Maxwell’s Poetry Corner 

By Maxwell Redder



circle of intellects brewing
over film, undermining, photography
and drinking homebrews

one called Eight and a Half
unabashed with black and whites
flashing forward like a carousel

carousing laughter over emotions, undermining,
photography, and spinning: drinking
homebrews: eight hops

mixed and brewed for bursting
contrast: unabashed photographs
mimic tectonic cityscapes

papers stacked high and falling:
sheets canvassing the room
drifting like dandelion seeds; blown.



One hundred teeth whistling
as they slice at infinite air,
begging to eat again –

knotty pine paired gracefully,
slathered with slick cherry stain.
Walnut planks, a risky chew
dense enough to chip a tooth.
Molding made of dust
stiffened with glue then wrapped
in printed paper designs.

Meat may be more gourmet;
finger flesh with bone and marrow,
spitting blood in one delicate chop.
Wrist up for the gluttonous.
Aluminum would be no match,
may even spark if gnawed
sadistically enough.

One hundred whistling, ever-starving,
teeth driven viciously by their spinning
motor will happily bite bone; make love
then blow the drifting dust leftovers
farther from the bottomless belly
of the churning, maddened teeth.
The obsessive gluttons.

One hundred teeth whistling, again,
whistling, whistling, and yearning,
suffering from their hunger pains.


Worn Leather Brown

The soft spoken beggar’s eyes,
laden amongst a city of suits
passing without smile, met with mine.
Worn, leather brown in color,
crooning without words; requesting
crumbs of respect. They could cause
a sinkhole just by staring at the road.
They had a smoldering lightness,
like a child writing letters on the wine-stained
sky with a lit and dancing Sparkler.

They met with mine; such power
held in eye contact. They were two shades
brighter than her worn, leather skin.
They could harvest sensitivity
from suburban mothers and fathers with lips
held firm between smile and frown.
They were dedicated like an osprey
with its meal: a fish venturing too near surface.
They transcended time like a mosquito
stuck in amber.

The soft spoken beggar’s eyes
had the suction of sponges resting
in a moss bed; pulling clumsily
at water droplets. They pulled at mine.
They walloped me and skirted past
forgetting my face and hat, hair and glasses,
eyes and mouth. They gave me a chance.
They saw I could not help, not even change,
immediately darting to the next pupils,
forgetting that they ever met with mine.

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *