emissions
pool and swirl in the oilmist
on the maroon asphalt
grass that grows in the dark
cooling
and the neighbor's light is broken and silent
my rest is calm in my easy chair
the woes have flown
out the window with the cat
and I know you will be home later.

 
 
© 2005 Anthony Sell
Originally published in "The Sound of Poetry" CD Poetry Collection & Hardbound Edition, International Library of Poetry, Howard Ely, Editor. Editor's Choice Award.
 
 

 
 
Insufficient
 
 
I suppose it would not have been much to simply sit there and listen.
But it began again, that same argument that we've been having
for the past ten years.
"Listening never hurt anybody," my Mother would say to me
as I'd ball my fists and cover my eyes.
All the same, I had neither the patience nor the time to learn about
how wrong I was again.
 
So I left.
And in doing so, lost another opportunity.
 
When they found you the next morning,
it had happened sometime in the night.
"A look of calm," Mother said.
They called me at work, some hours later, and a meeting I left
went on without me. When the tears finally came, weeks had gone by.
Days of confusion, moments of realization, and hours of memories
that all had to be sorted and properly disposed of,
like the surgical gloves I wore when I last took your hand.

 
 
© 2002 Anthony Sell
Originally published in "Clouds Across the Stars, Letters from the Soul Series" (Page 109). Noah Bevins, Editor. MD: Watermark Press, The International Library of Poetry
 
 

 
 
© 2003 Anthony Sell
Originally published in "The Best Poems and Poets of 2003" (Page 1). Howard Ely, Editor. MD: Watermark Press, The International Library of Poetry
 
 

 
 
My Last Dollar
 
 

My last dollar walked out arm in arm with my last hope
for the month and my dignity.
 
Clint Eastwood’s bloody face is on the television
full of spite.
There is a woman on his arm who pretends that need is love.
 
The room is dark and there’s trash on the floor.
Someone has given up caring.
Someone should do something about that.
 
My soul aches for the things I should be doing
and my forehead pulses in time with the second hand of the clock.
 
Commercials and talking heads grab at my eyes
like rodents, or barefoot children, clamoring for attention.
I shut it off and sit disgusted.
My mood is black enough to dim the lamp.
 
Water that should be beer
slips past my tongue, grey and tasteless.
My lips are cracked.
 
The pressures of disbelief
repercussions of doubt
mold new patterns of behavior,
mistakes and poor choices.
I am no better than a piece of coal
full of potential, to burn, to shape
a diamond I will become, but not yet.
Now, I’m only a lump of dirt.
 
The man wanted me to respond, please.
To acknowledge his question
It’s good to want things.
The man wants me to be something else
and I want to smash his face for being what he is
and for being what I’m not.
No one gets what they want.

 
 
© 2007 Anthony Sell