The Muse

(An International Journal of Poetry)

ISSN 2249 Ė2178

 

Volume-3                                                      DECEMBER -2013                                           Number-2

 

††††† †Our Star

 by Francine Witte

 

is really the sun, and billions of miles

away, maybe someone is wishing on it,

wishing for a last desperate chance at love.

But here I am, on this beach where people

stretch out like dead exclamation points,

tanning themselves to our star.  Nearby,

a wave breaks.  Pebble and salt and soapy

foam.  I wonder how far that wave could

have gone without the beach to stop it?

I pick up a grain of sand, infinitesimal,

but this is how our start might look to that

billion-mile lover.  I picture him a human

wave, aching to break past his own beach-locked

future, finally able to get whatever he could

wish for on some distant pin of light.

 

 

 

In prehistory

 by Francine Witte

 

there was only

geology; rocks

and earth scar

and ash.

 

            Lonely

hemisphere.  Didnít

yet get the forecast

of people.  Didnít

suspect the revolution

of man, animals.

 

grief.  History

remembers this:

dictators, the rise

of mountains, manís

invention of grief.