|The Poetry of Larry Gross
(Northwest Literary Forum, Mar 94)
(Haikuforum, Feb 13, 2000; Chaba, Jul 16, 1997; HWUP! Jan 1992; Parnassus, Spr 1990)
(SHIKI, Sep 29. 1998)
listening to the silence
of things we cant see
(Haiku Poetry Ancient and Modern, 2002; SHIKI, Sep 8, 1997; Haiku Moment Anthology, 1993; HWUP! Feb 1993, Dec 1992; Point Judith Light, Jun 1992)
between her breasts
dangling ... dangling
wondering what she said
when I wasn't listening
(Brussels Sprout, May 1994)
old catcher's mitt
brushing first snow away
to find home plate
between obscure baselines
winning the game again
(SHIKI, Jun 3, 1997; Brussels Sprout, May 1994)
into the river
as she wished
on the park bench at dusk
learning to feed pigeons
(Tanka Light, Sep 1998)
A welcome weekend at Cedar Key,
relaxing on the dock;
pelicans wait poker-faced
for bait fish we may leave behind.
Bob away, line, while I watch the sun
going back to water.
(Larry's Sijo, Mar 17, 2001; theWORDshop, Dec 4, 2000; All Forms Japanese, Feb 5, 2000; Kalliope, Jan 28, 2000; The Poetry Kit, Oct 25, 1999; Sijo West #2, Summer 1996; BBPNewsletter, Sep 1996)
Astronomers call it conjunction: Venus approaching Mars,
the illusion of closeness a matter of relative space.
Just so, orbiting man and woman seem sometimes to agree.
(Larry's Sijo, Mar 17, 2001; The Poetry Kit, Oct 25, 1999; SHIKI, Jan 24, 1999; theWORDshop, Dec 4, 2000; Sijo West #1, Apr 1996)
is a practicing poet, freelance writer, editor, lecturer, tutor and writing consultant. He earned a doctorate from Florida State University and taught at Tallahassee Community College for 20 years. His text
HOW TO WRITE AND PUBLISH POETRY (HWAPP)
and his three poetry periodicals have been praised by poets and teachers in seven countries. His poetry, articles and reviews have appeared in various periodicals in the United States, Canada, England, Korea, Japan, India, Australia and New Zealand. Currently, he is the President of the Big Bend Poets chapter of the Florida State Poets Association.
"Poetry is not the assertion that something is true, but the making of that truth more fully real to us."
....T. S. Eliot
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The Cypress Cathedral
His father was drunk again,
out by the dock, swearing at the fish.
In the bathroom his mother dabbed
peroxide on her bruises, avoided
the mirror as she did the problem.
He ran around the lake into tall
grass marking the line swamp draws
against intruders, defying all defiling.
He crossed the line in the old rowboat,
cracked thwart and missing oar testifying
to father's other rages, and came,
eventually, to where the cypress ruled. . . .
His sanctuary, his cathedral, throwing
vaulted arms between swamp and sun,
between son and father. He threaded
the boat down hushed aisles of cypress
bounded by knees nature burps up like
varnished volcanoes from leathered water.
At the altar, he circled the great cypress.
In dark flight from torment past
he had discovered it, climbed and
claimed its shelter, prayed to all the god
he knew for protection from the pain
of father's belt and tongue, from
mother's acquiescence, her tortured
shriveling from womanhood to woe.
Two large turtles and a hatchling
lined up on a dead log. He watched
them watch a snake make swift S's
across the tanned water, sidling
nearer, just as his father, a drunken
gothic gargoyle, might now be
lumbering closer in search of prey.
He knew that even here the vipers came,
but in leathered water, nature's snakes
were predictable, their actions the result
of need, you knew what they might do.