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Dead Poets

Author Biography
Poetry By
  T.C. Powell

Published on: 4/12/2013

I was a poet
And I didn't even

Published on: 4/9/2013
Our Jellybean

Already gone
You were, as I lay along my wife,
Hand on her belly,
And whispered words of love to her.
To you.

Secretly dissolved from the dreams I'd had
Of peek-a-boo and museum trips;
Of pain—that too—like midnight flights
To the hospital, but 'only a case of gas, Dad.'
Only a bad case of gas!
Your eyes
(so much like your mother's?)
Were not even eyes.
Would not see sunsets.
Would not see rainbows.
Could not tear from sadness,
Rejection, or heartbreak,
Or loss.

oh my son oh my daughter
(a girl, she thought you were a girl)
Your cheeks
which weren't cheeks
I'll never kiss
Your hair
Which never grew
I'll not comb
But your heart
Which never beat
I'll keep in my own
For always.

Published on: 4/5/2013
Boorish Behaviors

I noticed
(I Did)
When 'hostess' Janie sat down with her brownie
For dessert
Ten guests watching with empty plates
But she never asked one
If they would like a brownie, too
(We Did)

And Albert
Who turned every conversation to him
To his job
As though all the world cares
(We Don't)
About the intricacies of computer programming
Or who's screwing whom
Behind office doors

Eric, I thought, played a great game
Of Poker
(He Did)
If Only
He could keep track of his turn, or the ante
Without needing to be reminded
Every single time

And Megan, oh Megan...
Whose children would not break apart
If she told them, on occasion,
Not to whine whine whine
Or if she won't
(She Won't)
At the least
She could pay them
Some attention

Rudest of all
If it needs saying
(It Does)
Was Myself
Who could not let these
Matters keep dark night's cover
But marked them all in a steady, cold gaze

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