Enter Home Planet News Poetry of Issue #4                        Page 39
                                   
Table of
Contents



As if I Were Death Himself

The picture shows two bridges,
spokes on a bicycle wheel
that traverse the river.
No open ground. Skyscrapers
interspersed with roads,
tenements, the odd tree.

The rest of the city lost in a haze.

Two barges, lazy, on the river.
Multitude of ant-sized cars
scurry through suspension
on their way to work, home,
lunch, affairs, the park,
perhaps the place
this photographer stood
as he pushed the button

this place that no longer is

        Robert Beveridge


The Kingdom


I woke up
yesterday morning
and didn't know
where I was

in an unfamiliar bed
with a woman lying
next to me
I didn't know

she woke up
and called me daddy

and still looked unfamiliar

so I got in my car
that I didn't recognize
and drove west
along highways
I'd never seen before
numbered
in an alphabet
I didn't know

I stopped last night
at a bar
without a name
thankful they knew
what bourbon is


        Robert Beveridge


House of Stairs

The abyss is tiered.
I stand on the top step
barefoot, warm white
beneath, steps stretched
into eventual darkness.
The floor is smooth marble?
porcelain? Behind me,
to my sides, only black.
Nowhere to go but down.
One step, the next, the next,
the next, and the darkness
at the bottom never changes,
only moves. Around me
the sound of other
footsteps. Other walkers
who stare into the dark
and go down, down farther.
I pull my gaze away, look up:
thousands of walkers
on every endless step all stare
and march in line,
synchronized somnambulists.
My eyes drift back to the center,
to the dark. I wonder when
we'll all hit bottom.

Robert Beveridge__

Scored Charcoal

whispered piece of parchment
echoes the sentiments
of the dead lemming.
Rays of eyes collide
and prove nothing
nothing.


        Robert Beveridge__



before
©Antarctic by Michael Lee Johnson