Having wasted my first fifty years I drift to the banks of the Mississinewa and sit
by James Owens
The stones here are stones,
the water is water,
and the spiny, fallen branches
are not bones.
Clouds keep sliding away,
and nothing clutches at the sky.
I clutch at the sky.
_______________________
Two books of James Owens' poems have been published: An Hour is the Doorway (Black Lawrence Press) and Frost Lights a Thin Flame (Mayapple Press). His poems, translations, and photographs appear widely in literary journals, including recent or upcoming pieces in Poetry Ireland, The Cortland Review, Town Creek Poetry, and The Stinging Fly. He divides his time between central Indiana and northern Ontario.
by James Owens
The stones here are stones,
the water is water,
and the spiny, fallen branches
are not bones.
Clouds keep sliding away,
and nothing clutches at the sky.
I clutch at the sky.
_______________________
Two books of James Owens' poems have been published: An Hour is the Doorway (Black Lawrence Press) and Frost Lights a Thin Flame (Mayapple Press). His poems, translations, and photographs appear widely in literary journals, including recent or upcoming pieces in Poetry Ireland, The Cortland Review, Town Creek Poetry, and The Stinging Fly. He divides his time between central Indiana and northern Ontario.
