Gene Twaronite poems

Death at the Mall

We walk there to escape the heator the pall of ourcoffined lives. We are a rag-tag lot,from the lithe, pony-tailed womanwho waves as she whizzes past me, to seniors with walkers and trekking poles,stepping cautiously towardwhatever future awaits, big families sprawled across the aisles,briefly trying to hold it all togetheragainst the forces spinning them apart, […]

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Write Me a Poem

about the death of an old dogdying alone by the side of a road,growling softly as he thinks ofthat calico cat he so despisedand loved to chase,remembering the last stroke behind his earsby the homeless old womanwho lived in the underpass. My chatbot muse pauses briefly,then out pours a poemabout a quantum poochwho exists in

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Two Poems

The Burping Seal A lone Tupperware with sky blue lid, it lives on in my kitchen, a reminderof all it once held—loving leftovers of Mom’s greasy kugel or kielbasa,mincemeat cookies, coleslaw or apple pie. Its skin is worn soft from fifty yearsof washing and handling. Back and forthit went from her place to mine. I

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Remnants

I stare at the photographof a bare-chested 18-year-oldtrying to look brutish,crouching as ifready to pounce,projecting his masculinitylest the image fade. Our cells are no longer the same,but he still lives inside me,staring out fromhis secret chamber,where in one corneris a small tablewhere he praysand gazes upwardat Jesus in agony—a votive candle flickers. What would we

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“Demystifying Poetry” Workshop

I will be leading a free workshop on “Demystifying Poetry” as part of my Writer in Residence for Pima County Public Library, on Wednesday, June 7, from 2-3:30 PM, at Dusenberry-River Library in Tucson.(https://pima.bibliocommons.com/events/64484d6d73e31d2900b46643) Geared for a general audience of poets, poets-to-be, or those who simply wish to find out more about this deeply imaginative

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Knight Moves

Playing chess with my computer,I struggle to relearnwhat, where, and how to moveand now all I see is squares—bathroom and floor tiles, crossword puzzles,the checkered blouse of the lady in front of me—as pawns plod forward in dull straight paths,rooks zoom about in their rows and columns,bishops whiz diagonally back and forth,while king steps cautiouslyone

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Tracks in the Surf

Can you read this? Most days, my words look more like tracks of a sandpiper skittering along the edge of the sea. But I see them clearly now—o blessed words! There’s so much I want to say before they leave me again and I must go back to that inarticulate cell, as memories play out

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Sex Shop Sestina

I chose to write this poem in an unusual and complex French form called a sestina. You may notice that throughout the poem there are six words that occur at the end of each of the first six stanzas. And as if that isn’t difficult enough, these six words must be used in a precisely

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