Monday, November 3, 2014

Three poems by JD DeHart

Name is Not

Do not call me the cardboard one
or mistake me with the guy
lumbering across the hall,
swinging his well-intentioned yardstick.
Look at my face closely, I beg them,
do not simply see me as representation
of the title on my desk, a cartoon figure
casting all the projections of prior experience,
but a real flesh figure, blood being,
pulsing and variable, with a name and purpose.

The Mess

Life is messy, the wise sage,
Teaching is messy business,
so I picture spills in each seat,
a slight overlapping of intention.
They are lips and thoughts, ever
so subtly out of place, pushing
and resisting, attempting to secure
a foothold, a place in the world,
to move the Archimedean earth
even with a surging tide of inquiry.


I was shed like snakeskin,
left in the dry sun with no water,
no sweaty palm to rest on my aching
blistered back.  Small crabs began
to scutter across my new flesh.
I know the feeling of being hollowed,
cast aside, and disregarded.
This is why I do not go to parties
unless they are small and I know
most of the people there.

JD DeHart is the author of the chapbook, The Truth About Snails.  His blog is and he is a staff writer for Verse-Virtual.

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