Eddie Roa Poems

Let’s not talk about terrorism, write, nor broadcast it
No more the sight of blood and gore from dismembered
Carcasses of men and women, young and old, and the tender flesh
Of babies scattered, alighting on treetops and eaves of houses
...

listless on a sofa,
on a mental walkabout,
upon a surreal scene,
of crumbly purple glades
...

She appeared softly into my twilight
In her trail a brilliant mane flowed
Like a cloud with myriad tiny suns and stars
An opalescent mantle of dreams and fantasies
...

Bare feet on glistening wet grass
A chorus of leaves rustling, humming
Wake my soul from its stupor
...

You gave your love
Nonchalantly, obliviously
Like a day passing its memory
To tomorrow.
...

Don’t change the linen yet
It’s still warm
With charm and laughter
...

Why can't a modernist be
more like an imagist? said one

A modernist's craft it seems
...

Wipe that sardonic smile
Your teeth are showing through
Jagged and glistening
They gnash exceedingly harsh
...

When we got through our scholastic years
And have returned to youthful stomping grounds
Hello again to the sweet reality of being extramural
Relieved from reading tome upon heavy tome
...