Chicano Poet

Wednesday, May 25, 2005

The Shell Game

“Awright, boys and girls,
we’re going to play
the shell game,

nothing up my sleeve---
oops, forgot to shave---
like I was saying,

nothing up my sleeve
but moose hair.
Is she under this shell?

Is she under this shell?
Is she under this shell?
She’s got to be under one of them,

each shell has a different sky,
this one has a bluish white-speckled sky,
this one has a moonlit one,

this one has a cicada sky,
noisy with poetry at one time,
silent with poetry at another.

The cicada girl crawls up
Bullwinkle’s sleeve,
making him either a liar or a scoundrel.

I wish she were crawling up my sleeve,
her nails digging into my arm,
a sweet pain radiating to the heart,

the red scratch marks last all week,
yes, lasting long enough for me
to savor her poetry again.


At 3:11 AM, Anonymous Anonymous said...

said the shell to the poet

If I'm hiding in a sand dollar,
brush the past away;
put me in your pocket;
in your hands I'll be precious.

If I'm hidden in a shell,
keep me near you;
coax me out of the maze
with a whisper.

If you can only find me
in your dreams,
close your eyes,
feed me your breath;
nurture me with your words.


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