Egbert Simcox Poems

Boulders flee incising blasts,
Whining diesels gather for surgery.
Mastectomy in shale and granite
Shuffled chaos of ruble and silt,
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Your Birth, My Joy

Days are those little markers,
Like railroad ties clicking
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Children of peasant pioneers
Hardened by wilderness and want,
Their youth in wagons or atop mules,
Called after eighty, they rode to their graves in automobiles.
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Diplomats

Another cocktail.
Dry smiles and banalities
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A gentle flame to me you are,
One that warms, never singeing,
Heals, feeds, succors, lights my way.
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Hold, testy Rabbi.
Save anathemas for more sublime sins.
I wither now without your curse.
Why no fruit?
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Mom’s End


Hurrying metal embraces flesh
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