Sawbuck Poems

5 poems

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CHAPTER VI: FEVER IN THE WOODS.

"May we get a tree?"

"Oh, listen! I don't like quarrels any more."

"Well, we're not much. That tree over there -- see? It's the hot strip in the woods."

"Don't let's you'll get away from any of them coming out. I've been bakin' that idea for the last week! All she's good fer is to call a fire, and I don't like quarrels any more."

"Shush, we will all be cheerful, and talk about this lumber hoping that you've got to get ready for our land that I can get it again, and the gigantic year of the open is home extraordinary. I'll just love that."

"Oh, spare us the burning valley. She borrowed my botany and never returned it, you know. There goes another chunk off our ice service!"

"But the water will be very effective, in the night."

"Yes. It sure would. If we can smell it. Perhaps. Well, either."

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CHAPTER XVIII: REVELATIONS AT SEA.

"He's fine to have been!"

"Yes, and he came to annoy us! It was for that book, I think."

"We have done the whole translation of the current world. Nothing's going to remain English."

"Descriptions, you will wait, say, but I'm sure it's going to talk to be."

"You think we seem to go slow, but we'll learn to say this a lot better than we're saying it."

"Well, I will give up your desire to share it, either."

"Okay, you can read it, but please don't get into the world -- you'll overdo it."

"There is a pink hedge on the world. It is distributed over a fine space. Or at least a place to catch the same parts."

"I'll get a new scale. Divide the place up."

"Well, I wonder what will be next?"

"That's what we came here for, to find that out."

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CHAPTER XIX: SUNDAY AT NIAGARA FALLS.

"I'm going fishing. I'm going uphill, too, like the man with the foot of yarn on his woolen leg."

"And I'm a just ahead, mister, but Othello was a woman."

"Well, she was a dandy fine man, then."

"That's the Shakespearean magic. Some say she is greater than George Washington."

"Oh, now, her I do not remember."

"They took that to be, because he was supposed to lose."

"I don't know anything about that time."

"Rumors that he is no one here will know I know it well. He stood open still and tried to talk to himself; it was a little way he had."

"Why?"

"To judge cities, I guess."

"Well, we couldn't see the old cities go."

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CHAPTER XXI: AN UNJUST FRIEND.

"Do you mean what she said about it?"

"I said I shall go, but I didn't. I didn't confess because I didn't do it, but I'm afraid I'm going to. They think I'd like to find out who really did do it again. Then we won't find folks' mysteries friendly. Then they'll think it was my intention then, if that is."

"Don't you worry, we can't fix up something like that."

"How will you bait my hook? I don't blame you."

"Oh, you see? You're not! Or the completed judgment."

"I see. I do. I hear all I can find. But that sort always has some friends who will keep her and keep on the way to make a while, and I'd better not like to know what it is. She's done so many mean things without being found out that way."

"Oh, you know what she said she'd do if she were here, with summer coming on. Can you think?"

"No, but I think I can endure this moment."

**

Innocent

Chapter 1

The police are paralyzed, often and more awkwardly than in the midst of clubs, as they shouted at the floor and search the house. They are quite everywhere, buried in the bolts and stood in the pavement, it's no politics. The old specialist, with hunting fists, startling comprehension, and weary arrangements, knocked the locality; taking out the big pen, the two chiefs clasping their cups as if strapped together, their heads in contact with a puzzled pause. All I mean is, this is the wrong place, but I know it has its good side. There's some objectionable word there, and in this one respect so to speak, that in the hidden tangle was my account to grab onto, and they just very near to receive, working at a corner of a box of something in frantic pleasure to accept it. He's been sent by accident, or threatened by step. In a degraded mood, asked to be disappointed, about a number of the only green friends of Fisher's, a very strong scent killed, the exact figure takes me longer to get. At least, for us there are holes in the place where the questions would have been stifled, or I'll -- something, which, as I was saying, the radiant room of queer purple reigns in pencil, and now we insure the fire, and will through the point, and we'll plant some scenes to be fond of. Doors are the figurehead of revolt. It is only about the first one, and hesitatingly at the outcome of the lamp and the hall, oh bravely politely, the real action of the yard is offered by the story of colorless night, splashed with its air of statues.

Chapter 1

The pathos of warm interfering in the way, which paralyzed the real home, cut in the lamp and lay in the shield, there's no politics. The old pawnbroker, with increased rank, human hair, and keeping together, met on hiatus to talk to a drunken old friend. And the voices of the world, like an energy, defiant in faint sentences, passed them bad conversation. They are as good as hilarity; it is like the possibilities they have in one another. Still one objectionable word there, so that the unintended implication of mirth was only an eccentricity which I had me to manage. I've been committed by accident, or threatened by degrees. Were there other colors in the green man? he asked again. I don't confess, until I am borne my humbug admiration. There they all are, and when puzzled remain, and have heartaches. Our eyes are nice little company, for sleeping, in their clumsy way, so heavily that lasted solidly for sitting in coasting echoes amid the matter. I whisper to sing. A country voice, a very lilac camera, and when we left the felt, we are in the room. What bad lamps! And as for the lighted object, the imitation wants your help. You'd do better to stare into the fire for a while. The nicest freedom of the heavens, in flames. He could not go on with his coat. The next day he went to see his back, and she gave him a coat of butter for his trouble.

Chapter 1

The police have come by the darkness of sleep and the ponderous though shapeless hold of the inevitable council, stood in the theory, still in the door, there's no tradition. The old familiar, with new mustache, rather exaggerated, and dismal stars, went on laughing with his solitary chorus. Save for development, they are as long as himself; it is through the evening they have in one morning. Every word objectionable there, to tell the truth, for, just as the answer is, the truth is nothing more legal than my own account to protect them. We are prepared for anecdote, with the odd limbs of communication with which we never alter a man who dares take the cup of being famous. You've been uttered by listening, or threatened by yourself. I must make out the foreclosure. They are as depressed as superstition; it is the only clue they have in hand. The winning assistant will enjoy the play, in committees and loving contents, by the sort of fraudulent hands aglow with scented hundred of us -- something which, as I was holding, the steely alert of winter pale umbrellas in connection with a cocked effort. I don't remember a fireplace in this room before. Where does the chimney lead? says he, and looked out the play to be scientific. There are hundreds of cases in the room, but there is no wound upon his hat. So he put on as pleasant a snail as he could, which is not saying much, and said, what is the command of your message, sir? Yes, slower! We'll plant some plans to be fond of. The grandest doors are slightly blended. Oh, happily and bold, the sunlit blue lack of dim and such like, reads statutes for the corner of science to ask what's there.

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Glenn R. Frantz is from southeastern Pennsylvania. His poems have appeared online in Otoliths, 3by3by3, Exultations & Difficulties, 21 Stars Review, Shadowtrain, and Stride.

Labels: 2.4, glenn r. frantz