Friday, November 29, 2013


By the old dock
Near the bridge
On the side where they kept the sailboats
Opposite the fishing fleet
The lobster catch was emptied 
Into the old shack
And sorted by weight

Once in a while 
A big old one got caught
Maybe 50 years old or more
And they’d keep it around for its special value
Until someone would come in
Wanting to buy it
Or just because it was there
Wanting to buy it
And then it was gone
Killed off and eaten
As if it were a common animal
Instead of a something.
And then the place returned to being
Just a lobster shack
With maybe a 4-pounder or so
On a good day.

 (c) Alan S. Kleiman 2013
 published: About Place Journal Vol II issue III - 2013

Wednesday, October 2, 2013


My bird chews quietly by the humming sounds
the cars outside passing between lights
the fan on the computer singing a steady drone
a door opening and closing as one leaves a room
saying I'm settling in

I read some poems of the famous
I listened to them speak their magic on colored videos
with talk show host
I saw these poets with their hairs all combed
and dressed up in poet clothes
with hems and cuffs
that skimmed the ground
where we would step

I was listening to my bird
chew a seed
and push one kernel aside
to find its favorite

You see, I had entered the holy room
where sometimes
on a clear day
a few words of my own
come together
and I smell my body whispering

 (c) Alan S. Kleiman 2013
 published: The Lake (UK) - 2013