Inanimate Point of Viewing
A Poem by Erundur Anwamehtar
Written on 9/22/2002

Hope is the anticipation of things
desired and perceived
as attainable.

Apparently, I’m lacking
desire and perception.
Formerly,

I wished
upon the moon
and watched her remain
planted in the sky, constantly
orbiting, but out of reach.

Now,
a brief, atmospheric flame glistens
on the horizon,
bolder than a saucerful of habanero juices
while it insinuates demise of the way
I assumed the outlook
would be.

When the sun rises again,
my worldview ascends anew
tanned and slightly more
realistic.

Perhaps a little pessimism
goes to far
if it taints everything I touch
with sweaty, coffee stains and
dissolves
hope like a tooth
in Mountain Dew.

Next time you see me,
I’ll be watching cloud-
shaped puddles full of bright
ambitions and deciding what will fit
best into a holey container.

Don’t look
look up

Categories: Poetry

A Poem by Erundur Anwamehtar
Date Written: 08/16/2002

Usually I see the skid’s
results written in the pavement
but the life affected has fled
away.
I never knew where or
whose power took them.

Today, as I held the wheel,
my control kept fragile balance
until I removed a hand
in search of a different tune
to drive to.

I looked up
and thrice swerved
faster than three thoughts
panic-filled.

The last attempt of mine
to stay on course
left me facing traffic
with a stalled engine.

No reflex is automatic
until fear grips its trigger.
I turned the key,
drove onto the shoulder,
removed myself
from the vehicle
and lost all calmness.
Everything was normal,
except my ego,
bruised by the view.
A layer of tire freshly unpeeled
lied on the surface,
its smell wafting around the car.

I got back in.
Was I lucky? No.
It was through no power
of mine.

Categories: Poetry

A poem by Robert Frost

Nature’s first green is gold,
Her hardest hue to hold.
Her early leaf’s a flower;
But only so an hour.
Then leaf subsides to leaf,
So Eden sank to grief,
So dawn goes down to day
Nothing gold can stay.

Categories: Poetry

A Poem by Erundur Anwamehtar
12/05/2002

The chair’s swivel breaks
the silence.

I never fear death
stares until the moment the chair slides
backward on the white tiles.

She stands five-foot-nine.
Her tall shoes help us
see eye to eye in disagreement.
Now the spar ends with disembowelment
of pride.

I fight after losing.
It defies logic, or niceness;
I do my worst.
My words say her artificial exterior is empty,
a simple sponge vase, always losing.

Our wrangle finishes with a dual
loss.

I will never grow,
but remain a fruitless fig tree.
Her roots shrivel.

Categories: Poetry

A Poem by Erundur Anwamehtar
12/01/2002

She laughs.
   it echoes
He whistles.
   closer to me
“Delirious” sings.
   and
I simmer.

I fondle the doorknob.
   it rattles
He scans.
   the picture is digitized
She laughs.
   again
I am bitter.

She laughs.
   louder
He comments.
   on the noise
I wither.

Our picture sits.
   upon the shelf
It is old.

Categories: Poetry