Writing Poems That Sell

A poem by Jack Belck


NO:

It’s Time For My Breakfast.

 

YES:

Brown Wheaties

and

blue windmills

dance and

frown against

the purple ceiling

as Pompeii’s

Princess Penelapea,

pulsing with

congealing

feeling,

cries,

“Lava’s going to kill me.”

 

Meow!

Two blueberries, a bit of cereal,

ten laps of milk left

in the red bowl.

Down it goes.

Pompeii can wait.

Kitty comes first.

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Populism

A poem by Jack Belck


The smile so warm,
so firm the grasp,
but eyes so cold
the heart is told
the hand is but
an uncoiled asp.
We know
without reflection:
someone is running
for election.