The Wild Geography of Misplaced Things

David Rosenthal's debut poetry collection from White Violet Press

Sample Poems

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From A Windowmisplaced things cover

It isn’t snow — the petals from
the blossoms of a nearby tree
have harvested without a plum,
to gather on the ground below.

Around here we don’t often see
the strange and lovely, lonely glow
of Winter’s fallow imagery.
But then again, this isn’t snow —

and if it were, it wouldn’t be:
it always seems to disappear
before it has a chance to grow
the way I see it growing here.

But I forget, this isn’t snow —
the petals from a plum tree near
the fence have let their branches go
to take their chances on the air;

and nearly frozen from the flow,
the tree itself is almost bare,
except a lightly dusted layer
of crystal flakes that aren’t snow.

(previously published in Pivot and The HyperTexts)

District Annex

The district needs the space for cubicles –stonehenge-windmills
they’ll park their cars where children used to play.

The classrooms will be gutted and rebuilt,
the backstop, slide, and monkey bars will stay;

the rain will turn the garden plot to silt,
the sun will cause the murals to decay;

meanwhile, canvas swings will sag and fray
unused, unless the wind brings ghosts to play.

(previously published in Occupoetry)

The Test 

I know it’s coming, I just don’t know when.
I’ve lived too well too long to not have known
a horror that would stab me to the bone,
and lay my plans with those of mice and men.
Anticipation is a pathogen,Painted David Rosenthal
but not severe enough. I must atone
for all my comfort. All the seeds I’ve sown
will come to harvest, I just don’t know when.

I sowed them, so I know what seeds I’ll reap.
I have no wood to knock, no bets to hedge.
I signed the contract with a bleeding pen,
and now I have to let the imprint steep
until its cold diffusion nips the edge.
I know it’s coming. I just don’t know when.

(previously publishedin Blue Unicorn, Carapace, and The HyperTexts)

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Written by David Rosenthal

May 12, 2013 at 9:24 am

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