PAUL SOHAR

THE NAKED TRANSVESTITE AGAIN (AND AGAIN)

You're riding a nude bicycle

with the handlebar

poking at a memory breeze

the sunshine says the stiff rod

in your hand wants to make a turn

but there's no corner coming up

the ginkgoes of the street chant

the bicycle needs a heavier

and darker coat of paint

and who knows what else

shows up on the screen

and who's watching it

your breath may silk

the air around you and pink it too

but you'd better pedal fast

TEN STEPS IN ONE PLACE

At the end the ball

knocks the soccer players off the field.

Only grass stays standing.

            *

The blind man shakes his head,

doesn't believe in the sun.

Darkness another lie.

            *

A lone maple takes its

shadow for a walk on the lawn.

A breeze holds the leash.

            *

The clock stops in the bank.

An indoor cemetery with

rows of grave-still desks.

            *

Green light on the box.

The cat inside the tv is asleep

with her eyes open.

            *

The groundhog raises

its head high above the grass.

Let's vacuum the rug.

            *

Give me air. Give me wind.

Give me a fan or silence.

Take these walls away.

            *

At dawn the window

and I start glaring at each other.

Raindrops stare back at us.

            *

Pillows sleep all day.

At night they tell us

all about their dreams.

            *

The two hands keep racing

tardily around the clock.

The spokes of a broken wheel.

DYNAMITE

(The Explosions of a Villanelle)

who has given you the right

to chew it like a fish fillet

and stand there spitting dynamite?

yes, you can savor every bite

you have picked out from the tray

but who has given you the right

to share its old  metabolite?

try to taste what others say

instead of spitting dynamite

whatever caused the plight

of barbs and arrows to wither away?

Who has given you the right

                                                                                                                     

to switch from the nimble and light

weapon of humorous essay

and stand there spitting dynamite?

your words echo the halls of night

not a well directed play –

who has given you the right

to stand there spitting dynamite?

Paul Sohar has been writing and publishing in every genre, including seventeen volumes of translations. His own poetry: Homing Poems(Iniquity Press), The Wayward Orchard (Wordrunner Press) and In Sun’s Shadow (Ragged Sky, 2020). Prose: True Tales of a Fictitious Spy (Synergebooks) and a collection of one-act plays from One Act Depot (Canada, 2014).