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Four Poems by Leslie Tate

Their child is doing voices

‘All of us have a primitive prompter or commentator within, who from earliest years has been advising us, telling us what the real world is’ – Saul Bellow.

It is hot. Outside on the landing his parents
are in readiness, hushed for the show.
Hear him now, stirring.
The whiteness of his mind, at peace, a planet,
is studio enough
where, ice-still in echoes like a deepfreeze mariner,
he inhales to begin.

To preacher-perfect O’s mimicking the next doors.
And now the imperatives to weepy Olive Oyl,
hot talk, transmissions, dogfights and now,
waspish, with accent, lisping Daffy Duck,
scolding her charges in squeaky ’78.

Continue reading “Four Poems by Leslie Tate”

Traces by Lee Potts

Traces



As slow as the breathing

of the ancient giant

long said to sleep beneath

our town’s tallest hill,

snow piled up that week

against the edge

of pine needled forest floor,

then fell back like a cold ocean tide.

Continue reading “Traces by Lee Potts”

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