The Poetry Of.
Dwight Bitikofer......................................
Watching For An Echo
Letters tapped in stealth of night
late hush
letters forming words
strung, deleted, cut and pasted
into sentences
or into the art form of a poem
sent
across the silent cyber canyons
blindly
staring at the icons
on the screen
waiting for the blink
of an echo
a reassurance
I am not alone
my universe not limited
by pastel walls
and gold braid curtains
I Thought I Am
I like to think
I am
a great poet
among the undiscovereds
accolades at readings
but no invitations
to perform
to publish
to send my voice out
on the waves of public radio
And no invitations to teach
extol
read in high places
No..........
humility
where I dwell on a phrase
not quite perfectly turned
a misty morning metaphor
an offsides simile like a team of words
spirited, but ragged at the edges
the rhyme a rickshaw ride
through Siam
I am
mucking a muddle
an alliteration puddle
of purpled prose in primrose
Great poet that I thought
I am
Ice Melted in Memory
Tingle of blue fingers sliding
red on numbness
hot breath air
and needles poke
skin from inside out
too close the fire
and roasting warmth
turns stinging pain
unthawing
frozen
skin
memory skating now on ice
thickened by the passing years
the numbing cold
a vapid air
of recall
not here but there
and there was the morning
my father crashed through
the ice on the pond
I see him flailing still
pieces of blue ice
splashes of brown water
caught in morning sun
fear
mine, not his, I think
then driving the old Chevy pickup
shivering
home from Uncle Allen's pasture
driving with skates still on his feet
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