Five Poems by Robert Fleming

 

Interview (I) with the Forrest (F)

 

I:          How did you get your name?

F:         Webster named me

 

I:          Why do trees gather?

F:         To make more trees

 

I:          When was the first forest?

F:         Trees have no memory

 

I:          Where does the forest start?

F:         Seeds on the wind

 

I:          What do for fun?

F:         Gossip about bushes

 

I           Who are trees?

F:         God look-ups

 

 

Sores came before the nose

 

before dinosaurs there were Sores

Sores were above ground

Sores went below ground to the outer core

Sores sculped rocks into poles to

pole from the lithosphere to the outer core

you don’t know Sores are around

except except when you listen to your snore sounds

 

 

when all water is drained what is left?

 

before humans are oven-ed humans are play-doh

our 27,759 days are days to be baked

if baking is not your cooking try broil or fry

375^o rises humans from dough into

a baby / child / adult / corpse

if you stay in your yellow plastic play-doh container

you’ll never be a green-hand-rolled-gardener-snake

 

when diplomacy fails turn to goats

 

Henry Kissinger is not a farm-man

a spectacle wearing urban dweller

not a limber gymnast

 

in 1973 Henry slumbers under a Vietnam silo

ten green goat beards bah

flying to New York J.F.K. airport in eight hours

 

diplomacy negotiations with Le Duc Tho stall

Henry and Le Du un-shoe to yoga’s easy pose

two does ring bells and push Henry’s knees

 

what will Henry tell president Richard Nixon?

Tho reads Tripitaka to the bucks in Vietnamese

as Tho and Henry do the tree pose a no slaughter concession is crowned

 

 

Lung Apple

 

legs are pistons in a pool

frogging to the lane return

I am the boy swimmer who swims

the longest not the fastest

at Westmount pool splash

kick & dunk Sam under

we bop up, Sam’s nose

bubbles, stops bubbling,

Sam’s down, Sam wins the non-

breathing contest.

three-ten-second whistles

my bottom blue wrists on the concrete edge

lungs pop once

still air-water-lungs make bubbles

Robert Fleming lives in Lewes, DE. Published in United States, Canada, England, Ireland, and Australia. Member of the Rehoboth Beach and Horror Writer’s Association. 2022 winner of San Gabriel Valley CA broadside-1 poem, 2021 winner of Best of Mad Swirl poetry and double nominated for Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net. Follow Robert at https://www.facebook.com/robert.fleming.5030