A reading by myself of my poem Pneumonia.


it was February

she remembered
because there
were still potatoes
in the cellar

every time
she went down
there
the dirt floor
smelled like the frozen soil
they had chipped away
to bury his tiny body

her husband had wept
as he swung the heavy pick ax
each blow an explosion
of his grief

in the spring
there were iris
lilies too
a little hill like
a potato mound
in the woods
ferns

green
as the world

Pneumonia

The Commodity of Speech

these are your words
not mine

I just borrowed them
for a bit
to write this poem

I wish I had words
of my own
I really do

they would look nice
next to the couch say
or spread out across
the pasture 
with all that milkweed
and clover

if I had words of 
my own
I think I would never
let them out

instead I would
bury them 
somewhere secret

shoved in a rusty old jar 
beneath the barn 
where
that one fat raccoon
still hides

waiting for nightfall
to steal another egg

The Commodity Of Speech

The Botanist's Lover


it seemed so innocent 
at first

how carefully
she slipped his feet
into that great clay pot 
gently padding
soft compost 
about his toes

how warm and pleasant
the man remarked

every day 
she would sprinkle him
with rosewater
and tiny diamonds

her tendrils
entwined so gently
he barely noticed
how his breath 
had ceased
his body 
leaning towards
a window
searching 
for the light

do you love me 
she asked

I think so

maybe

his words
fluttering towards
the floor

rustling

John Gurney