The River Primavera

Not to masturbate
for lovers long gone
I learned there that night
shooting my semen into the river.
My heart was beating.
The moon was her boobies.
She held my brow.
My semen bubbled, foamed-up,
and drifted away.
I write the Senate Commissioner’s Bill.
My penis hangs low
on the banks of the Potomac.
I’m an inside traitor.
The cattail wavers. I go away
through the darkness
commissioned in
the last century.


– Poetry by Wes tewkMehrtin
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Turn To The Land

Let us turn to the land.
You and me.
You.
From this pollution.
The purpose of humans.
Turn. Turn. Turn to the land.
Or abandon the pollen fallen
from willows.
At night the stars show
then in day still burning.
We refute such odd existence.
Being but not yearning.
So turn as a plow turns,
turn as the leaf turns,
turn as the tree turns.
Turn from the rock, bone,
threshed into soil.
Turn. Turn. Turn to the land.

– Poetry by Wes tewkMehrtin
from:
Humble,Humble Love thumbnail image  Humble, Humble Love (poetry book)