Morality And Mortality

I’m wrong.

I’m full of mortality.

Portions of me
were an orange from Valencia.

Portions of me
spoke to my classmates
in an auditorium in college.

Portions of me
walked through the Agora
at midday
with pieces of billion year old
dust all around.

I’m wrong.

I’m full of mortality.

You turn your eyes away from
these words.

You’re wrong too.

The evening sky burns pink and
orange.

: : Poetry from tewkMehrtin

The Inequalities Of Women

She lived
while other women
in her church
died,
got breast cancer,
had heart attacks,
grew old.
Her arms stayed thin
on the bone
while others got fat
and flabby,
marbled with vericose veins
and their breath grew
stale and sour.
She looked at the sad
excuse of aging men
around her,
loved her husband
nonetheless.
She knows this is what
our way of life has
to offer,
so she lived
between the trips to
the nursing home
to visit friends
and the turning of the
Bible pages.

The Chum Date Never Made Her Wedding

Mature with me
Be immature
Hide the salt and pepper shakers
Grown old
Your bones
won’t have the chance again
to do stupid things
Fickle flicks
Preserve self image
The undead are dying
The dead live upon our breaths
The dead babies are being forgiven
in heaven
He has stale bready breath
Hide the salt and pepper shakers
Make rain
Look at the windows on Main Street
Down there she killed herself
ultimately
Mature with me
Be immature
Pull away
Now the funeral procession
heralds the west winded ghosts
and the cafe waits back in childhood
They’re tracing over couches
Your parents while crying
drove the car home
for their tender memories
past the corn fields and shopping strips
the red airplane hanger


– Poetry by Wes tewkMehrtin
READ POETRY tewkMehrtin animated gif image

Appointment With Directors

Chase the hills in Mexico,

followed the tones of your skin into shadows,

by the morning the sun was there

all eyes were open
and the beaches bartered eternity,

I reached for a tortilla.

The moss and mold hid, then fell apart
underneath
the eyes of the onward looking directors of Universe.

Afternoon cascaded down your legs
dribble dribble
and my head feels so good,
I smell the old plants,

let me eat the oranges in a still room,
god damnit, I am like an old man.


– Poetry by Wes tewkMehrtin
READ POETRY tewkMehrtin animated gif image

Three Ages For Women

A middle aged woman
driving underneath a
midsummer’s thunderstorm
in a Kia hatchback.

She used to be attractive,
but now she doesn’t see
women who look like her
in the magazines these days.

She’s a teacher.

Had her hand chopped off
in a combine
working in cornfields in Kansas
as a teenager.


– Poetry by Wes tewkMehrtin
READ POETRY tewkMehrtin animated gif image

Spell

Who’s been noticing
the urine stains in my underwear?
Who requested
the memories that I lost?
Who’s been etching a rock
upon is claimed “there is asylum”?

. . . the Apostles?

Who cuts the grass
when the current lawn boy moves away
(not from this place, but from himself)?
Will the next lawn boy stay,
and find meditation
in his chores of repetition?

. . . all of us . . . do we?

Who fed me sodium all my life?
In amounts extreme;
an addiction to such spice
my liver must I trust.

The timbers of my blood have fallen.
Do you have the courage of imagination
to raise them?
Do you know the conifer-king of
ionized ever-greens?

. . . only one;
the answer or the question,
the human or the animal.


– Poetry by Wes tewkMehrtin
READ POETRY tewkMehrtin animated gif image