Biography of Art Rosch
Born by mistake on Planet Earth, originally
assigned a more paradisical world in a distant
galaxy. Finding myself here, I made what
adaptations were possible, and have constructed
a reasonable life in which I play music, do
photography (at which I even make some money)
and write all kinds of literature.
My photography has been published in Pop Photo,
Shutterbug, etc and can be found at www.artsdigitalphoto.com
Art Rosch's Works:
I had a short story published in Playboy Magazine,
and it won 'Best Short Story of the Year' in
1978. Poetry publications include 'Feral Tenderness'
by Bozongo Press, and 'The Life and Times of
Ricardo Tacobueno' by Barking Platypus Books.
Art Rosch Poems
Two Very Early Short Poems
The tree limb from which the bird has just flown rocks in the early morning light.
Three Very Brief Poems
The beast of the cosmos staggers, wounded by the weapon of its own life.
A Jew Talks To God In The Twenty First C...
I’ll be honest, God. This world is embarassing. Is this the realm where You rested on the seventh day and said,
Six By Seven
This up still pleasure in center. Still this up in pleasure center. Center in pleasure still up this. Pleasure this up in center still.
The New Neighbor
Everyone is looking at death as if it were a new neighbor that just bought a house down the street.
Oh lord, oh lord, what has befallen me? That which I hoped to make straight only becomes more twisted.
If you have asked yourself the question “why am I so crazy”? the answer is simple. You are crazy with grief.
My heart would be completely full, but for the tiniest speck of emptiness. All my sight of myself rushes into that hole,
Prayer For 2009
Show me the way, Lord. I am always your student. I am always in love with you. I am always willing to change myself
There is always one bird in the earliest hour of the day who raises a song, with heartrending joy.
Oh lord, oh lord,
what has befallen me?
That which I hoped to make straight
only becomes more twisted.
That which should be understood
only becomes more strange.
How did I come to this unexpected shore?
And what am I to make of the walking wreck of myself?
It’s true, I can still think, still work,