Peter Chapman Poetry

the 25 top sailors

were talking civil war, telling stories out of school
as though they knew (winning sailors are pretty cool)
the ground they saw was good for dying,
the way it rolled and rose like the days
they turned the buoys all souls flying

Kim Richey is rocking hard

Polly is on the treadmill

my brother-in-law, who has lost his job,
is framed in sunlight in the front yard,
pausing from weeding, in his old hat
near the wheelbarrow, chatting with a girl
between the trees in a dapple of limey grass

her arms array the soldiers' stealth,
measuring their nearness now, and Steve
could lean his rake up for a gun

or push off a boat in the sideways light,
freedom sneaking through the hood

with the 25 top sailors to the far mark,
the delirious lift of duty and news
like you could visit briefly
then go, in danger always of what you know