Two poems by Paul Siegell


Refresher. (For Warren Longmire)


Someone called their mindfulness

a “glass-bottomed suspension bridge,”

so in that land I stood a ladder.

Somersaults.

Somewhere above the loud uncertainty

of being lullabied

by our great nation of facepalms,

something like the archived field recordings

of recently extinct North American birds.

Somersaults.

Sometimes I less-than-better sounding

say such gems as: “I’m just a bag of me.

Skewer me

and I won’t be.”

Somersaults.

Somehow young and jumping up and down,

mischief in

the yellow school bus back

as the driver breaks to lift you up and

off the speed bumps

is that which is connecting us right now.

Somersaults.

In some ways, emoji ways, the three dark

holes of a bowling ball, the dotted sides of

a die, and the coal of a snowman.

Somersaults.

Someday our beloved cigarette smokers

will stop flicking their damn cigarette butts

into the street.

Somersaults.

Sometimes I thrive in the spirit of not being

the brightest star in the shy.

Well, somewhat.

Somebody just asked, “When was the last

time you did a somersault?” And I said,

“Actually, hasn