The October Featured Poet is Brian Rosenberger

Please feel free to email Brian at: brosenberger@earthlink.net

SORT OF DEAD

While walking the dogs, Rufus, Max, and Lulu,
All Dachshunds and all adorable,
It started to rain, a slight drizzle.
The clouds had been dark and threatening all morning.
It was only a question of when and that answer was now.
I turned down a side street, hoping to cut our normal walk short
And avoid the cloud burst and having to dry wet dogs.
Amidst the wind blown leaves, there in the middle of the street,
Something dead.
At first, I thought it was a squirrel.
Our neighborhood is very wooded. Lots of trees.
Squirrels are not uncommon. Nor dead squirrels
Who weren’t fast enough to avoid cars.
It wasn’t a squirrel. Squirrels, even dead ones, don’t have teeth that big.
I though it might be a cat. There’s the occasional stray or outdoor cat
That, unlucky for them and their owners, wind up as food for coyotes.
We see and hear coyotes in the neighborhood along with wild turkeys and deer.
This was neither a cat, coyote, turkey, nor deer.
Cats have big teeth but the tail was too thin and hairless.
It must be a rat. One big rat. Or maybe some type of mutant opossum.
Then the damn thing moved and I didn’t care what it was nor did my dogs.
Definitely dead now.

DAYTIME LULABY 

While we slept, the last humans
Raced through the streets,
Past our home, rejoicing.
They ran, celebrating Life, the Sun,
The freedom to run, and each other.
They ran to the point of exhaustion
And then ran more.
Desire drives them.
We understand desire.
Now they rest.
When the Sun replaces the Moon,
And our slumber is over,
It will be out time to run.
And the last of the humans
Will run from us.

YELLOW TAPE

Saturday.
No work. No rat race. No one hour plus commute.
No water cooler gossip about office politics, local or national news,
Nothing about sports, celebrities, the weather, or corporate back stabbing.
A chance to be human again.
I unwind at the Park. It’s an escape.
Given my small town roots and now living
In a Mid-sized and growing city,
It’s my time to disconnect and reconnect.
A chance to be me, not some soulless, worker drone.
I’m more than just a name tag and a cubicle.
But today, yellow tape prevents me from my normal
Saturday morning stroll.
I’m not the only one put out.
I see joggers, and people with strollers, people with dogs,
People with people.
All wondering what’s going on in the Park?
Yellow tape. Crime scene. No admittance. No entry.
Quietly, I watch the chaos unfold. Smiling.
I once read something about how it takes far less muscles
To smile than to frown.
I smile.
The Park serves as a great hunting ground
But maybe it’s time I find a new burial ground.

Brian Rosenberger lives in a cellar in Marietta, Georgia and writes by the light of captured fireflies. He is the author of As the Worm Turns and three poetry collections. He is also a featured contributor to the Pro-Wrestling literary collection, Three-Way Dance, available from Gimmick Press.