Bart Edelman | 3 Poems

Static

Always drawn to static.
The more disturbances, the better.
I’m at home with noise—
On any measureable level:
High, low, somewhere in between.
It’s the quiet I despise,
Eerie silence my enemy,
And empty space of all kinds;
That’s where demons dwell.
Just give me the rat-tat-tat,
Day in, day out, night after night.
Really, sleep is for the squeamish—
This I know far too well.
Yes, I’m content when wide awake,
For as long as it takes
To celebrate what sounds abound
In disorder so diffuse,
The din is my reward.


Fist and Glove

You train for the bout—
A contest you can’t lose,
If you’re to retain
The belt around your waist,
Tight as it is each month.
You’re more than ready
To put it all on the line:
Jog, lift, spar, weave,
Because this is what you know—
The world of fist and glove,
Body and soul colliding
In the ancient ring of fire.
You’re tired beyond repair,
But you can rest one day
When the accolades fade—
Ropes of sweat left behind.
Now you hit the heavy bag,
Waiting for the next palooka
To take his chance,
Box you until the blood
Trails down your face—
Pure joy, alive.


Belonging

To everything a place—
This sense of belonging—
Home as we crave it,
Where life begs to be lived,
If only for the moment,
Hour, day, week, month—
Whatever time grants us.
Here, there is space enough,
Ample room we claim,
Despite how the earth spins,
One revolution after another.
Yes, locate the harbor,
By any means possible.
Bring relinquished faith.
Curl into calm so vast,
You’ve never known its joy.


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