Category: Featured Artist
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Poems by Martin Lammon
We’re pleased to present excellent poems by TTR advisory board member and friend Martin Lammon.
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Martin Lammon
Wives’ Tales Newlywed mothers hear stories, how killing a spider is bad luck. How daddy longlegs, mouthless, conceals poison in its belly, maybe the death of curious children. Grandmothers-to-be tell tales about neglected doll-babies, chubby fingers spooning husks of flies and cobwebs into their pretty mouths. When I lived in Costa Rica, I saw a…
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Martin Lammon
Heaven Sent God forbid, my neighbor should croak and be Heaven sent, dragging his yawping dogs with him. God forbid, they should prowl their lazy master’s gold leaf streets and wild gardens hereafter, where resurrected rabbits, fearless, nibble radishes and romaine lettuce. God forbid, my neighbor’s hounds be forced to sniff unscented, sexless air, spin…
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Martin Lammon
The Animals Are Out Sunday morning, the animals are out: woodpecker, squirrels, my neighbor’s dogs. I hear claws scratching, look up, and damn if those squirrels aren’t racing up and down my sweet gum tree. There goes that pileated pecker, hammering the dead pine. And the dogs? Don’t get me started. They could wake the…
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Poems by Ken Robidoux
Click here to read new poems by TTR friend Ken Robidoux.
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Ken Robidoux
So It’s Wednesday and Celeste is Dead A couple pitchers of Natty Light, maybe three, at the Oasis and every fifteen minutes a middle-aged stretch mark spins on a brass pole behind the bar to Bon Jovi, Cinderella, Poison, this time it’s Warrant “Cherry Pie”… Half a dozen silent sweaty fat guys, whose sweaty fat…
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Ken Robidoux
Turn Smile Shift Repeat Like someone that’d say veranda instead of porch, I woke up this morning in an angry bed. All six comforters, both feather beds, eight pillows and three stuffed animals wrapped around me. Playing melodramatic, all distraught at my misfortune, I wrangled an arm free and lit a cigarette (don’t tell my…
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Ken Robidoux
Simple Desert Skies for Tom Sydow Train, Train, rolling wheels tumbling, You beat steel beam and bravado. Clank and cacophony are your contradictions As syncopated earth rhythms sing your song. Ground gives way. Iron trestles groan. Mountains become tunnels, territories sutured by your timbre. You dealt destiny in your glory days. A train stop meant…
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Ken Robidoux
Shaking Cursive She said she didn’t recognize me anymore, that there are bullet holes in the swing set at Graceland, something about her cat with twelve toes, and cancer, she said she had cancer. I watched her shoulder twitch as she spoke. She never took her eyes off the Hollywood freeway as we passed the…
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Ken Robidoux
Home for Pops Rolling through a sleeveless summer night, resting on my back in the oil-soaked wooden bed of my grandfather’s ’57 Chevy, the moon spins on my tennis shoes, the dusky smell of truck mixing with groves of oranges, lemons, and grapefruit that blanket our valley. Wind teases me softly. I pull back the…