Emlyn Wentwhistle Poems

Three wet days,
and a ceacked rib to boot!
So much self inflicted pain
and every other thing
...

Each morning,
sometimes on the east side,
sometimes on the west side of the street,
I walk the quiet five minute stretch
...

Talking to myself

out loud
again
...

As the knot,
That held us through a faltering winter
Disentangles,
Unconstrained capricious spring
...

Maybe in New England in the Fall
with the trees all plush and plump like fireballs
and the waters still warmed by a patient sun
I'd write the poetry I should have done
...

In the glare of a thousand fluorescent lights,
these fledgling feet you'd think
might flail and flounder,
merely fail.
...

Thia is the Bauhaus
where lumbering maverick hands
-a kind of tragedy unfolding-
mould cumbersome laminate
...

To make a living
I hang out incommunicado in a classroom
looking for a centre-
the glue and mortar
...

No, not my amatory indiscretions
But the crumbs spilled from God's table.
Egg or chicken?
He made Himself an umlaut and saw that it was good.
...

Imagine if we
could avoid in words,
she said,
the garrulous complexities
...