Two Poems
Damian Ward Hey
Time Was,
those birds would be cathedrals
laughs the cowlicked lad,
while skipping rocks
discovered in very hidden places.
Now, where did I put that fish?
asks the reluctant pelican,
his beak full-to-brimming
with the New World.
Don’t need but a quarter of an eye,
grumbles Harlan, the Barrel King,
who knows a thing or two,
about the sun setting in the west.
But, Later:
Farewells! from the Lurch-Eyed Queen:
It’s off to the hamster wheel, for me!
And the crowd went wild!
Apple pie for everyone!
June is a rainy month.
If she became even the least bit distracted,
she would burn the sugar.
He had known it the minute she landed.
The irony would be lost to no one.
Here, he had said. Let me help you with your baggage.
Your face is like a garlic knot, came her reply.
It was Sunday, and the storm clouds were gathering.
I don’t usually come in on Sundays, he told her.
Does it rain much, here? she asked,
her hair a mess in the wind of the convertible.
June is a rainy month, he said, and then —
Look, please just don’t burn the sugar.
What’s that supposed to mean? she asked.
He remembered the fish guts
he had once nearly stepped on, at the beach.
Don’t worry about it, he said, shifting gears.
Damian Ward Hey’s poetry has appeared in, among other places, Rat’s Ass Review; Heroin Love Songs; Neologism; Cajun Mutt Press; Voices from the Fire; Jerry Jazz Musician; Black Flowers; Madness Muse Press; Formidable Woman Sanctuary; The Rye Whiskey Review; They’re Conspiring against the Alien Buddha; and Birth - Lifespan Vol. 1. (Pure Slush). More will be published, shortly, in the anthologies, Poets with Masks On (Melanie Simms, Ed.); and milagros: easing the edges (d. ellis phelps, Ed.) Hey is a professor of English on Long Island and is the founding editor of Stone Poetry Journal.