Stan Petrovich Poems

The nights were afire
In my salad days-
I found what I was after,
Counting the ways.
...

My heart is the eye
Of the hurricane:
A calm central wall
Divided from the stroms
...

Tristan Tzara, dada's papa,
Wrote that, if one can understand a piece
Of art, it is nothing but the product
Of journalism. I agree in ways piling up,
...

First, I can only think
Of the work, the strain, the backs, the bricks;
But the Egyptians had good medicine,
And it kept the workers going.
...

My Lord High-Thunderer,
You are in a deep well now,
Are you not?
The mad Caligula, a man of shallow waters,
...

I gaze far off
-Wearing a jump suit-
To the Home of the Kachina
Atop the great extinct volcanos
...

How could you?
I was waving goodbye in that photo
You were snapping it
A sapling I was
...

celeste left me hanging
she hung up the phone
we were at odds
changing
...

Ask why, if the maple trees get nervous
As the dry winds of October strip their leaves
And all are lost,
Do they fret?
...

Cloud Nine lived a life of fantasy,
Barely conceding the existence of Cloud Eight,
Who felt jealousy for Cloud Seven's
Silver lining,
...