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Poetry Breakfast

Serving a little poetic nourishment every morning. Start your day with our new expanded menu. Poems, of course, are our specialty. But we will also be serving a fuller menu that includes poetry book reviews to feed poets' and poetry lovers' souls.

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Peter M. Gordon

The Regulars by Peter M. Gordon

The Regulars
by Peter M. Gordon

They pile drinking money on the bar
Seamed faces under faded caps
Beer foam flecks their lips

Buy them a round of Bud
More dead soldiers join their comrades
Smoke exhales color the air

Listen
As they
Swap stories

Frigid hill in Korea
Scraping a hole out of hard ground
With a dull bayonet

Rushing a bridge over the Rhine
Tracers whined shells exploded
Running faster as their buddies fell

Over the top at Belleau Wood
Leveled muskets at Cold Harbor
Formed ranks on the green at Lexington

Sit on the same tired stools
Where bartenders start pouring
Soon as the door pushes open

Join the regulars
Nothing will hurt you
Not on their watch

Peter M. Gordon has worked as a theatre director, writer, teacher, television programmer, and producer. He always loved reading poetry, and began writing poetry a few years ago when an essay he was writing about his oldest son came otu as a poem. He lives in Orlando, Florida, where he’s a member of the First Monday Poetry Group. Peter’s poems most recently appeared in 34th Parallel Magazine and in “Poetry to Feed the Spirit.” Peter also writes a content development blog: www.myprogramidea.blogspot.com

Jim by Peter M. Gordon

Jim
by Peter M. Gordon

After midnight at our thirty-fifth reunion I
Walked away from the disco DJ and open bar
Into a flagstone-covered side courtyard

Ten gargoyles crouched on cornices
Leered while I hummed the
Melody Jim taught me

The four brick walls and threadbare
Oak looked the same as when
Jim wrapped harmonies

Around my thin reedy notes
Giving me permission to sing

Just after our twenty-fifth reunion
Hushed words flew between classmates

I e-mailed him to say I’d pray
He died anyway
Without a word or song from me

I lifted my voice one last time
From the depths of this stone well

Jim strolled out from his old entryway
Harmony bounced off stone sconces

We sang oldies until dawn painted
The sky rose and vermillion

Jim went ahead back inside
Like he always did
Waited for me to follow

 

Peter M. Gordon has worked as a theatre director, writer, teacher, television programmer, and producer. He always loved reading poetry, and began writing poetry a few years ago when an essay he was writing about his oldest son came otu as a poem. He lives in Orlando, Florida, where he’s a member of the First Monday Poetry Group. Peter’s poems most recently appeared in 34th Parallel Magazine and in “Poetry to Feed the Spirit.” Peter also writes a content development blog: http://www.myprogramidea.blogspot.com

Problem Set by Peter M. Gordon

Problem Set
by Peter M. Gordon

How does 165 pounds of carbon-based matter
Become aware of itself?
Compose opera, play baseball
Love, worship, fear and hate?
Search through ancient parchment fragments
Mounds of philosophy texts
Digital servers in the cloud
Crowded with wise podcasts
Sweep them with a cosmic broom
Into the Universal dustpan
Next to pinheads covered with
Countless dancing angels
Pile them in a celestial bonfire
Kindled with old doctoral theses
Watch the blazing conflagration
Disintegrate potential solutions
Exposing, finally
That naked, hairy
Last Question.

Peter M. Gordon has worked as a theatre director, writer, teacher, television programmer, and producer. He always loved reading poetry, and began writing poetry a few years ago when an essay he was writing about his oldest son came otu as a poem. He lives in Orlando, Florida, where he’s a member of the First Monday Poetry Group. Peter’s poems most recently appeared in 34th Parallel Magazine and in “Poetry to Feed the Spirit.” Peter also writes a content development blog: http://www.myprogramidea.blogspot.com

Trickster by Peter M. Gordon

Trickster
by Peter M. Gordon

Coyote discovers Florida
Our Hopi trickster god
Colonizes Appalachicola
Dwells in the central swamp
Amidst Seminole ghosts

I see Coyote’s sign while walking my dogs
Eviscerated possums on side streets
Emptied abandoned garbage cans
Paw prints leading to greenbelt
Guarded by thick kudzu and wire grass

Coyote’s short sharp barks
Call my dogs
They strain against the leash
To join his battles with gators
Sparrowhawk and black bear

Does Coyote miss
Dry washes and desert?
Or like John Smith
Sailing up the James river
Does he revel in the land of abundance?

Peter M. Gordon has worked as a theatre director, writer, teacher, television programmer, and producer. He always loved reading poetry, and began writing poetry a few years ago when an essay he was writing about his oldest son came otu as a poem. He lives in Orlando, Florida, where he’s a member of the First Monday Poetry Group. Peter’s poems most recently appeared in 34th Parallel Magazine and in “Poetry to Feed the Spirit.” Peter also writes a content development blog: http://www.myprogramidea.blogspot.com

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