Three Poems by A. C. MacDonald

Andrew Cyril MacDonald

A meager detritus

To father in the culvert’s sands

peels layers of emotion

our pillows brim of.

Adolescent fear’s the first among them.

So we do it…

but our dances therein a

vendetta underscores as the

last lover you were catching

sieves my bones quick dead

to lead them thin from this

your favoured field, its trough

that’s his to bother.

I carry off then a furtive thing,

cramped and poor of measure

with boredom to outlast any

will to renounce us.

Accidental tourists

We put our bests on and let the drama

gloss all traces of the Sunday afternoon

its silence we dare not break.

Tiny urchins quick approve,

come across and thrust their palms out

to lift the borders of our tilted economy.

We show no disgust, though,

knowing what we’d come from as they call,

pink tongues in refrain blindness fathers

that we stand still, not afraid

but indolent before

their passion unknown.

Holding you loose in the instant,

you leave my side quickly,

churning change over and over

to walk back where I couldn’t go—

an angel that bends to offer

and suffering relieves them.

Hero Medusa

She lays before them

snares they’ll fall of

these half-grimace men of soft encounter.

There’s laughter in this

as cold stares fix brawn

and a bed retorts what she cannot help it,

the mind static in stone

her legend makes fashion.

But the night’s consideration excuses

so that a god’s punishment

fades-out before them

in glad instants nothing compares to.

Andrew Cyril Macdonald scrutinizes the particulars of relationship and values the role of memory in poetic experience. He is published both online and in print but admits increasing preference for the former. When not writing he is passionately teaching a future generation of poets.

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