Three Poems by Dan Provost

 

Kaleidoscope of Fragmented Sequences

 

We fought ourselves

being immoral.

 

Hours of empty imperfection,

tainted on broken windowsills.

 

Scurrying, like vermin to keep

the blood flowing.

 

Dripping on the panic below.

 

All unhappiness enters through

the wind of age.

 

The doors of thought.

 

There is no time to

devise a heaven.

 

The clock is ticking…

This, in the gist of humanity,

 

is not very important.

 

I see too many generalities while the naked feel soul.

 

Knowing the next story

on the palate will be dark,

cold—and everlasting. 

 

The Poor Kid (Pincus Form)

 

Dead

child

thought of

less often

now that the mine field

excavated panels of bones.

 

 

Ordinary (If I’m Permitted to Comment)

 

Another shopping cart,

pushed by an elderly couple.

 

Mid 70’s—lifers of

the town,

 

this is where

their dream dies…

 

Ordinary…

Ordinary…

 

I fake a grin as they

pass by, looking

for reassurance from

the man in the Celtics hat.

 

My own excursion to

Walmart reminds me of

 

who I am—

 

Ordinary, no sense

of remembering what I

was— (if I was ever anything)

when I die.

 

Just an extra guy who

shuffled in and out of necessary

walks, thoughts, and trips to the

grocery store.

 

Nothing significant or popular.

 

Ordinary life…

Ordinary death…

 

Dreams be damned.

 

Nothing new to see

Dan Provost’s poetry has been published throughout the small press for a number of years.  He is the author of fifteen books/chapbooks, including in 2022: The Third of Five, published by Alien Buddha Press, and Wolf Whistles Behind the Dumpster released by Roadside Press.  He is a three-time nominee for the Best of the Web and has read his works across the United States.  He lives in Berlin, New Hampshire with his wife Laura and dog Bella.